One Toke too Many

This morning after coffee and a well-toasted English Muffin with jam,
I headed out for my daily wake-up walk around our East Bay neighborhood,
Pandora providing the soundtrack with folk- rock from the 60s and 70s.

Neil Young’s “Out on the Weekend” took my mind off the twinges in my
lower back, which have been acting up more and more of late.

Next came Harry Chapin’s “Taxi.” I first heard it back in 1972
while struggling on a Barney’s radio spot in my windowless office.
Its tale of a young cabbie running into a lost love in his taxi, was right up
my alley. And its final chorus was friggin’ perfect:

“And now she’s acting happy
inside her handsome home
and me, I’m flying in my taxi,
taking tips and getting stoned”

You see, I had just toked up that morning, and my tiny office 
wasn’t much bigger than a taxi, or so I thought.

As I turned onto a tree-lined walking path between streets, I felt this
irrepressible urge to have a toke or two (I often “carry” just in case).

I put “Taxi” on repeat, lit up a joint and was feeling “groovy,” when
a masked father and his small blond-haired son appeared from
around the bend.

Through his mask, dad angrily shouted out, “Where are your brains,
smoking that stuff in front of a kid! And where the hell’s your mask?”

Stomping out the joint—my eyes tearing up slightly—I donned my mask,
offered an apology, and continued on my way.

Damn, I thought, when I get home I’ve got to get some ice for my back.