"A Hard Conversation"

Is a term I coined with a good friend and associate of mine, hereby referred to as JT, (for "Justice Train.") during a particular course of events.

Beginning rightly, as these things often do, with a night of fun and drinking. Our setting was JT's dormitory residence, a nice open place for people to co-inhabit pleasantly and engage conversation while imbibing beverages. It is almost perfect for this actually. The architects knew what they were doing. And so, it was built, ergo the people did come.

The gentlemen living across the hall made the dealbreaking decision to open up their doors to our soirée, make it a "cross-hall party," which is simultaneously totallyawesome and extremely irresponsible. Awesome and irresponsible are familiar bedfellows I've discovered during my time here on Earth. I was enjoying my predictable preference of Pabst Blue Ribbon and having a smashing time, and whatever Gods were at work, bending reality and feasibility, so that not a single noise complaint or RA's presence was summoned all deserve a hearty virgin sacrifice in honor and thanks. Actually, I should get on that soon...

Anyways. To push the proverbial envelope of our debauchery and merriment, JT and I also stole away from the happenings into the white-lit parking lot behind the building. With mixed company, we slipped into his car and zestfully lit aflame the meticulously prepared twisted rolls of paper and plant. We did this highly controversial act of recreation thrice, with mixed company each time, with little to no signs of the enemy. The party went through it's arcs, cycles and stages, leading to the night's end and my penchant crashing on the couch.

As the morning light rose and his other roommates emerged and went about their personal daily businesses, I stirred and writhed. While I could not actively recall all the events of the night prior, my skull did with painful accuracy. I decided to remain unconscious until this bad boy blew over. I was awoken a second time. First, by a familiar and lovely aroma. My eyes opened to JT, like a gentle mother archetype, sitting beside me on the couch nestling a fresh jibba up under my nose. In a time, in a different place, circumstances far different from the ones we both were in, and if I were a different gender, I could have proposed to him. Alas, we were both straight dudes, best friends and in relationships, but the feelings were still there. And that can not be ignored. FUN FACT: if you've never been high before, it is the most efficient cure for a lethal hangover.

This is the best way to wake up. We were giddy with the future prospects of how good breakfast was going to be and how this aching in my head's death was imminent, we rushed back out to his car. As we burned the mother down, we reflected on the party, mentioning highlights, and clearing up lapses in memory. It was to no surprise still hazy in the vehicle's interior, and with this little Good Morning Marijuana rebuttal, the box was pretty hot and smokey. I had some difficulty peering through the front windshield. But when I did, the entire mood of the day took a drastic turn for the worst. My heart stopped. We did not even exhale in shock as time slowed to molasses and we watched the very single sole thing that two stoned kids ever, ever want to see slowly roll past:

A police cruiser.

The fuzz. The enemy.

We saw him. He saw us. We freaked the fuck out. Luckily our panic did not make us punch out the windows, crawl out of the car and flee screaming in terror for the woods in futile hope of losing our pursuers. Instead we were paralyzed with fear, watching in horror as the cop glided past, then stopped his vehicle. He began to turn around.

JT started his car, we might have been talking to each other and ourselves at a low volume but I have no clue what we said. I'm just pretty sure it involved "fuck," "shit," "Jesus," and "damn." We pulled out of our spot slowly and rolled down our windows making sure the smoke did not just billow out like a mushroom cloud of teenage delinquency but instead seep and dissipate smoothly and incognito. The cruiser turned around and began to follow right behind us. JT went instinctively for his pack of Cam Lights, and I jitterly asked for one too. I am not a smoker of tobacco, nor supporter of the habit by any means. This was a cautionary measure at best, and at worst something, anything, to keep my nerves down. And did we start gunning those suckers down. The cop flashed no lights. Emitted no "Whoop Woop" noises. Just followed very closely behind us as we turned out of the parking lot and headed down a road further into campus. I made a distinct effort to visibly flick my cigarette ash out the window, as if to say, with my hands:
"Yes, Officer, just harmless cigarette smoke in here. Please don't arrest me and ruin what little happiness there is left in this cold, dark, facist world, you facist fucking pig fuck. I mean, please restore my faith in the law and those who serve and protect us. I love you."

We reached a stop sign, our blinker going. He stopped in time with us.
No blinker.
This was when I looked over to my good friend and said, "Get yourself ready for a hard conversation."

And here is where the miracle took place. We turned right. The cruiser turned left.

We could not contain our reactions. The adrenaline rush, the fear, the pure ecstasy of relief. I mean, it would ONLY have just been confiscation of our contraband, $650 fine each, and possible summons. Or maybe just a warning. But to us it was a black and white matter, and we were only seeing the black before being blinded by the white. There was no doubt in my mind our goose was decapitated, unfeathered, cleaned, cut and cooked. Clear your place, and go straight to bed with no dessert. The Ultimate shame. The careless stoners getting caught.

But nay. We survived that day. We did not have that conversation, and lived on to tell our tale. Or, you know, at least put it on the Internet.