SPUTTER MUTTER

This is my personal favorite “waiting for the man” story.

One bright morning a friend of mine and I decided that going into Manhattan to buy weed trumped another boring day in 9th grade, so we slid out a side door and made our way to the LIRR.

We pulled into Penn, detrained, and wended our way back out into the sun, navigating purposefully to what we had been told was a prime spot for making our intended purchase.

It didn’t take long for us to hook up with a dealer, who clearly knew a couple of easy marks when he saw them. He sized up the situation, and quickly realized that the best way to negotiate the transaction was going to be by flattering my vanity and talking to me as if I had been doing such commerce from the cradle.

He suggested that he and I duck into an alley, so he could give me a sample of his wares. He pulled out a joint of “premium Panama red” and lit it up, offering me a toke, and advising me to cup it, as there was a police precinct right across the street. “It’s cool, I’m cool,” I whispered, smoke leaking from my constricted lips.

Now, chances are that this “joint” was a repurposed Camel, but I quickly agreed with his assessment that it was strong shit. After some further discussion, I palmed him $30. He handed me a tightly packed one-ounce bag, and advised me to secrete it down my pants. I emerged from the alley, gave a quick nod to my friend, and we were back on the way to Penn.

We reached the station and headed for the nearest bathroom, where we took up residence in adjoining stalls. I reached into my pants and pulled out the baggie. I unrolled it, unzipped it, and found…

Paper. Tiny, wadded up pieces of thickish brown paper. I conveyed this discovery to my friend in the stall next door, and almost immediately I heard a loud, rhythmic pounding on the divider. This was accompanied by a loud, rhythmic series of “Fuck!” exclamations…

He was hell bent on returning to the scene of the crime, but I finally persuaded him that this was probably not a good idea. I knew that I had been suckered, and I even felt a certain warped sense of admiration for the psychology that underpinned the ruse.

In an effort to take my friend’s mind off thoughts of glorious revenge, I spent the last of my money on tickets for Jerry Lewis’ Hardly Working. Which experience made the absence of drugs that much more palpable and regrettable…

With no money in our pockets, we hopped back on the LIRR as rush hour approached, and made it all the way to Garden City before we were kicked off the train...