Sociologists have long known that stoned drivers are safer than their sober counterparts on the road. Researchers demonstrated potheads make better drivers because their paranoia makes them more cautious and the sights of the road are so interesting to them they are forced to slow down to appreciate their surroundings, making impacts far less explosive.
The first time I drove high was just days after getting my car, a now nearly totaled '94 jeep Grand Cherokee. That introductory evening that I slowed down to enjoy the scenery I had smoked two bowls from my Dr. Vaporizer and hallucinated that I was that little green lizard from Bust-A-Move or Puzzle Bobble.
Lights appeared under my eyelids. Color coded signals dictated what kind of dance move I should perform. Standing in my kitchen, I followed those blinking dance lights and stepped wildly, minutely drooling, giggling, and thinking about what masturbating would be like later that night.
The trance ended abruptly when a foreign phone rang and told me I had to be at Sunrise Springs in ten minutes, a decent 30 miles away.
I hopped into my new chariot, Longmire in tow, and was on the highway south minutes later. I reached my cruising speed and relaxed, wondering if not being able to feel my hands would be a detriment to my reaction time.
Suddenly, other cars started to overtake me at ridiculously high speeds. I wondered where those demons could be off to and felt offended that they dare go faster than I. I revved my engine and looked to my spedometer. It displayed: 35 mph. I was in second gear in a 75 mph zone.
Panic set in as I realized I was a cooked goose. I made vulnerable pray for any vicious highway patrolman who knew not the pleasures of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and sexy mex, and knew only of sister killing stoners compelled to masturbate in the same hotel room as their parents.
I forced my foot down, but everything past the knee disappeared in an abyss of tetrahydrocannabinol. I was high. The meaning of nails are toe covers. I shot a furtive glance at Longmire, who let out a yelp, as he saw the car was actually decelerating.
"I can't go any faster!" I said.
"I know, man!" Longmire said as he firmly grasped my shoulder and pointed at the speedometer. "But you have got to try!"
I willed my leg down. The car gained momentum as the little red hand gradually climbed upward to 40 mph, then 45, then 50 mile mph. Longmire held my shoulder and gaped in compassionate disbelief as we sped up incrementally. Finally we were up to speed and I set my cruise control at 55.
"Damn, dude," he sighed. "That was a close one." I muttered that my dashboard looked like a plane's.
I remembered this experience as I was cruising down St. Mike's on Saturday on my way to a post Bat Mitzvah luncheon with the Brownsteins-Klevans. I had just smoked a personal spliff and the day looked wonderful. I passed the Smith's and the McDonald's. There was construction on the road and the guy in that old Mercedes looked like he was higher than I. The sky was without a cloud. The green of trees looked vibrant, clear.
And I remembered just what I would say to Officer Lozano when he pulled me over.
"Officer. . . Doesn't this dashboard look like it belongs on a plane, man?"
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