Two Close Calls: Marijuana, Police, and a Little Bit of Luck

Two Close Calls With Police

When I was younger, I smoked a lot of weed. And by a lot, I mean a lot.

My mom bought our first quarter-ounce for my 14th birthday, and that was it. I loved it.

By the time I started high school, smoking was practically part of the morning routine. On our first day of high school, we were already high.

Back then, my friend Jason, yes, the same Jason who drove to the Pittsburgh Grateful Dead show, would pick us up in his VW van. We’d smoke on the way to school, and he’d drop us off at the Pickle Barrel.

I swear it was like that scene in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, when they fall out of the VW bus and smoke comes pouring out of the side. Except Jason’s van was white.

Morning bong hits before dawn patrol. For those who don’t know, dawn patrol is when surfers head out around sunrise, hoping to catch some of the best waves before the beach gets crowded.

And yes, sometimes we were already high before the sun came up.

I even smoked while cooking steaks at Voltaco’s. I’d blow the smoke up into the exhaust fans humming above the stove. Those stories lasted for years after I left. Voltaco’s itself is stories wrapped in stories, but I’ll save those for another time.

From Smoking to Selling

As I moved through high school, I started selling weed in the middle of my Junior year,

I’d travel to Philadelphia, pick up a quarter-pound, and drive back to Ocean City.

I wish my memory were as fresh as it was back then because I honestly can’t remember exactly what year all of this happened. It’s a bit of a blur. But if I was Junior, that would be the winter of 1990

What I really want to tell you about are two close calls I had with the police. Both involved marijuana, both could have ended badly, and both still amaze me when I think about them.

The First Close Call: A Trip Across the Ben Franklin Bridge

I was returning from Philadelphia after visiting my guy. On this particular trip, I’d purchased only an ounce.

It was winter, and a storm was moving in from the west. My best friend Keith was with me.

Now, I need to make something clear before going any further.

Keith and I never discussed a cover story. Remember that, because it’s important.

Since the storm was rolling in, I was wearing a heavy camouflage jacket with enormous pockets. After making the purchase and talking for a bit, I slipped the ounce into my left jacket pocket, got into the car, and headed home.

As I was driving across the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, I noticed flashing lights behind me.

Shit.

I pulled over.

I don’t remember exactly what the officer said, but I was taken out of the car and told to stand near the trunk.

There I was, standing on the Ben Franklin bridge, with an ounce of marijuana sitting in my left jacket pocket. It was easily accessible. All the officer had to do was touch that side of my jacket, and the whole day could have gone in a very different direction.

After what felt like a terrifying silence, he asked why I had been in Philadelphia.

My mind started racing.

Then, for whatever reason, I thought about two girls Keith and I knew, Shawna and Nicole. They were twins.

I blurted out that we’d come to Philadelphia to visit Shawna, and that she had a twin sister named Nicole.

The officer seemed satisfied with that explanation.

Then he walked over to Keith, who was still sitting in the passenger seat, and asked him the same question.

Remember, we had never discussed a story.

Keith told him he’d come to Philadelphia to see Nicole.

I still can’t believe it.

Of all the possible things Keith could have said, he picked the other twin.

The officer returned to my side of the car and commented that they must be some pretty nice girls for us to drive all that way with a big winter storm approaching.

Keith and I looked at each other, then back at him.

“Twins, sir.”

And that was it.

The officer let us go, and we drove away.

To this day, I don’t know how Keith and I managed to come up with matching stories without ever talking about it.

The Second Close Call: Four Quarters in the Trunk

The second encounter happened on the Atlantic City Expressway after a night in Ambler, Pennsylvania.

This time, I had four quarter-ounce bags of marijuana in my trunk.

I was driving my big and blue 1984 Oldsmobile Toronado with a velvet top. Sometimes you would think your on a boat the way it bounced along the rode.

In another story, I mentioned playing in a house band a few times. Well, we’d driven to Ambler, Pennsylvania, to watch some of those guys play at a bar.

I only remember fragments of that night.

I remember the band. Then I remember sitting in some sort of room when my ex-girlfriend walked in.

She was wearing a dress, black nylons, and a sweater, and man, she looked fine.

Somehow, we ended up outside, and one thing led to another in the back of my car.

I must have been around 18 when these two police encounters happened. I met my wife a few years later, around 21, and was with no one else for 33 years.

Anyway, after that rather enjoyable experience, I was feeling pretty good. But it was time to go home.

I had a passenger with me, a young woman whose name I can’t remember. Oddly enough, I can still picture her clearly.

She had a big, blown-out hairstyle and wore black clothing. I want to say she had a Goth look, but I’m not entirely sure.

What I do remember is that she didn’t smoke or drink.

We were driving home on the Atlantic City Expressway, and I was packing a bowl.

Then came the flashing lights.

Again.

And this time, I did probably the dumbest thing I could have done.

I lifted myself off the driver’s seat, shoved the marijuana underneath me, and threw the bowl into a compartment.

A huge no-no.

The police saw the movement. Clear as day.

I pulled over.

The officer approached with the standard polite greeting, like we were old friends or something.

Then came the question about what I’d been doing inside the car.

Here we go again.

He had me step out and brought me around to the trunk.

Just to catch you up, I still had those four quarter-ounce bags in the trunk. I can’t remember whether I’d purchased them in Ambler specifically to bring home or had them with me already.

I also had a small amount of marijuana in my jacket pocket, perhaps half of an eighth.

At some point, his partner found the marijuana I’d shoved underneath myself and brought it over.

My memory of the next few minutes gets a little fuzzy.

But I remember the officer asking if I had anything on me.

I told him no.

He told me he was going to search me and asked again.

This time, I admitted I had something in my pocket. I pulled it out of my inside pocket, and handed it to him directly.

In my mind, I was already on my way to jail.

And worse, if they discovered the four bags in the trunk, I figured I could be facing an intent-to-distribute charge. What had started as a relatively small amount of marijuana could suddenly become a much bigger problem.

The officer asked if I had anything else in the car.

I admitted there was a bowl in the center compartment. His partner went to retrieve it.

You might be wondering what happened to my passenger.

Nothing much.

I was adamant that she didn’t smoke or drink, but the officers didn’t seem particularly interested in her anyway.

Then came the question I had been dreading.

Did I have anything in the trunk?

Now, I wasn’t about to volunteer that information.

At the time, I believed the officers would need a warrant to search the trunk, and I was banking on that.

I answered no, sir, in the most confident voice I could manage.

The officer threatened to call out the dogs.

Again, I told him no.

I was convinced this was going to end badly.

But then something happened that I still have trouble believing.

The officer handed me my bag of marijuana and told me to dump it on the ground.

I did exactly what he said.

Then he handed me the bowl and told me to throw it as far as I could in the direction he pointed.

So I did.

He told me to get back in the car, wished both of us a good night, and returned to the patrol car with his partner.

And they drove away.

That was it.

No handcuffs. No trip to jail. No discovery of what was sitting in my trunk.

My mind was blown.

Looking Back

I’ve thought about that second encounter many times over the years.

I always wondered if handing him the marijuana in my pocket, rather than forcing the officer to find it, made a difference.

Maybe he appreciated that I eventually told him the truth. Maybe he decided the situation wasn’t worth pursuing. Maybe he was simply giving a young, stupid kid a break.

I’ll never know.

What I do know is that things could have turned out very differently.

If he’d searched the trunk and discovered those four bags, I might have ended up in jail, facing charges that could have changed the direction of my life.

Instead, I was sent home with a warning, minus some marijuana and a bowl.

Two close calls, two different officers, and two chances to walk away from situations I had put myself in.

Looking back, I certainly made some questionable decisions.

But I also had a little luck.

Maybe more than a little.