Dependency

You can lead a stoner to pot, and he’ll smoke it at the first opportunity

HERB BALE CROSSED THE AISLES of the dispensary and shot toward the office in the back like a bee after a pollinating flower. The sign in the window, painted in a flourishing art nouveau typeface, read: “Dr. Monte Kush, Weed Doctor.” He knocked and Kush waved him in, the good doctor always willing to treat unannounced patients.

Herb tiptoed through the door and settled into the beanbag chair facing the doctor’s desk. The scent of pachouli oil and sandalwood incense permeated the office, and the Jefferson Airplane drifted from hidden speakers. Kush sat with fingers intertwined, curls of stringy gray hair trickling down a vintage paisley Nehru jacket. “Herb, my favorite patient. What can I prescribe for you?”

Herb hesitated, then plowed ahead. “It’s Sativa. She thinks I’m smoking too much weed and wants me to cut back. I’ve tried, but…”

Kush leaned his chin on his knuckles. “How’s it working out for you?”

Herb tiptoed through the door and settled into the beanbag chair facing the doctor’s desk. The scent of pachouli oil and sandalwood incense permeated the office, and the Jefferson Airplane drifted from hidden speakers.

Herb bit off a nail and, afraid to spit it out in front of Kush, swallowed it. “Well, you know I’m not addicted or anything. Well, hell, weed isn’t addictive. But I have been irritable lately, and my head gets in a fog when I have to apply myself at work. But that’s not addiction. Right?”

Kush reached into his drawer and removed a package of Zig Zag French Orange rolling papers. He flattened a paper on his desk and sprinkled it liberally with pot from a jar on his desk. “Blue Dream,” he explained. “Great for calming and stress relief.” He rolled the joint, sealed it with a lick, and rolled it between his fingers.

“I would say it’s not a question of addiction, so much as dependence. Does that hit close to home?”

Herb found a pinky nail with some white left at the edge and trimmed it with his teeth. “Isn’t that just as bad?”

Kush held the joint straight up and focused on it like an object of meditation. “Consider this. Do you depend on Sativa to satisfy needs in your daily lives?”

Kush reached into his drawer and removed a package of Zig Zag French Orange rolling papers. He flattened a paper on his desk and sprinkled it liberally with pot from a jar on his desk. “Blue Dream,” he explained. “Great for calming and stress relief.”

That was easy. “Hell, yes. She cooks our meals, cleans house, does laundry, and cleans the cats’ litter boxes, which get pretty stinky since we’re fostering a couple of dozen now.”

“What do you do for her that she depends on?”

“I pour the cats’ dry food into the big bowl in the living room.”

Kush choked on a cough and nodded in affirmation. “So, you’re dependent on weed and also dependent on Sativa. Is that bad?”

Herb scratched his head and mulled it over, but found it hard to cut through his brain fog. “So it’s okay to cut back on my weed?”

Kush choked on a cough and nodded in affirmation. “So, you’re dependent on weed and also dependent on Sativa. Is that bad?”

Kush fired the joint. “That’s one option.”

Herb pondered the answer, then replied, “And the other option?”

Kush leaned across his desk and handed the joint to Herb. “Take the hit and ride with the tide, brother.”