How I got a USA tax receipt for the importation of marijuana
I always thought of myself as Slim Bone Sam a traveler without a direction. I was doing great, but I am always doing great before the shit hits the fan. That’s life. Where the hell are my cigarettes? I had a pack last night. I bet Radical Pig took them. He was bumming smokes, he’s planning to quit. What bullshit, that means he smokes mine. Damn I’ll be real happy when he finds a job.
I rubbed the mutah out of my eyes and stumble toward the bathroom. It is cleaner than usual, Pig just got a girlfriend. We also have Tonka living with us. He was busted for possession of a couple joints a few years ago. He just got out of prison. He needed a place to crash. He has issues. Jail is a bum trip.
Pig yells from the back bedroom “hey asshole we need to get moving, Canada waits.” Tonka didn’t want to go and Pig’s girlfriend was doing something, somewhere. We left in Pig’s ’53 ford pickup. We were going to party in Stanley Park. Our friends always have the best hash. Stanley Park, great music, great hash, happy people, what could be better. Life is good.
Stanley Park is the place. I’d like to explain in detail what we did when we got there. There were some technical problems. Shortly after I arrived, I was offered and took a tiny little pill. With my reality distorted memories are blurred. Then it was time to go home. Pig found his truck. We discovered Pig forgot a small stash of hash in his truck. Nice find. Hash always makes a trip better. Pig stopped a few miles before we got to the border. We finished the last of the hash. We were ready to face the authorities.
At the border we were met with the harsh glare of the flood lights in our bloodshot eyes. The Canadians waved us through. Our country had to let us in. Longhaired and unwashed natives were somewhat suspect, but what could they do? Throw us out of our own country. Not likely. We were confident, the hash was gone, and we were good. Early morning is not the best time to cross the border. An official stuck his head into Pig’s window and asked him if we had anything to declare. Now that’s funny, after a few bowels of hash. I’m not sure what was said or if I laughed. The officer stared into my eyes. I stared back, at his hat. He turned back to Pig and ordered an inspection.
I figured it was a good time to go to the bathroom. The beer was starting to come alive. Walking back to the truck I spotted Pig. He had a desperate look in his eyes. Could there be a complication? It seems that Tonka had left his jacket in the back of Pig’s truck with a joint in it. Normally we would just smoke the joint and it would be Tonka’s loss. It would be a joyous occasion. The officer didn’t look amused. Pig was telling me the story of the joint as the officials started questioning me. I brushed the hair out of my eyes and attempted to look as sober as possible. “Do You Use Drugs?” asked the official. “Me, use drugs.” I was insulted. I continued “I believe my body is a temple for my soul. I try not to harm my body. Of course, I don’t use drugs.” The official seemed skeptical but moved onto Pig. Pig was a radical, he felt shame. He had a certain moral standard that required honesty in bad situations. I knew what Pig was going to say before he said it. It wasn’t going to be politically correct. He grabbed his white man’s afro and with the words of a saint said “Of course I use drugs. Look at me. What do you think?” I was blessed; the officials lost all interest in my possible transgressions and turned on Pig. They took him through a door. Pig was special. The officers rarely met any living thing so stupid. He called them out, they hated him.
I was left to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes with the officers. The officers were impressed by my clean living and spirituality. We were just getting to know each other when Pig was brought into the break room. He was not a happy camper.
The officials told us to return tomorrow and talk to the captain. They kept Pig’s truck. We took the bus to Bellingham. Tonka was yelled at. The next day I drove Pig up to the border to talk to the captain. The captain told Pig, he could buy his truck back from the government for its retail value. Pig put a lot of value on his truck. It was his baby. “75 dollars for the truck and 75 dollars for the tax stamp”. We get a certificate for paying the tax. Really?
For $150 we got Pig's truck back and a genuine tax certificate for importation of less than one ounce of marijuana. Pig proudly placed the framed certificate on the wall. They didn't put us in jail. It was a good day.
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