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You Smoke That Stuff? February 1968 It was a cold, clear winter Sunday in Chicago. The road crews had cleared the streets, but snow still covered the sidewalks in a fluffy white blanket. Roy’s parents had invited the couple to lunch. Tracy was behind the wheel for the short drive between the apartment he shared with Roy and the bear’s childhood home. Roy sat in the passenger seat of Tracy’s Ford Falcon, squinting out at the winter wonderland around them. “Did your mom say what she was cooking for lunch?” asked the coyote. “Stuffed manicotti, I think,” Roy replied. “Cheese or meat?” Roy laughed, “Knowing my mama, first one, then the other.” “Not that it matters,” said the hungry canine. “Everything your mom makes is delicious.” “What about your mom? Is she a good cook?” “She does alright,” said Tracy. “Out on the road all the time, she doesn’t get too many chances to cook in a real kitchen. But she’s pretty amazing around a camp fire.” Roy fiddled with the sun visor in front of himself and pawed at his watering eyes. “Jeeze! It’s really bright out here today. I wish I’d thought to bring my sunglasses along.” “I think there’s an extra pair in the glove box,” said Tracy. “I’m not sure if they’d fit a bear, but you can try.” The bear rummaged through the glove compartment. “Holy cow, you’ve got a lot of crap in here! Wait… What the…” Roy produced a plastic bag containing some kind of dried leafy stuff. “Is this marijuana?” The coyote’s ears drooped to half-mast. “Umm, yeah. I’ve been meaning to tell you about that.” “How could you not tell me in all these months?” “Is it such a big deal?” “Well, yeah,” said Roy, “to begin with, it’s illegal.” “For now, it is.” Tracy shrugged his shoulders. “I guarantee it’ll be legal everywhere in less than two years. Everybody smokes it these days.” “I don’t.” “Look, it’s no worse than your beer or wine.” “At least my beer and wine are legal,” countered the bear. “I don’t get it. You don’t even smoke regular cigarettes.” “Oh, gross! Those are nothing but nasty.” “We can agree on that, at least.” Roy opened the bag and sniffed its contents. “Where do you get this stuff?” he asked. “There’s this opossum that comes into the Salvation Army Shop once in a while. He’s always got some when I’m looking for a bag. If Mr. Williams knew what he was doing, that would be the end of my supply.” “Until it’s legalized.” “Yeah, until it’s legalized.” Tracy glanced over at his companion. “You’ve never tried it, have you?” Roy shook his head. “We might have to do something about that,” grinned the coyote. “Anyway, here we are. Put that back in the glove box, will you? Let’s go eat. I’m starved!” * * * Much later, the two males were relaxing in the living room of their own apartment. Both were dressed down to their underwear as had become the couple’s nightly custom. Roy was wearing an old, comfortable pair of boxers with a gaping hole in the right butt cheek. He loved to joke about wearing his “holy” underwear on Sundays. This particular evening, Tracy traded in his usual ‘tighty-whiteys’ for a pair of new red boxers. Those were a gift from Roy for Valentine’s Day, just four days ago. Roy sat on the couch beside his coyote, watching as Tracy expertly rolled a joint. “You know, we don’t have to do this,” said the older male with a strong hint of reluctance. “There’s a Burr Knows Best special on tonight.” Tracy licked the adhesive edge of the paper, sealing the aromatic leaves inside. “Nothing says we can’t smoke a little pot while we watch your show,” said the young canine. He reached for a book of matches lying on the coffee table. “Go ahead and turn on the TV.” Roy walked over to the television and switched it on. “I don’t know how I let you talk me into this. It’s probably not going to affect me anyway. I’ve got too much body mass.” “Your brain is about the same size as mine,…” The coyote lit up and inhaled deeply before handing the joint over to his partner. “…and that’s the part that counts,” he wheezed out. The reluctant bear took an experimental puff. “There, are you happy?” “Aww, come on, Big Bear!” Tracy let out his breath. “You gotta take a deep drag and hold it in… There ya go!” Roy didn’t answer. He was busy blinking the stinging smoke out of his eyes and trying not to cough out the ‘deep drag’ that Tracy insisted upon. He finally exhaled, “So how long before this stuff works?” Tracy held out his hand to take the joint back from Roy. “Not long,” he said before taking his second hit. “I just don’t think this is going to do anything to me,” insisted the bear. * “HA-HA-Ha-ha!” Roy bellowed and wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Dog, that Lorraine is hysterical!” He switched off the TV. “What now? Chess?” “Too serious a game when you’re stoned,” said Tracy as he lit up their third doobie of the evening. “Dominoes!” “For the record, I’m not stoned. I’ll go get the set. Gimme a toke first,” said Roy. He inhaled like a seasoned pro and marched off to the bedroom. A few seconds later, the bear returned to the living room chanting, “Dom-i-noes! Dom-i-NOES!” He grinned broadly as he dumped the tiles onto the coffee table. * Roy played the one-blank. “Five!” he announced with glee. “Are you planning to get into this game?” Tracy passed the joint over to his mate and marked Roy’s score on the pad in front of him. He looked over his tiles and selected the blank-two. “Seven.” “Hoo-hoo-hooo! Five more!” the bear said playing the three-five on the other side of the layout. He giggled so hard the tiles on the table danced. “You’re gonna need a new pencil, ‘cause you’re wearing that one out writing down my scores.” Tracy stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry before taking the joint back from his opponent. He crossed his fingers and picked up the only playable tile in his hand, the two-six. “Nine, and please don’t tell me you got ‘em.” “Indeed, I doobie-doobie-do!” laughed Roy. “Double-sixes makes fifteen and DOM-I-NOES for the win! Haw-haw! Dom-i-noes! Dom-i-noes!” The bear thumped a forefinger on the score pad. “Write it down! Give it to me! GiveItToMe-GiveItToMe-GiveItToMe!” “Keep your shirt on. I’ll give it to you.” The bear guffawed at what he perceived to be his coyote’s clever innuendo. Then he remembered that he wasn’t wearing a shirt which, in his estimation, made the remark even funnier. “You know, you’re a terrible winner when you’re stoned,” observed Tracy. “I’m not stoned. I’ll tell you what I am, though: I’m starved. Do we have any Toritos?” * Roy leaned his head back and dumped the last of the crumbs from the bag of chips into his muzzle. “Man! I’m still hungry!” “We should go out for donuts,” suggested Tracy. “Yeah! That’s brilliant! There’s that 24-hour place!” “I know the one! I’ll get my keys.” “Better put some pants on first. Are you okay to drive?” asked Roy. “Piece of cake,” replied the coyote. “Not cake. Donuts!” The two males burst into laughter. * The overly ebullient bear stepped up to the counter of the donut shop. “What can I get for you?” asked the young, pimply faced armadillo who was manning the cash register. “Gimme a half-dozen chocolate cones,” said Roy. “Excuse me?” said the clerk, scratching his head. “Yeah, you’re right. Better make it a dozen cones.” “Sir, this is a donut shop, not an ice cream shop.” “Huh? What did I say?” Roy was confused. Standing behind the bear, Tracy put his paw over his muzzle and snickered. “A dozen chocolate donuts,” Roy said for what he was convinced was the third time. “It’s not rocket science.” The armadillo looked up into the bear’s bloodshot eyes and sighed, “Yes, sir. Coming right up.” * The bear sat in the passenger seat with the half-eaten box of donuts on his lap. He stuffed another into his muzzle and mumbled around it, “Good thing you’re driving. I’d have died of starvation if I had to wait until we got home.” “Man, you are SO stoned,” asserted Tracy. “Mmmph? I don’t think so,” said Roy, licking his fingers. * Roy finally managed to unlock the apartment. He bowed and made a grand gesture for Tracy to precede him. The bear stepped inside and dropped the decimated donut box onto the coffee table. “I feel so mellow right now,” he announced. The coyote shook his head. “You are sooo stoned right now.” “You keep saying that, but I feel fine. Better than fine. I am SO fine!” Roy took Tracy by the paw. “Come on. I want you to fuck me.” “Whatever you say, Big Bear.” Tracy let himself be taken to the bedroom. “Get the oil,” said Roy. “Dom-i-noes, dom-i-NOES,” the bear chanted as he led the way.