Phil, The Younger Years

I smoked so much weed in High School that the last two years I was still in, after dropping out and going back to another school, that I earned the nickname Space Case #1.

That got shortened to just Space and literally 1/2 of the kids in that school didn’t know what my real name was.

Oh the stories I could tell….

Like the time me and another kid snuck out to some woods next to the school that was the designated Stoner hideout to get wasted. He had a freaking 1/2 pound of some good weed.

That was an ungodly amount of weed for where we were at back in those days.

There was this little opening in the brush just below a road behind the school and we were just getting ready to light one up when I saw a cop car pull up and stop not fifteen feet away.

I told the kid to ditch the weed quick, which he just barely managed to do.

He hadn’t seen the cop because his back was to the road.

The cop came down and harassed us real good and made a bunch of empty threats but he didn’t do shit and finally went on his way when he couldn’t find any drugs or shit.

The kid was shitting bricks the whole time I could tell but he held it together enough to keep from saying anything stupid.

After the cop finally left the guy started thanking me profusely for saving his ass from getting busted with the weed.

I tried to blow it off because I sure as hell didn’t want to get nailed with it because it wasn’t mine but he kept going on thanking me. I finally found out why he was so damn scared and so damn thankful.

He told me his dad was the Sheriff.

8 thoughts on “Phil, The Younger Years

  1. Pingback: Sunday Linkage « Bacon Time !!!!!!

    • In college, some of the biggest dealers on campus were ROTC cadets. And those were the guys who became officers on graduation.
      Yeah, I’ve lived through some magical mystery tours that by all rights should have killed me.
      And now that it’s legal, my attitude is “meh”, you’re about 40 years too late for me. I’ve not the slightest interest anymore.


    • Just ahead of the Fourth of July 1980, I bought a trunkload of
      illegal fireworks. This included mid-sized rockets and mortars.
      Here is a tip: Take 7 or 9 M-80s and cut off all but one fuse.
      bind them tightly with electrical tape and you get a very big
      bang. My cousin Ed had a wrist rocket slingshot. I lit the
      fuse and he let them fly. We spent the whole night dodging
      police helicopters and cruisers.

      My uncle lived in a suburb of Los Angeles County. This was
      not South Central. Look at the video of Los Angeles County
      on Independence Day or New Year’s Eve. If the government
      thinks they can control us, they are out of their fucking minds!


  2. My first score was 2 baggies; an ounce each. I put one in each boot, and left the scene of the “exchange”. Not even a block down the road, and cop pulls me over in my ’62 Studebaker. One cop grilled me while the other went through my car. The searcher missed the roach clip I used to hold the passenger visor together, and quizzed me why there was no speedometer, then asked why I carried a case of oil in the back seat.
    I said “I heard if there was no speedometer, it was not crime. If there was a non working speedometer, then it was against the law.”
    “And the oil?”
    “I drive until the oil light comes on, and add a quart.”
    Both of them just shrugged and look disgusted, and let me go.
    In my other Studebaker, we were checking out a new water pipe a buddy of mine, who was really good with tools, built from a commercial refrigerator water filter. It was night, and the new pipe was phenomenal, when a state trooper coming from the other direction, did a U after passing by. My buddy through the water pipe into the ditch, and I tossed the baggie out my window, as soon as we saw them turn around. They pulled us over, and I got a warning citation for a burned out headlight.
    The musta had it in for Studebakers.
    Yeah Phil, we should put together a guest post of similar stories…


  3. The first time I smoked a joint I was about 14. The shit never did anything
    for me. As a full-time restaurant cook on the graveyard shift at 17, I popped
    a few Bennies from time to time. I snorted a few lines of coke and once
    made the mistake of thinking hash could not be that much worse than
    pot. I passed out on a workbench in a residential garage. The next
    thing I remembered was waking up in my Triumph Spitfire MK III in
    front of my house. One of my buddies drove me home.

    I decided if I wanted a buzz, alcohol was the way to go. At least it’s legal!


  4. Awesome Tale.
    I graduated HS in ’78.
    I started burning “the dope” as my Dad called it lol in ’75.
    My last two years of HS we had a cig smoking area behind the school accessible from the cafeteria.
    Herman was the “security monitor” who knew every damn kid out there was toking bowls, joints etc.
    He would give us the high sign every time an authority figure would enter the cafeteria and by the time the vice principle got out the door, everyone was just having a cig.
    It was the best of times, it was the best of times!!


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