“Here, check this out.”
You lean forward with more effort than should be needed, fighting against the plushness of the overstuffed couch to reach the mason jar extended your way. You stick your nose into the opening, inhaling deeply and filling your senses with the sticky, earthy, skunky aroma. The buds are tight and covered in a fine snow of crystals, almost forest green in colour shot through with threads of purple and orange.
Trevor nods in his regular confident relaxed way, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as you go in for a second smell. “Told you I’d deliver on the good.” He leans back, stretching a long arm across the length of the sagging sofa and sweeping another through the air above the collection of labeled green-filled jars littering the coffee table.
“Yeah man, I know, I know.” You look from sample to sample, seeking out something… new. After years of daily use, even the best “good” starts to lose its potent impact. Classic dealers, always saying they’ve landed the “most fire shit” – it all smokes the same, a brief hazy relaxation followed by a severe case of the munchies, a heavy couchlock, or both.
“This is nice and everything, but do you got anything really strong? I’m looking to forget my name.”
Trevor’s leaning forward again, the familiar clink-clink-clink-clink of the grinder echoing through the small space as he raps the halves together to loosen any stuck bits of bud. Upending the contents into a long thin paper, he makes eye contact, not losing pace with his roll. “You know what,” a perfect thick bat comes together like magic, “I think I’ve got just the stuff.” He deftly seals the joint, bringing it to his lips and sparking. He takes a deep drag as he stands, disappearing into a dark room to the side, a trail of thick smoke following him.
Trevor emerges seconds later with an unlabeled jar, a bit smaller than the rest, and hands it to you. “Cretaceous OG. This is knock-you-on-your-ass-for-days strong.” Compared to the regular selection, the strain holds more visual appeal, dense purple buds as long as your middle finger and three times as thick, dripping in glittery kief. He passes you the joint and you take a long pull, appraising the plant in your hand with the scrutiny of a seasoned jeweler.
“How much?” You pass him the smoke, cracking the lid on the sample. Before the jar has even made it to your nose, you’re hit with a wave of diesel stronger than anything you’ve smelled before.
“I can do an eighth for $60.” He eyes you through the smoke screen that’s formed, aware that this is nearly double what you normally pay. The price is stupid and nearly every part of you wants to laugh in his face – but a tiny voice convinces you otherwise. As if possessed, you reach a hand into your pocket, fishing out fistfuls of cash.
“You know I don’t normally pay this much, so this better be good.” You warily count out the balance, this and a half-o of your regular kush. If it’s as good as he claims, this should keep you good for at least 2, maybe 3 weeks. It’d better be 3, based on the cost.
“This shit never disappoints, trust.” Trevor takes the last drag, snubbing the roach out on the makeshift takeout box ashtray in front of him. He weighs the bud, bags it up, hands it to you. The same dance you’ve been doing since you met him during your third-year psych lecture years ago. You hand him the stack of bills, stash the product deep in your bag, and get up to leave.
“Thanks man,” you give a half-wave as you cross the short distance to his door, completing your side of the ritual. “Be good,” he half-nods, the standard Trevor departure greeting, already working on rolling up another fatty. You close the door behind you and make your way to the subway, officially headed home for the day.
**********
Finally, you sigh heavily as you sink into your favourite spot on your couch, time to smoke. The moment every stoner waits for with eager anticipation, the inaugural daily spark-up moment is here. You rolled a big j, bound and determined to maximize the high Trevor had promised would incapacitate you. With no plans for tomorrow, you look forward to melting into the couch and not moving until sunrise at the earliest.
A calloused thumb rotates the wheel of your BIC, somehow still in your possession in spite of many a smoke sesh with forgetful lighter-pocketers, and you touch the flame to the joint. A smooth crackling sounds as the flower ignites, your mouth filling with thick smoke as you pull deep into your lungs. Cretaceous OG, you snort derisively, let’s see if it lives up to the name. The TV mumbles quietly in the background but you’re too transfixed by the heavy feel, the quick onset, of the high to notice what’s actually going on. You hold the spliff at eye height, watching the glowing tip as it flickers, wisps of blue-grey smoke floating into the air in front of you. Your line of sight begins to blur as your eyelids grow heavier with each toke, eventually drifting to a close as you become one with the furniture.
An undefined amount of time stretches by before you hear a bird call. It’s an unfamiliar sound, not like the small finches or pigeons you’re used to hearing on your condo balcony; more lilting, tropical, almost. It takes all the strength you can muster to pry your eyelids open, and when you do your mouth immediately falls open, slack-faced at the unbelievable scene in front of you.
The familiarity of your condo is gone save for the couch you’re seemingly glued to. Instead, you’re surrounded by a lush green paradise, all mountains and large fragrant flowers and flitting insects the size of your hand. Trevor wasn’t lying when he said this stuff was strong – this is the most intense hallucinatory high you’ve had in – well, ever.
Your eyes seem to deceive you as you make out blurry shapes moving slowly across the plains in the distance – is that a herd of triceratops? No, that’s ridiculous. You shake your head to clear it just as a tyrannosaurus crashes through a nearby copse of trees, shrieking its terrifying death call. It rears back, lunging open-mouthed at the smallest of the horned dinosaurs.
Primordial instinct takes over as you flatten your back against the couch, hoping to whatever higher power that the beast – delusion, whatever it is – won’t see you. Your body melts even further into the cushions as you bear witness to the ferocious battle: The triceratops puts up a tremendous fight, its heavily-armored friends fighting by its side to stave off the attack. The power of many triumphs, the T Rex retreating unwillingly into the trees, likely in search of easier prey.
The imminent danger passed, your heart rate subsides slightly. Curiosity gets the best of you, your vision panning left to right as you take in the unbelievable scene. Winged dinosaurs of all shapes and sizes fly overhead. A stunning array of ferns and flowering plants, some with blooms as big as your head, litter the landscape. You see bird-like creatures sprinting across the earth – pursuing what, you don’t know – while disturbingly large rodents meander at their own pace, unperturbed by the multitude of predators that could take them out at any moment. The ground rumbles beneath you as a herd of heavy-footed sauropods lumber by, making their way, you realize, to a large body of water off in the distance.
You hear a low growl coming from the brush to your right, and you’re stricken with fear, unsure of what’s real and what’s not. The dense vegetation obscures your view of the source of the guttural sound, your survival-brain managing to pick out glimpses of orange fur between the greenery – A prehistoric tiger?
Time seems to have come to a standstill, and you suddenly become aware that you haven’t blinked in what feels like eons. In an overexaggerated performance that only a stoned person can muster, you tightly squeeze your eyes shut.
When they open, you’re back in your apartment, TV quietly narrating some archaeological documentary. Your cat yawns beside you, elongating its ginger body, exposing all of its sharp little teeth as it stretches its way onto the couch. You feel the ground shake beneath you as the Line 1 subway shudders awake, pulling away from the station at the base of your building.
Moving with the speed of a sloth in a tar pit, you reach for your phone, open your texts. Your fingers plod steadily over the keyboard as you craft a message to Trevor:
Damn dude, you weren’t lying – What else you got like this?
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