We gathered our things and made our way up to the third floor where my parents two bedroom ocean-front condo resided. I expected that they would be asleep, but might possibly wake with our late night arrival. I punched the key code, the green light lit, and we entered. As expected, my parents woke and came to greet us,

“We thought you might decide to come!”

With a freshly swollen and soon to be bruised eye I replied,

“You have no idea what we went though to get here! This was the worst the day of my life. Me and Justin got mugged and robbed at gun point on our way to get more beer in Charlotte. They took all our money, we barely got here, we’re exhausted, and just need to go to sleep, we’ll tell you more about it in the morning.”

“Oh my god, we’re just happy you’re okay, we love you and we’ll talk in the morning.”

Holy shit, it worked I recall thinking, even thought I anticipated success. We entered the room finally having truly arrived to our destination, with the remainder of the night to get our story straight before waking. We nestled comfortably in our two double beds, and once more revisited the intricate details of our encounter, falling asleep peacefully with the promise of booze and beach and fun in the sun to come.

After a healthy sleep-in, we came to, gathered in the kitchen and recited our story as rehearsed, and talk about a TKO, total knock-out! They ate it up, word for word; after all, it was a convincing story, from some convincing mother-fuckers, one of which had quite the convincing shiner on his right eye. In true triumph we assembled the perfect cooler with mixed drinks and cold ones alike, put down a few drinks, and headed down to the pool and beach area. We sent word to Mimi and Bond, our friends arriving later that evening that the crisis had been resolved, and the party was in full go mode. Like kings and Queens we spent the morning afloat in raft with drink in hand, soaking up what seemed to be truly earned UV. Seeking sun block I returned once more to the Ford Explorer, and was shocked to find the case containing my blue glass bowl, alive and kicking. We had discovered Justin’s after Emma bailed us out and we once more headed south, but it had been broken to pieces by our friendly Mr. Narcs. It was quite the surprise, and a pleasant one at that. Although we still hadn’t any herb, it truly felt like a moral victory and a cherry on top of our fantastic scheme.

I headed back up to the condo for a necessary cooler refill, and of course a few shots while I was there, after all it was the beach. Shortly after some shooters, old man TL returned from a walk with the old lady, and not the most encouraging smile on his face. Like any good father he was curious to see the condition of the car his son drove from north to south, spanning hundreds of miles without so much as the proper care and judgment of an oil change. My parents and I didn’t see either too much, as the child in the family, with a brother in Alaska, and sister in Connecticut, we weren’t exactly the parents weekend kind o’ cats. We met at the beach, in New York City, and even atop mount Jumbo in Juneau; no strangers to vay-cay us Lambs. This was one of the few opportunities my dad had to check for my life’s safety, so he went a checkin’, and of course, the doors’ was unlocked. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue, I hadn’t left anything incriminating in the car: our weed was confiscated, bowls either broken or recently found, seemingly nothing to endanger our beautiful embellishment… unless of course Justin left his violation ticket in the car! That might change things a bit, and it did.

Only in this moment could I express that being caught red-handed was the understatement of the century… perhaps red assed from the soon to incur ass raping my father would deliver would do it justice. Paps went ape shit, I shall digress and mention my father and I have a limited but unpleasant history in our indifferences when it comes to mari- jjjjjjhhhhuanna. There was a time when I really thought he’d understand… he bought us beer as a long as we drank it in our basement at 18, we just couldn’t drink liquor, which we did, and got in repeated trouble for. As previously mentioned my brother was a “Phish Head!” for Christ’s sake, dreaded long hippie hair with woven tapestry in corduroy pants, and despite my early collegiate status as an athlete, post baseball I reveled in shoulder length hair, cell phone freedom (that means not having one!) and a lifestyle only appropriate for great men of philosophy, scallywags, and last but not least, undergraduate students.  All I’m saying is he should have seen some of the signs, but maybe as a loving father he did me the favor of seeing past them, he is a great man, in a line of great Lambs, so watch what you bring home from the butcher!

His greatest fury came not from our lies, or newly formed acquaintance with the state of South Carolina’s judicial system, but because I dared bring drugs and defile the sanctity of their home away from home, as an invited guest. I’ve since learned that in such instances it is better to tell them (substitute any authority figure in a position to make life miserable) what they want to hear, and move on. Unfortunately these years of my life represented a time of empowered rationale, a need to out wit any opposition in an argument, not to say that’s altogether changed, but I have acquired a tit-bit more discretion. Justin tried to help the cause, big mistake, paps nearly bit his head off ordering him into the other room. It was a vicious argument to say the least, but I pleaded that it was my problem that I had brought upon myself, and I would take care of it, both legally and financially. Let the record show before senior year I maintained zero employment, (well at least any that paid, I had a variety of unpaid internships), outside of the few times I worked the furniture market, which is a pretty penny, High Point being the furniture capital and all.

While in jail we told jokes and discussed the various levels of shit we were all in, good ol’ fashion mail bonding if you will. A gentleman whose name I haven’t the slightest clue informed me of a program available for first time offenders called Pre-Trial Intervention (PTI). PTI allows first-time offenders a chance to stay out of court, and ultimately have the charged expunged from your record. I told my parents this would allow me to pay my fees overtime, and avoid hiring a lawyer, their most immediate concern. Little did I know when it was all said and done it cost me a little over $1200 anyway, well $1800 if you include getting ripped off five days before next my SC payment was due. Things definitely became interesting to say the least. I knew a sense of panic like never before. I used the Harris Teeter gift cards that my parents gave me as a meal plan to hustle, I bought cartons of cigarettes, which are appropriately cheap in the south, and sold them at parties by the cigarette. My junior year was most certainly a stressful one, strictly outside of the classroom of course, that was always the easy part.

Despite it all I kept my word, I handled it on my own, jumped through the system’s hoops, and cleared my record .How exactly I handled it is where the real hoot of it comes to light, after all, often the easiest way to get out of a situation is the very way you got in; I dealt grass, and due to the drug test I had to pass, successfully I must add, it’s not just a cliché that you shouldn’t smoke your own stash. The great state of South Carolina was fueling the further demise of the High Point University college campus, and that’s not to say it wasn’t going on otherwise; I mean, how else do stoners afford to get… no stay high?

My father and I got through our fight, the thing I remember most is a question he asked later that day…

“If you didn’t get mugged, where’d that black eye come from?”

I couldn’t believe it, amongst all the chaos I didn’t even consider how reasonable and obvious a question it was. Shellshock aside, I laid it out there…

“Ohh yea… I pissed off one of other guys being held in jail, he was drunk and obnoxious, and we got into a little bit.”

To this day I’m just about certain my dad didn’t buy a word of it, but I’m sure he was quite curious as to what really happened… some things are just better off left unsaid, but oh well, now he knows,  that is of course if he ever reads this. If he does, I think on some level, somewhere way out there, he’ll appreciate the thought and consideration put into my deeply devious scheme that came but a breath from destruction on more than one occasion, but found its way into the light, and a clean record.

We were granted what we sought, an existential escape to the beach to once more celebrate are unbounded freedom in the days of undergraduate education. Sure, it came at a slightly hire cost, and expenditure of effort, but isn’t freedom always a bit sweeter when it has been sweat for?

Be forewarned, narcotics checkpoints are not a recommended exiting point on the freeway, narcotics officers will rob you, and selling marijuana while not the most dependable or legal means of profit gain, is accepted as payment for drug offenses in the state of South Carolina.

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