“You smoke Marlboro Reds. You can do this too,” my friend Justin wheezed, passing me his glass pipe.
I groped around in the dark under the bleachers until I found the lighter, then took a deep breath. At 17, I had finally decided I was ready to get high for the first time. My friends had begun experimenting with weed well before me, but I was a slow starter. It wasn’t that I believed the D.A.R.E. programs we had been forced to sit through in school. I just didn’t know much about marijuana.
My parents’ drug of choice was strictly alcohol, and I hadn’t learned to like that yet. But I had watched my friends roll around laughing while we camped along the rivers of Montana, and nothing dangerous ever seemed to happen. I felt ready to try it.
A Plan Under the Bleachers
Despite my cigarette habit, I was otherwise your basic hippie environmentalist in high school. I recycled, ate organic, conserved water, and shunned corporate beauty products. I loved the earth, I loved nature, and I really loved animals.
Thanks to a cool babysitter named Jessica, I learned about animal-rights organizations and became a vegetarian in eighth grade. By 16, I was a card-carrying PETA member, with bumper stickers screaming “Rats Have Rights!” and “Boycott Procter & Gamble!” from the back of my 1983 Honda Accord.
As far as I knew, my brief consumption of marijuana would cause no harm to Mother Earth. So, along with two of my trusted, more experienced friends, Jamie and Justin, I decided to make a night of it. They would pick me up in Justin’s tan 4Runner. I requested that he not blare Snoop Dogg or Nirvana for once, and we agreed on Phish. Then we would cruise around until I was ready.
Maybe we’d catch the concert at the fieldhouse. Maybe we’d watch the sunset at Peet’s Hill. Maybe we’d go to Tom’s Green Grill. We would see where the night took us.
Because of my secret crush on Jamie, I wore my very best aqua-blue T-shirt over a pair of cut-off Levi’s. It was June, so I was barefoot as usual. The evening was warm, adding to the fluttery, excited feeling I still get every spring: the promise of new possibilities.
I usually had fun with these two. They kept me laughing with their often immature but clever antics. These were guys who kept a four-foot bong, spray-painted green and lovingly christened “Billy Ray Cyprus Hill,” stashed in the tall grass at Cameron Bridge. They were also the guys who introduced me to the Grateful Shed, where we bought tie-dyed swimwear and hemp-seed jewelry.
More importantly, I trusted them. Jamie and Justin had promised to take care of me. I made them swear they would not let me smoke too much or too little, or embarrass myself in any way. They solemnly vowed that they understood my limits and would make sure I had fun while staying safe and unhumiliated.
That was how I found myself beneath the bleachers at the Montana State University stadium. I brought the pipe to my mouth, flicked the lighter, heard the sizzle of the green, and inhaled. The feeling of smoke filling my throat and lungs wasn’t completely unfamiliar, but the taste was.
I exhaled and coughed, squinting at their faces in the dark for a reaction. They laughed, and Jamie asked if I was okay. After a few more hits, I was more than okay. I was happy, laughing, and hungry.
The Munchies Win
I told the boys it was extremely important that we get some fast food immediately. I needed French fries, badly. We drove across town to McDonald’s, and Justin started to turn toward the drive-through.
“No, no,” I yelled. “We have to go inside.”
“But you’re barefoot,” Justin said, laughing.
“They won’t notice. Hurry up!”
My friends looked at each other, shrugged, and laughed. Shaking his head, Justin parked the truck, and we stumbled inside. The restaurant was deserted except for one man at a corner table, working his way through a box of Chicken McNuggets. The unmistakable smell of fryer grease surrounded us.
“Oh my God, I am so hungry,” I told Jamie and Justin as we slid into a booth. “I could eat a horse.”
“That’s not a very nice thing for the animal-rights chick to say,” Jamie said, striking his lighter and giving me the face that melted my heart.
God, he was cute. And nice. And funny. Maybe I loved him. Or maybe I was just hungry.
“It’s just an expression,” I said. “And why is my mouth so dry?”
I felt giggles bubbling up in my throat as Justin made goofy faces at me from across the booth. He was messing with me, and I was determined not to laugh. That lasted only a few seconds.
“Stop it! I’m moving so you aren’t right across from me,” I choked out, hopping over to sit beside Justin so I was now facing Jamie. “It’s funnier if I sit over here.”
“What?” Jamie was laughing so hard that he started coughing. Wiping his eyes, he asked, “Why are we just sitting here? I’ll go get it. Do you want your usual, KT?”
My McDonald’s “usual” was two cheeseburgers with no meat and a water. It had become a reliable source of entertainment for my friends. Everyone enjoyed hearing the kid behind the counter or on the intercom say, “Huh?” when it was my turn to order. What do you mean, two cheeseburgers with no meat?
But suddenly, I was seized by the urge to eat a cheeseburger with the meat still on it. The craving was more powerful than any I had ever felt. I wanted a cheeseburger, and I was going to get one.
There was just one problem. If the guys saw me, they would make fun of me. No one would take my vegetarianism seriously, which was already a struggle. I would become the fake, poser vegetarian who gave animal-rights activists a bad name.
There was only one thing to do.
“No, you guys sit,” I told them. “I owe you.”
I sauntered over to the counter, suddenly fascinated by the jangling noises coming from the drive-through window. I said hello to the woman at the register, then vigorously ordered three large fries, three waters, and one cheeseburger.
Just the word made me salivate, which was helpful because my mouth was all cotton by that point. The food came out quickly, and I stared down at the tray. I could almost taste the melted cheese, greasy meat, and tangy ketchup.
I stared so long that the woman behind the counter came back to ask if something was wrong. That woke me up. I slowly turned my head and peeked at Jamie and Justin. They were deep in conversation, not looking my way.
Ever so casually, I picked up the tray and crept around the corner to a table beside a large fake plant. Its leaves blocked the boys’ view of me at eye level. I was safe.
I shoved the cheeseburger into my mouth, trying to savor the grease. Oh my God, it was better than anything I had ever tasted. It was everything I had craved and more. I closed my eyes and chewed in bliss.
I could go back to being a vegetarian the next day. No one had to know.
Then I heard Justin.
“Do you see that?”
I looked up. Justin was standing across the restaurant, pointing at me while gesturing frantically for Jamie to look. He was laughing hysterically.
“KT is eating meat!”
The Joke That Followed Me Home
I wish I could tell you how the rest of the night went. All I remember is that my friends made fun of me for the rest of the evening and well into the next week. By then, everyone at school had heard about my little slip-up. That’s what happens when you’re known as the committed vegetarian and get caught hiding behind a fake plant with a McDonald’s cheeseburger.
It didn’t matter. I returned to both vegetarianism and pot-smoking, and I got better at both.
Jamie and Justin later took me to the Grateful Shed to buy my first pipe. It was shaped like a fish, and I used it throughout college until customs officials confiscated it on my way to Mexico one year.
That was a long time ago, but some people back home still remember me as the barefoot vegetarian who got so high she ate a McDonald’s cheeseburger.
This article is from an external, unpaid contributor. It does not represent High Times’ reporting and has not been edited for content or accuracy.
