share. He wasn’t a greedy man. Despite knowing this, I was still weary about handing him the half-full bag.
Turns out that Streets was rather poetic when it came to rolling joints. I’m not sure where or when he was able to get in so much practice, but his skills were pretty much flawless. I watched the careful distribution of pot along the crease of the rolling paper, then the back and forth as the paper sped through his thumbs and forefingers…the whole process was not only perfectly executed, but also done with incredible speed. Even though The Escape wasn’t moving, and intending to preserve my golden, no-hot-boxing-the-car rule, I still wanted to circulate some air. The numbed nerve endings in my face and hands failed to tell me if heat was needed or not. In an unprecedented maneuver, and one that I’m sure confused Streets, I simultaneously put the heat on and opened the windows. We sat like that for a moment, feeling the hot air from the vents crawl towards the wide-open windows, then slowly and heavily get sucked outside.
The no hot box rule has some basis in a genuine health concern. When I was small, my parents naturally signed me up to play Little League baseball. I was absolutely terrible as an undersized right fielder, the default position because no kids coming up to bat had the ability to “pull the ball”, despite pleas from our overzealous coaches. Not only did I manage to strike out, get hit by a pitch, or take a base on balls during every at-bat during my 5th, 6th and 7th grade seasons, but I couldn’t catch fly balls if my life depended on it. They would either drop next to me or, on particularly unlucky days, hit me in the shoulder or face. The problem was, out there in the field, my eyes wouldn’t stay focused. The sun gave me this throbbing headache that lived right behind my eyes. I could barely see the ball until it was about half-an-inch in front of my face. Often times my balance was so off, I’d come close to falling over my own feet. As it turns out, not only did I need glasses, but glasses all the time…not just for reading or for distance…but for everything. When I finally ended up in front of the eye doctor, he told me that my best hope would be corrective laser surgery when I was about 30 years old. From 7th grade until my 30th birthday, I had a choice of coke bottle glasses or seriously hard contacts. While the rimmed glasses were pretty cool at times during my alternative college years, once I graduated, I switched over to contacts.
Now, I realize that this sounds like the lamest thing in the world but, should I hot box any vehicle, my weak eyes would spasm and cross and burn. I’d look like some deranged caricature of the nerdy kid in every sports movie you watched growing up. This, ladies and gentlemen, is strictly medical. I cannot hot box cars, especially while I’m wearing contacts. My vision begins to blur…I can’t drive…The contact high from the sealed car interior keeps me fuzzy while my eye muscles stretch and contract like a BowFlex. Eventually, my eyes totally reject the contacts and it feels like I have a pound of sawdust behind the hard lenses. The entire situation is, and I know from experience, incredibly ugly.
Streets inhaled, and then exhaled a steady, white stream of marijuana smoke. I watched the end of the joint glow like the last gasp of every bonfire I’d ever been to. The Escape wasn’t moving, so the smoke naturally gravitated and pushed itself towards the open windows. I had loaded up my fake cigarette, held the flame to the end of it and unglamorously inhaled. To be honest, at that point, I couldn’t tell if it was cold or hot out, or if I had on the heat or air conditioning. I knew something was on as the “whooshing” sound from the vents was about as subtle as a freight train. The whole world, for once, was finally holding at a perfect temperature. I held the smoke back as I felt it fill the pockets of my lungs…I felt it dancing on
Turns out that Streets was rather poetic when it came to rolling joints. I’m not sure where or when he was able to get in so much practice, but his skills were pretty much flawless. I watched the careful distribution of pot along the crease of the rolling paper, then the back and forth as the paper sped through his thumbs and forefingers…the whole process was not only perfectly executed, but also done with incredible speed. Even though The Escape wasn’t moving, and intending to preserve my golden, no-hot-boxing-the-car rule, I still wanted to circulate some air. The numbed nerve endings in my face and hands failed to tell me if heat was needed or not. In an unprecedented maneuver, and one that I’m sure confused Streets, I simultaneously put the heat on and opened the windows. We sat like that for a moment, feeling the hot air from the vents crawl towards the wide-open windows, then slowly and heavily get sucked outside.
The no hot box rule has some basis in a genuine health concern. When I was small, my parents naturally signed me up to play Little League baseball. I was absolutely terrible as an undersized right fielder, the default position because no kids coming up to bat had the ability to “pull the ball”, despite pleas from our overzealous coaches. Not only did I manage to strike out, get hit by a pitch, or take a base on balls during every at-bat during my 5th, 6th and 7th grade seasons, but I couldn’t catch fly balls if my life depended on it. They would either drop next to me or, on particularly unlucky days, hit me in the shoulder or face. The problem was, out there in the field, my eyes wouldn’t stay focused. The sun gave me this throbbing headache that lived right behind my eyes. I could barely see the ball until it was about half-an-inch in front of my face. Often times my balance was so off, I’d come close to falling over my own feet. As it turns out, not only did I need glasses, but glasses all the time…not just for reading or for distance…but for everything. When I finally ended up in front of the eye doctor, he told me that my best hope would be corrective laser surgery when I was about 30 years old. From 7th grade until my 30th birthday, I had a choice of coke bottle glasses or seriously hard contacts. While the rimmed glasses were pretty cool at times during my alternative college years, once I graduated, I switched over to contacts.
Now, I realize that this sounds like the lamest thing in the world but, should I hot box any vehicle, my weak eyes would spasm and cross and burn. I’d look like some deranged caricature of the nerdy kid in every sports movie you watched growing up. This, ladies and gentlemen, is strictly medical. I cannot hot box cars, especially while I’m wearing contacts. My vision begins to blur…I can’t drive…The contact high from the sealed car interior keeps me fuzzy while my eye muscles stretch and contract like a BowFlex. Eventually, my eyes totally reject the contacts and it feels like I have a pound of sawdust behind the hard lenses. The entire situation is, and I know from experience, incredibly ugly.
Streets inhaled, and then exhaled a steady, white stream of marijuana smoke. I watched the end of the joint glow like the last gasp of every bonfire I’d ever been to. The Escape wasn’t moving, so the smoke naturally gravitated and pushed itself towards the open windows. I had loaded up my fake cigarette, held the flame to the end of it and unglamorously inhaled. To be honest, at that point, I couldn’t tell if it was cold or hot out, or if I had on the heat or air conditioning. I knew something was on as the “whooshing” sound from the vents was about as subtle as a freight train. The whole world, for once, was finally holding at a perfect temperature. I held the smoke back as I felt it fill the pockets of my lungs…I felt it dancing on
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