Cough it up!

"Be careful who you let into your house," my wife told me in a dream several years ago. I think she was referring to my friend Cory Allred, who was about to be released from prison after a 14 year stint for holding his parents captive at gunpoint while high on meth. It was good advice then, and I have kept it in mind over the years, although not in my dream last night, apparently.

Brian Murry came knocking, and on the strength of our friendship during my 20s, I let him and his rowdy crew of two in. I knew it was a mistake when the wisecracking, weed-scented duo made a beeline down the hallway, slamming the door to the master bedroom behind them. I ran down the hallway after them and felt the weight of two human bodies pressed up against the door as I tried to open it.

"Hey!" I yelled, "Just what in the hell do you think you're doing in there?" as I forced the door open a crack, placing my foot in the opening to gain leverage.

Soon I had the door open, and I saw one them, a rather guilty looking scruff, shiftily glancing around, trying to avoid my scrutiny. He looked like a cat with feathers sticking out of his mouth attempting to appear nonchalant. I was onto him.

"Cough it up!" I said sternly. "Whatever it is you've stolen, give it back. NOW!"

Taken aback by the suddenness of my accusation and unable to make a proper defense, since he did, in fact, have something in his mouth, he placed his hand over his mouth and silently produced some gold rings and assorted jewelry which he and his partner had just procured from my wife's jewelry box.

"Now hand them over," I continued, somewhat gratified at my own acumen. I could just smell a thief. Not even five minutes in the house, and straight for the jewelry box. So predictable.

He handed them to me just as Brian, lumbering down the hall, arrived to find his friends getting the third degree.

"What have you two jokers done now?" he asked the two sullen toughs.

"They were trying to make off with these," I said, holding out a handful of moist jewelry as I described the oral smuggling operation that I'd uncovered.

"That's too bad," he said. "That means that you guys are going to miss out on this." And with that, he produced a joint, freshly rolled and still slightly damp with saliva from his infamous Bongo Lips which had earned him a lifelong nickname. 

He lit it and passed it to me, insisting that I take a drag of his special blend, if only for the punitive value of watching his two friends squirm with envy.

I wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea, thinking this "special blend" might be code for some chemical additive that he'd laced it with. Even if it was just straight cannabis, it was likely some potent hybrid strain that was sure to send me straight into psychosis. Nonetheless, I didn't want to leave him hanging, so I took a very small, well measured puff.

I immediately felt the effects, and my mood softened a bit. I was no longer mad at the simple-minded thugs who had just tried to rob me. They were, after all, just human. Human like we all are, maybe slightly less evolved, but having the same basic drives. I actually felt kind of bad for their punishment of exclusion, seeing how envious they were, their greedy eyes watching every flick of ash, every glowing ember as I took a second, longer toke.

Nonetheless, a deal was a deal. I passed the joint back to Bongo, and that's where the dream ended.