Red-Dirt Marijuana: And Other Tastes Read Free Page A

“Naw we can’t keep it in that,” he said, “. . . keep it in that like ole sacka turnip . . . we got to git us somethin’—a nice little box , somethin’ like that, you see. How ’bout one of you empty shell-boxes? You got any?”
    “They ain’t big enough,” said Harold.
    C.K. resumed his place, sitting and slowly leaning back against the wall, looking at the pile again.
    “They sho’ ain’t, is they,” he said, happy with that fact.
    “We could use two or three of  ’em,” Harold said.
    “Wait a minute now,” said C.K., “we talkin’ here, we done forgit about this heavy gage.” He laid his hand on the smaller pile, as though to reassure it. “One of them shell-boxes do fine for that—an’ I tell you what we need for this light gage now I think of it . . . is one of you momma’s quart fruit-jars. ”
    “Shoot, I can’t fool around with them dang jars, C.K.,” said the boy.
    C.K. made a little grimace of impatience.
    “ You momma ain’t begrudge you one of them fruit-jars, Hal’—she ast you ’bout it, you jest say it got broke! You say you done use that jar put you fishin’-minners in it! Hee-hee . . . she won’t even wanta see that jar no more, you tell her that. ”
    “I ain’t gonna fool around with them jars, C.K.”
    C.K. sighed and started rolling another cigarette.
    “I jest goin’ twist up a few of these sticks now,” he explained, “an’ put them off to the side.”
    “When’re you gonna smoke some of that other?” asked Harold.
    “What, that heavy gage?” said C.K., raising his eyebrows in surprise at the suggestion. “Shoot, that ain’t no workin’-hour gage there, that’s you Sunday gage . . . oh you mix a little bit of that into you light gage now and then you feel like it—but you got to be sure ain’t nobody goin’ to mess with you ’fore you turn that gage full on. ’Cause you jest wanta lay back then an’ take it easy” He nodded to himself in agreement with this, his eyes intently watching his fingers work the paper. “You see . . . you don’t swing with you heavy gage, you jest goof . . . that’s what you call that. Now you light gage, you swing with you light gage . . . you control that gage, you see. Say a man have to go out an’ work, why he able to enjoy that work! Like now you seen me turn on some of this light gage, didn’t you? Well, I may have to go out with you daddy a little later on an’ lay that fence-wire, or work with my post-hole digger. Why I able to swing with my post-hole digger with my light gage on. Sho’, that’s you sociable gage, you light gage is—this here other, well, that’s what you call you thinkin’ gage. . . . Hee-hee! Shoot, I wouldn’t even wanta see no post-hole digger I turn that gage full on!”
    He rolled the cigarette up, slowly, licking it with great care.
    “Yeah,” he said half-aloud, “. . . ole fruit-jar be fine for this light gage.” He chuckled. “That way we jest look right in there, know how much we got on hand at all time.”
    “We got enough I reckon,” said Harold, a little sullenly it seemed.
    “Sho’ is,” said C.K., “more’n the law allows at that.”
    “Is it against the law then sure enough, C.K.?” asked Harold in eager interest, “. . . like that Mex’can kept sayin’ it was?” C.K. gave a soft laugh.
    “I jest reckon it is ,” he said, “. . . it’s against all kinda law—what we got here is. Sho’, they’s one law say you can’t have none of it, they put you in the jailhouse you do . . . then they’s another law say they catch you with more than this much . . .” he reached down and picked up a handful to show, “well, then you in real trouble! Sho’, you got more than that why they say: ‘Now that man got more of that gage than he need for his personal use, he must be sellin’ it!’ Then they say you a pusher. That’s what they call that, an’ boy I mean they put you way back in the jailhouse then!” He gave Harold a severe look. “I