The Marijuana Chronicles

All the patients in the waiting room were strapping young men in their late teens or early twenties, Testosterone City, except for one old guy in a wheelchair, very talkative, who seemed like a Vietnam vet/panhandler, and an old woman missing front teeth. Of course, you can’t tell just by looking at someone what his or her particular ailment may be, but this roomful of youths could not all be suffering from terminal illness. They joked around loudly, a party going on.

Every five or ten minutes, a young woman in capri pants opened the door to the i

When the young woman summoned me into the back room, I was startled to find that she was the doctor—Dr. Monica. No nurse, assistant, or other physician was on duty. The office was devoid of trappings associated with medical practice, she never took my blood pressure or weighed me, there wasn’t a stethoscope or even a computer terminal in sight. The room was furnished with a battered wooden desk covered with stacks of files, on which a gooseneck lamp was clamped, and folding chairs for doctor and patient. I produced the vials of outdated pills, which she scrutinized briefly, nodded, and hastily scrawled notes on what seemed to be my chart, but made no comment. She asked only how often I smoked pot, and how—joint, pipe, vaporizer? Every day, for over forty-five years, usually in joints.

“You ought to give yourself a vacation from it for a week or ten days every now and then, give your lungs a break. You’ll also get more value for your money when you do go back to it.”

(Fair enough, I thought, but in fact not go

“And you should look into a vaporizer. Some daily smokers can’t make the transition, but the advantage is that it delivers the THC without the harsh smoke. The best one is from Vape Brothers.” (Now there’s an idea.)

Thank you, doctor ma’am. She marched me back to the receptionist who’d taken my $110 and handed me a document certifying my prescription for twelve months. The secretary took a Polaroid photo and promised I’d get a laminated ID card in the mail within two weeks. The prescription was ready for immediate use, and the nearest dispensary was only a few blocks away.

Natural Health Collective, identified only as NHC on the door, was in an alley behind a commercial building, up an outdoor wooden staircase to the second floor. Even with the street address from its postcard advertisement, the place was clandestine, the door locked. A handmade sign advised me to Ring Buzzer for Admittance. I noticed a video camera mounted above me and a wave of paranoia washed over me. The door clicked and I entered a small waiting room with a cashier shielded behind what looked like bullet-proof glass.

“Your first time?” the guy asked.

“Yeah.”

“Can I see your doctor’s rec and driver’s license or photo ID?”

I slid the documents through the narrow glass slot.

“Have a seat, this will just take a few minutes,” he said.

Voices murmured behind the wall and another locked door under video surveillance. Ten minutes passed while I wondered what was going on and felt vaguely insecure about the clerk having my driver’s license and doctor’s prescription, but he emerged smiling from his cage and returned my belongings to me.

“You’re clear.” A buzzer sounded and he waved me to the entrance of the i

It was a pot smoker’s candy store. Glass display cases held rows of Mason jars crammed with gorgeous buds labeled with fanciful names. Purple Haze. Strawberry Cough. Blue Dream. Jedi OG. Super Sour Kush. Sensitive electronic scales and boxed displays of paraphernalia covered the glass countertops. One wall was dominated by a huge white board on which varieties and prices were posted in erasable felt tip. Prices were quoted by gram, eighth, or full ounce and got higher with perceived quality and more economical with greater volume, but my first impression was pure sticker shock. The cost was more or less double Charlie’s. As a first-time patient, I would get a twenty percent discount as well as some freebie—choice of a free gram or joint with minimum of purchase of an eighth, choice of a small pipe, pack of papers, or lighter.

All the clerks were scantily clad young women showing considerable décolletage, gri

The product was outstanding, like the best Maui Wowee, and I was instantly too spoiled to get off on Charlie’s stuff anymore. Since every dispensary offered the twenty percent introductory discount plus “free gift,” I became a first-time patient in each.

With new dispensaries popping up all over town, they soon outnumbered Starbucks. My newbie status lasted a good two years before I had to visit the same one twice. Each had its unique properties, some larger than others, but all of them were fairly hard to see from the street, marked only by initials. The prices were remarkably competitive with one another, almost universal, as was the cash-only/no-receipt payment policy. The quality varied, but I was seldom disappointed. A few of these shops were evidently not playing by the rules. I saw a tall, golden Adonis in tank top and shorts buying three thousand dollars’ worth of bud—there was no specific dosage on the prescription, but the medicine was by law for personal use only—who remarked casually that he was “buying for my collective in Huntington Beach.” One sleazy outfit offered sample hits from a vaporizer on-site, not kosher, and one proprietor boasted of a full guarantee: “If you’re not satisfied, bring it back and I’ll replace it,” he crowed. One place actually had a bubble gum machine in its lobby and permitted children to wait there while their parents shopped the showroom. An elderly retired nurse from Orange County ran her own tiny shop, called the Green Nurse, and offered to weigh you and take your blood pressure. A young, bearded stoner guy in torn jeans took the money and put it in his pocket before handing you your purchase.

I finally settled on Quality Discount Caregivers (QDC), one of the busiest dispensaries in town, which had a huge selection of top-grade stuff. The prices weren’t any lower but they featured a kind of “frequent flyer” program. Save the empty plastic vials from twelve eighths, then redeem them for a free one, a baker’s dozen. Zig-Zag papers were gratis. On the fifteenth of the month, everything in the store was twenty-five percent off, and patients lined up on the sidewalk, but even on regular days you always had to wait your turn to get into the vault. The clerks were all mostly bosomy, half-naked chicks, the patients almost all male. I wondered how they got away with hiring only the youngest and most endowed female clerks—wasn’t that a violation of equal opportunity employment or something? The amount of money changing hands was staggering. Security precautions were practically military, with TV monitors everywhere and muscular, young, uniformed security guards with “badges” and guns.