CHAPTER ONE (6)

O, to live in that reality where weed didn’t exist! And yeah, I realize you said Mexico, Toddy, with the insinuation that the same would happen here if we instituted the same policy. It's the same "Oh! The sky is falling! The sky is falling!" bullshit America has been fed for decades now. There's only so long people are going to continue swallowing that sorta flawed thinking before they start looking for another direction to solve the problem. Sorry to break it to ya pal, but less and less of us in THIS century are interested in hearing these sad attempts at fear-mongering. Drugs are in America. Just like drugs are in Mexico. People in Mexico, like people in America, Canada, China, Europe, Australia, you get the point..; who want to use drugs will go ahead and use drugs. People who do not, make a choice not to. If heroin were legalized today would it make YOU want to use heroin? Use some common sense. I love this concept that a law abiding, free thinking adult is incapable of this caliber of decision making in their personal lives. Let's remove ALL personal responsibility from the lives of Americans. We want Uncle Sam to make all the decisions for us. What kind of America is this?
Go back to 1984.

“Mitzi, Mitzi, keep cool, man. You’re preaching to the quire.” Toddy said, throwing his hands up ready to be arrested. Toddy was an aging 30-something free-spirit, who spent most of his days in bed and most of his nights drinking himself into the delirium that we did live in the kind of world that Mitzi described. Then he would get up at 3 pm, smooth back the gargantuan cowlick, Conan O’Brien style, and head out to the bus station because he had received two extreme DUIs in the last year and would never own a car again. He was fine with that, who needs a car anyways when there is the wonderful world out there to experience. The kind of optimist that even Carlos on a bad day couldn’t bring down, Toddy was the permanent happy-go-lucky-installment at Corrotto’s.

“So what do you propose we do? Toddy here said Mexico legalized it and now they’re killing each other left and right. Mexicans aren’t any different than Americans when it comes to addiction.” Said one of the servers, his face shadowed by the perpetual darkness in the restaurant.

“That’s where we differ, my friend.” Matt put his finger up and pretended to orate, “You ever sold any herb to a Mexican? They’re like mangy old dogs – you feed ‘em once, and they keep coming back for more. That’s where people like me and Squirley come in and sell it to ‘em for double. Then they feel like they are getting’ ripped off – “

“But – “

“And then they always take out their knives and want to start something. See, they don’t have the instinct of an American. They can’t smell out the good from the bad weed, they don’t care if its mersh or kind bud. All they know is that they need some more. When I sell to a white person, they check out the goods, they want a taste. They act like business men, regardless of how bad they need it. With the Mexis, it’s always, ‘You got what I need hombre.’ ‘Yeah I got it. You want a taste?’ ‘Naw, man, I trust you.’ I hate to say it, but they trust me too, much.”

“Hey, Matt,” called a hostess from the hostess stand, “I just sat you.”