We were on the road for yet another fantastic elongated weekend at my parent’s beach condo on Hilton Head Island, SC. This had become a frequent getaway, only five hours South East of where I went to undergrad, High Point University in North Carolina. My friend Justin Sphinx, his girlfriend Emma and I left on a Thursday eager for beach madness as a necessary break from daily school madness. Like the average college student from the average generation, we we’re stoners, philosophy majoring stoners at that. Traveling in my 96 black Ford Explorer, we smoked the occasional bowl of 95$ a quarter headies, I distinctly recall, and made our way down and across through Charlotte, into South Carolina. Getting high while driving wasn’t a rare occasion, rather more like the way it was, a chance to turn a normally unpleasant effort into well, something pleasant. With a fresh Carolina sun beaming from above, windows down, wind in our untamed hair, we didn’t have a worry in the world; this was my undergraduate existential definition of freedom. We walked the walk, talked the talk, we were the people of our time, in our place; most everyone enjoyed being caught up amongst our mission: get high, toss a bee, sing, dance, and frolic in an ocean wave; the very description reminds me how dearly I miss the beach, and the days that melted together like a wrapped candy bar in the sun.

About and hour and half into the trip, roughly 160 miles in we passed a sign on the freeway labeled “Narcotics Checkpoint.” What the hell is a narcotics checkpoint I said to myself?” Seeing as how I had never seen such a sign before, nor thereafter. Come to think of it, outside of the silver screen, I have never witnessed traffic being brought to a sudden halt on a freeway in an effort to search cars for anything. Some time had passed since out last burn, our minds were clear, but fright was unarguably the tone as we slowed our pace with a decision to make. My weed was in the right pocket of my cargo shorts packed away with the rest of my things in the trunk, leaving myself a  bit more comfortable taking our chances with the mysterious narcotics checkpoint. Justin had his green on him, paired with my bowl in the center counsel. We wavered for a half mile or so before reaching the conclusion that we would get off at the next exit, giving ourselves more time to make our minds on the matter. While exiting we noticed six seemingly normal vehicles parked in the median, thinking nothing other than it was a little peculiar, I pulled off and discovered six more vehicles assuming the position.

“Oh Christ,” I proclaimed, “Those are all undercover cops!”

Just slightly short of shitting my pants, I pulled into the gas station to discus a game-plan. We considered using the map to discover an alternative route we could take to get back on the freeway, minus the obvious DEA setup. Largely due to my horrific experience on freeways and driving direction, we elected to get back on the freeway, but rather than continue south, we elected to turn around, giving us another chance to read what the sign had said. Yes I know, just short of the definition of idiocy. We began our trek once more, uneasy at best; I pulled on to the freeway monitoring my speed closely as to avoid any further incrimination. Unfortunately what I failed to address was the use of my right turn signal. Without a doubt the most terrifying experience of my life, (well non-mountain-related terrifying experience), six undercover DEA officers had sirens blazing, lights flashing while pulling license plate TRE 907 to the side of I-77.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck! What do I do? What do I do?”

My first impulse had me tear off my “High Roller” trucker hat and toss it in the back. As if my shoulder length blonde hair, aviators, and recent turn around on a major freeway just short of a narcotics check-point weren’t enough. If you have ever been in this type of situation there are certain things you do, and things you don’t do.

Do:

1. Breathe
2. Remain calm and collected
3. Answer questions with as few words as possible

DON’T:

1. Let the officers search your car
2. Confess to marijuana and glass pipes
3. Admit guilt with a single look, word, breath.

Fortunately for yourself, and the sake of this story, my actions were a highlight reel of DON’TS. While it wasn’t my first time being pulled over, or even my first time being pulled over with weed in the car for that matter, I panicked. I spat out words a mile a minute while attempting to explain my sudden turn around, all of which were completely worthless of course. After an obvious disregard of everything other than the name on my license, the officer asked if he could search the car. There I was, instantly transformed from laid back, cool hippie on the way to the beach Kevin, to fucked like Jenna Jameson with six undercover-DEA-agents about to go to jail Kevin. While I claim to be and enjoy many personas in this life of mine, I am certain I could have gone a lifetime without that Kevin I transformed into on that particular Thursday in the fall of 2006.

With the fear of a child and his father’s belt- I stepped out of the vehicle, Justin and Emma the same. They began to tear the car apart with high hopes, PUN intended. I willingly surrendered that I had a glass pipe in the center council, and directed them to my bag in my cargo shorts in the trunk. Even with such instructions, it took them a good twenty minutes to find my weed, further reinforcing my idiocy for immediate confession. The Carolinas are major crossroads in drug-trafficking in the U.S.; Due to my obvious discomfort, and mumbled admission of guilt, they seemed to believe they had just made a major (heroin, ecstasy, coke) narcotics bust. When they eventually found my bag I was greeted with another forgotten element, my scale was in my cargo shorts pocket with the weed. I was moments away from leaving, before I convinced myself it’d be best to bring the scale so I could sell off some of the grams to my friends Bond and Mimi who were coming the next day. After all, it was some fine green, and just about my only means to the green you’re certain never to smoke, $.   One of the officers examined the contents of the bag, before administering the sure fire two finger test; the officer used his pointer, and middle finger in juxtaposition with the bag, and determined my eight grams was about two. While his method of testing may hold ground when dealing with degenerate qualities of dense Mary- Jane such as schwag, it was of no service in our particular instance of fantastic fluffiness.

Justin and I took responsibility for the narcotics, allowing Emma to go free with my Explorer. This proved particularly valuable in a few instances: for starters, had we all been arrested, my car would have been towed to impound, easily a quick $500. Next, without a free Emma we would have been unable to access the funds necessary to bring us from a soon to be deprived freedom. Sphinx and I were cuffed and sardined into the back of the squad car. In case you haven’t had the privilege of such an experience, being 6’7, cuffed with hands behind your back, in the rear end of a cop car fucking sucks — and I’m talking purely in a physical sense. To my parents knowledge I was a semi-straight edge son, sure I drank a lot, and partied often, but prior to this incident had remained drug free. Sure, I had an older brother who was a “Phish Head”, traveling on tour across the nation with his shoulder length hair, mud- master of a jeep, and a wardrobe that was certain not to contradict. So along with significant physical comfort and no real conception of what to expect next, I pondered the enormous disappointment and infuriation such news would bring my parents, and arrived at the conclusion there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I would let them find out.

Similar Posts:

• Acapulco by Kevin Lamb
• The Wrong John Lamb by Kevin Lamb