Smokin' Weed With Jesus
Cover Design Clifford Beck
Copyright©2015
“I always try to share with others the idea that in order to become compassionate it is not necessary to become religious.”
-His Holiness the Fourteenth
Dalai Lama
“Selfishness is not living your life as you wish. It is asking others to live their lives as you wish.”
-Oscar Wilde
For My Wife Sara
Chapter 1
The roads of Bridgeton were especially treacherous at night and with the outskirts of town poorly lit, anyone foolish enough to be traveling only invited disaster. It didn't have much to offer, save for a quiet life in small-town, Maine. An out-of-the-way tourist trap, Bridgeton was little more than a blip on the radar of Southern Maine. Unless something happened. And with the soaking rains of spring, Route 302 could quickly become a driver's deathtrap, leaving one with the life-altering consequences of poor judgment and carelessness. For Richard, as though decided by fate or some rare alignment of the planets, the time of his undoing had arrived. But it would not be by any cosmic mandate that would lead him down the path of what was soon to play out. In fact, it would be his own damn fault.
Richard was a bankruptcy attorney who had the unpleasant task of relieving businesses from their assets. Recently, he had taken an active role in parting the owner of a porn shop from his hard-earned money. Apparently, he had fallen behind on his taxes as the result of spending an inordinate amount on cocaine and prostitutes. And batteries. Richard couldn't leave the property quickly enough, having felt soiled from the moment he walked in. But, business was business. And business was good. The economy left many businesses, both large and small, on the ever-present edge of financial ruin and Richard always seemed to be there as the portent of corporate doom. He represented a branch of law that people loved to hate. More so than others. But still, a job was a job.
That night brought the usual spring rain as the sky grew heavy with a sullen, gun-metal gray. Richard was on his way home from the porn shop in Bridgeton. His briefcase contained the last of the paperwork on the adult retailer, soon to close his doors. All of the i's were dotted. All the t's were crossed. He had been doing the job for, at least, fifteen years and as much as he tried to insulate himself from the emotional consequences of the financial trauma of others, he was never quite able to manage it. As a result, Richard had turned to alcohol to medicate his conscience. By the time his career reached its ten-year mark, he had become a consummate alcoholic and the stress of his participation in a necessary evil was taking its toll. His appearance had aged dramatically, beginning with hair loss and the need for bifocals. Later on, he developed diabetes, brought on by his consistent consumption of alcohol. But, even this was not enough to extinguish his imminent self-destruction. Richard required an intervention and it would soon be delivered to him personally.
He was approaching Lake Sebago, the halfway point between Bridgeton and Portland. As usual, he kept a small cooler on the floor, behind the driver's seat. Like a pirates chest, what it contained was, for Richard, of far more value than any hidden booty. In it was a fifth of three-year-old scotch. Just what the doctor ordered. As he passed the small beach to his right, he reached back toward the cooler and found it just beyond his grasp. Continuing to drive, Richard turned back to locate the cooler and having finally put a hand on it, turned to face the road. But before he could lay his eyes on the pavement, he was startled by the headlights of an oncoming truck. In his hasty search for his favorite stress reducer, Richard had inadvertently crossed the centerline. What happened next was unavoidable. There was simply not enough time to change course, away from what was clearly the result of a bad decision and the outcome would reach further than he could possibly imagine.
As death stared him in the face, every muscle in Richard's body stiffened while he tried desperately to recover. Time slowed to the pace of melting ice as he saw himself, as though from a distance, strike the front left corner of the truck. The force of the collision spun his car counterclockwise. But only a heartbeat later, the tires grabbed into the pavement and the car's momentum sent it rolling down the road. Fifty feet later, it had come to a stop, landing hard on its roof. Richard, however, had been thrown from the car, coming to rest further down the road. But, before his body came to a stop, Richard slid a few yards down the wet asphalt, shredding his clothes and grinding his skin down to bare flesh. However, on his way down the pavement, Richard had, again, become victimized by fate. In his path, lay a small pothole washed out from under the road. It's furthest edge grabbed him by the shoulder, moving it away from its socket and tearing all it's supporting tissue. Muscles, tendons, cartilage. The only structures to remain intact were nerves and blood vessels. If he survived he would have, at least, a chance of keeping his arm. If he survived.
By some miracle, Richard became conscious enough to open his eyes. He was remarkably free of pain but was unable to move. His mind was heavily obscured by the fog of trauma and shock. He was approached by quickly moving footsteps as he hung on the edge of unconsciousness.
"Hey!" a voice yelled. "Can you hear me!?"
As his mind began to dim, Richard saw the man take out his phone. The next time he opened his eyes, he found himself staring up into the spinning rotors of a helicopter. As it left the ground, a flight nurse inserted an IV into his arm and hung a bag of fluids from a stainless steel bar welded into the ceiling. He felt the sting of the needle as his consciousness, again, drifted off. The next stop for his broken body and displaced mind was the critical care unit of Maine Medical Center's emergency room. There, he would be assessed and stabilized by a team of trauma doctors and critical care nurses. Their goal would be to pull Richard away from the door of death and to help him recover as much of his life as possible. But, they could only do so much. And eventually, the one thing Richard would need for a speedy recovery was the will to live. Even before his carelessness led him sliding down route 302, the necessary part of himself, that makes life worth living, had been in short supply. Richard would have to recover much more than his shattered body.
Within thirty minutes, the life flight helicopter touched down on the helipad of Portland's Maine Medical Center. The trauma team waited nearby as the helicopter's rotors spun down to a stop. He had been placed on a backboard at the crash scene and a cervical spine collar carefully applied around his neck and as the doors of the helicopters medical bay opened, the doctors were able to get their first look at Richards injuries. Those who had recently begun their trauma residencies were clearly disturbed by what they saw, while more seasoned doctors and nurses, found their zone, blocking out any emotional reaction. This allowed them to think quickly and get the job done. The assessment of Richards condition began as soon as the teams laid eyes on him.
His injuries initially led the doctors to assume that Richard was in grave condition. Upon impact with the road, Richards' head landed on its side and as his body slid down the pavement, the rough asphalt grabbed his ear, ripping it away and down the side of his neck. Had his skull struck the road at a more acute angle, his brain would have quickly turned to the consistency of a bloody stew. His life prematurely cut short. But while the remains of his ear were recovered, this was not the most serious of his injuries. Richard had been thrown from a rolling car and skidded down the road like a pebble across a lake. His shoes had been pulled from his feet, his shirt torn from his body as his pants were forced down around his knees. Had he remained fully conscious, he would have certainly suffered the indignity of being helpless while in an almost complete state of undress. The skin on his chest, stomach, shoulders and the side of his face had been ground off by the pavement, leaving his raw flesh exposed. In some places, his body had been burned down to its musculature. But, it was his neck that gave doctors the most concern. On his way down 302, Richard had left the drivers window partly open and not wearing his seatbelt only contributed to the potential for serious injury. As he was ejected from his car, his neck became nearly folded before his body's momentum shattered the window into a snow storm of glass. But as quickly as the event had passed, his perception of time had slowed enough that he momentarily heard the crack of fracturing bone, leaving the underlying spinal tissue at risk of permanent damage. If he survived, he would be told the true severity of his injuries only upon his discharge from the hospital.
Accompanied by the flight nurse, the trauma team rolled Richard into the first bay of the critical care unit. They placed another IV, took x-rays and began a more detailed examination. The x-rays confirmed those injuries suggested by his mangled body. But, they also told of additional problems. His jaw had been both dislocated and badly broken and many teeth on his right side had been shattered. Oddly enough, it had been his right hand that held the bottle of scotch. And although he had left it far behind, he received something to take his place. Pain. Unless he left the operating room in a shroud, Richard would be guaranteed a painful recovery. Hopefully, most of it would be masked by the gently consuming haze of drugs.
The CT showed no evidence of brain injury. In this respect, Richard was lucky. But the injuries to his jaw as well as his remaining teeth jumped off the computer display. And given the injury to his neck, Richard was rushed to surgery so the fractured bones could be stabilized. With his brain intact, Richards mind rose from the depths of unconsciousness. Unable to move his restrained neck, he was only able to look up at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling as he passed through the hallway leading away from the emergency room. They had identified him from the contents of his wallet, leaving a nurse to contact his family.
The trauma team took advantage of his wakefulness and proceeded to barrage him with questions. Did he know where he was? Could he move his fingers and toes? Could he follow commands? He was urged to remain as still as possible, but in spite of his willingness to follow instructions and the repeated assurances of the nurses, Richard was terrified. It wasn't so much dying he feared, but being left disabled. It is truly amazing how crisis can cause one to consider questions and ideas that had never before occurred to them. Perhaps, it is when we are forced to face our mortality that we achieve the most growth. If this is true, then Richard was about to experience a great deal of growth.
Before moving Richard out of critical care, surgery was notified and his records transferred electronically. Once he arrived, the trauma team handed him off to the surgical staff, who rolled him to the first suite available. While, in critical care, his clothes had been cut off and any valuables turned over to security. Still semi-conscious, Richard heard the tinkling of instruments being sorted as he was lifted over to the surgical table. He heard the doctor's voice as orders were given and the O.R. team organized into action.
"Hang a Diprovan drip and let's get him under," the voice said.
There was a pause, then Richard heard another voice.
"You mean, the Michael Jackson drug?"
For one brief moment, the room fell silent as all eyes became fixed on the O.R. nurse in charge. Then, one of the surgical technicians, only moments later, was heard whispering the words, "What the fuck?"
"Nurse," the doctor began. "Start the drip."
His voice was firm and reflected a noticeable degree of agitation as the nurse's face took on an expression of bewilderment.
"But, I loved Michael Jackson," she whimpered.
She seemed to have become lost in her admiration for the deceased celebrity as she held the file of white fluid loosely in her hand.
"Nurse!" the doctor repeated. "Hang the fucking drug or get out!"
Richard was terrified. At this point, he believed that if he didn't die of his injuries, the OR team would probably kill him out of sheer incompetence.
"But, I did," the nurse continued.
She stood near Richards' head like deer caught in a pair of headlights on a dark wintry road, as the surgeon ordered that she be removed.
"Get her the fuck out of here!" he bellowed.
Two surgical technicians quickly approached her from each side, while an assistant relieved her of the vial of medication.
The door of the surgical suite was opened and she was dragged backward into the hallway. Halfway to the double doors, the nurse could be heard screaming.
"Why! Michael, why?! I loved you, Michael!"
The surgeon collected himself and brought order to what had hovered on the edge of chaos, as he ordered another nurse to administer the drip. Yet, down the hall, the nurse, who appeared to have gone somewhat insane, was being pulled through the double doors. However, there was a slight problem. They were dragging her through the doors faster than they would open and her continued screams were suddenly blunted as the technicians, quite by accident, bashed the back of her skull against one of the heavy automatic doors. The resulting thud echoed through the hallway.
"Whoopsie."
The surgical team quietly chuckled amongst themselves as the procedure to repair Richards body got underway.
As the nurse began the initial injection of the surgical anesthetic, Richard was overtaken by an odd sensation. The drug had not yet entered his bloodstream when he felt himself drifting away. His faculties had completely cleared to the point of becoming hyper alert. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and found himself suspended near the ceiling of the surgical suite. One might think that a state of panic would quickly ensue, but Richard felt strangely calm. And looking down at his now anesthetized body, he was unable to recognize his own face. But, of all the feelings and thoughts one might have during a similar experience, Richard was overtaken by only one.
"Wow, this guy really fucked himself up."
He continued watching from his ethereal vantage point as instruments were passed back and forth. He heard the sounds of an electric drill and the tapping of a stainless steel mallet. He watched as the play of life and death unfolded below him when he suddenly felt himself being pulled through the ceiling. The event was free of even the slightest degree of discomfort as the world he knew fell away, replaced by a brilliant field of white. Richard experienced a warmth and peace that he could never have imagined. The light that surrounded him was blinding, yet he was not blinded by it. He simply drifted. There was no resistance. There was only warmth and peace. But somewhere in front of him was a small blue dot. It did occur to him that everything that had, thus far, transpired, was simply the result of a heavily drugged mind. Yet, Richard possessed crystal clarity, but it was not only what he saw that seemed hyper-real, it was everything. As though his entire being had become ignited into a heightened state of awareness.
Chapter 2
He focused on the small, blue dot when it suddenly rushed towards him. Startled, Richard brought his hands up, shielding himself against something he could neither understand nor predict. As he opened his eyes, he felt a slightly warm breeze caress his face is a blue sky came into view. Looking down, he saw grass beneath his feet and a water fountain near his side. Out of curiosity, he reached down and pushing on a chrome handle, took a cautious sip. It seemed to be just the right temperature and Richard had never tasted anything like it. It was as though he was drinking water for the first time.
He wiped the water from his chin and standing up, surveyed what appeared to be a city park, but it was oddly devoid of any of the typical sounds of an average city. Traffic, sirens, the milling about people as they went on with the routine of daily life and as Richard continued to scan his surroundings, he couldn't help but notice that everyone within view was intently studying him. For a moment, Richard allowed his confusion to get the better of him as it quickly expressed itself in words.
"Where the fuck am I?"
Moments later, a child appeared in front of him. Richard looked down at her in surprise.
"Hey," he began. "What's your name?"
With blinding speed, the small girl moved closer to him and drawing back a fist, punched him hard in the groin. The impact doubled him over as the child bellowed out a single demand.
"No swearing!" she yelled.
Richard paused as he tried to catch his breath.
"Okay," he gasped.
With his hands covering his aching testicles, he raised his head, only to find the child had vanished.
Standing slowly, he noticed he was no longer being examined by those around him. Yet, he did feel that someone was still watching him. Off to his right, a man sat reclining on a park bench. He wore shoulder-length hair, a tie-dyed Grateful Dead T-shirt, and Bermuda shorts. And he was laughing. He motioned Richard towards him and the closer he got, the more the man laughed.
"Gotcha right and the stones, didn't she?" the man asked. "Come on, have a seat."
Still confused, Richard sat about three feet from him. "So, Richard," the man continued. "Not doing so good, huh? Things a little fuzzy?"
Richard was further confused by the fact that the man, who, by all appearances, looked like a groupie, somehow, knew his name.
"How did you know my name?" he asked. "And where am I?"
The man nodded his head.
"Those are good questions, but first things first."
Putting a hand in the pocket of his shorts, he pulled out a small butane lighter and something akin to a hand-rolled cigarette. He brought it up to his lips and lighting it, inhaled deeply. Letting the smoke billow from his mouth, he handed it to Richard.
"Here, this'll take the edge off."
Holding it between his finger and thumb, Richard took an inquisitive smell of the smoke, streaming from the burning end.
"Um, maybe not right now," he replied.
He passed it back to the man.
"All right," the man said. "More for me. Actually, there's a lot more where this came from."
He took another deep hit of what Richard now realized was marijuana.
"Well," he continued. "I imagine you've got a few questions, huh?"
After a moment's pause, Richard nodded and answered," Yes. Just a few."
"Okay," the man replied. "First, you're in heaven, alright?"
Richard took a breath in preparation for another question.
"Not yet," the man said. "We've got plenty of time. But tell me something, Richard. What's the last thing you remember?"
Richard thought hard about the man's question but could recall almost nothing.
"Um, I was driving," he said.
At that moment, he realized the seriousness of what had happened as his expression quickly turned to shock.
"Am I dead?!" he asked. "And who are you?"
The man's tone became concerned as he answered what would be the first of many questions.
"Well, Richard," the man began. "It's like this, I'm Jesus."
Richards first thought was that he had been given some very powerful drugs after the accident. Or, maybe, he was drunk and passed out in his car, somewhere on the side of Route 302. But, because he strongly suspected the surroundings he found himself in, couldn't possibly be real, Richard quickly rose from the bench and began pacing.
"None of this is right," he began. "You can't be Jesus!"
Jesus paused between hits of his joint.
"Why not?"
Bringing his hands up to his forehead, Richard continued pacing.
"Jesus wouldn't smoke weed! This has got to a be some kinda' ...it's the drugs. They have to be giving me a lot of drugs.
"Richard," Jesus interrupted.
Richard continued ranting.
"Richard! calm down. Come here, have a seat."
Richards near psychotic stream of broken thoughts abruptly ended, replaced by the empty expression of dissociation.
"Come on Richard," Jesus continued. "It's not that bad, is it? At least you won't have to close down any more porn shops."
Richard looked at him with a puzzled expression.
"Now I remember. But, how did 'you' know that? Were you watching?"
Jesus briefly chuckled at his question.
"Watching you? No, I don't have time for that. I can see your whole life inside you. It's kinda like a psychic thing. Except that I'm Jesus."
Richard finally realized what had happened and jumped off the bench again as Jesus rolled his eyes in frustration.
"I'm dead?" he yelled. "Shit! I'm fuckin' dead!"
But before Jesus could stop him in his tirade, the small girl who had chastised him earlier suddenly appeared in front of him. Seeing this, Jesus reacted in a low quiet voice.
"Uh oh."
Again, the child rushed up to him faster than he could move and punched him squarely in the testicles. Richard reflexively cupped his genitals with both hands and dropped to his knees. The child was infuriated and pointed to Richard as she spoke.
"Jesus!" she said.
Her voice was firm and reflected a heightened degree of agitation.
"This one has issues!"
Having taken a deep hit from his joint, Jesus exhaled the smoke upward, so as not to blow it in the child's face. After all, only grown-ups should be allowed to get high.
"I know," Jesus replied. "But he's new, so give him a break, okay?"
The child vanished as quickly as she had appeared and Jesus looked at Richard as though questioning his sanity.
"You're not very bright, are you? You'd think that you would have learned the first time, huh?"
Richard got back to his feet, but still bending over, continued to clutch his testicles as he groaned in pain.
"If I'm dead," he began. "Why does it hurt so much?"
Jesus paused and nodded his head.
"That's an easy one," he answered. "You still believe you're flesh and blood. You haven't let go yet. So, when she punched you in the nads, you believed the pain was real. Dude, physically, you are someplace else."
After returning to the bench, Jesus again handed Richard the joint.
"You sure you don't want a hit?"
Richard looked at its smoldering tip.
"You know," he began. "I think I will."
He carefully took it between his finger and thumb and bringing it to his lips, drew the smoke in, inhaling deeply Jesus sat, looking on with a slight grin.
"So, what do you think?" he asked.
The effect was immediate but left Richard with a sense of clarity he had never before experienced, along with a noticeable euphoria. As he exhaled, he held the joint out, looking at it with an expression of surprise.
"Yeah, I know," Jesus began. "Pretty good, huh? I grow it myself."
Fascinated by its effects, Richard took another deep hit and felt something within him awaken. He closed his eyes as he held in the smoke. But upon opening them, he became overwhelmed by the feeling that he had done so for the first time in his life.
"Wow," he said. "Too bad I couldn't get this stuff before."
He handed it back to Jesus who, taking it, replied, "Nope, sorry. Enlightenment doesn't come cheap. You guys have to work for that."
As Jesus took the next hit, Richard craned his neck back and stared up at heaven's blue sky. Suddenly, the sky faded to black as an irregular, multicolored web filled the darkness.
"Here it comes," Jesus said.
Everyone in the park looked up and marveled at what they saw. Some could be heard expressing their wonder.
"Oooo, ahh."
"What is that?" Richard asked.
"Take it in," Jesus answered. "It doesn't last very long."
Richard continued staring up at something he would never see again.
"But, what is it?"
Jesus paused to take another hit.
"You ready for this?" he asked. "That's your universe."
Still caught up in a profound state of wonder, Richard could only utter a single word.
"What?"
"Yeah, I know," Jesus replied. "I feel the same way every time I see it. Pretty awesome, isn't it?"
Moments later, the blue return to the sky as the grandness of the universe faded away.
"That...was incredible," Richard said.
"Yeah," Jesus continued. "Hard to take it in all at once, isn't it?"
A moment went by as Jesus took another hit.
"So, where do we begin?"
"What do you mean?" Richard inquired.
"Well," Jesus replied. "You must have a few questions and I have some things I need to talk to you about. Now, your name is Richard, right? So, that means your nickname is Dick."
Richard reacted with a bit of hesitation.
"Um, I really don't like that name," he said.
Jesus nodded his understanding.
"Well," he began. "Considering what you guys have become, I think it's appropriate. So, Dick, it is."
Richard saw no humor in this and arguing was pointless. After all, no one tells Jesus what to do.
"Oh, come on Dick," he continued. "It is funny, you know."
Richard spent a few moments stewing over his divinely bestowed nickname, but he suddenly became inquisitive about why he was being referred to as Dick.
"What do you mean 'what we've become'?"
Jesus took a last hit of his joint and crushing it between his fingertips, caused it to vanish. Richard was mesmerized.
"How did you do that?"
"Dude, really?" Jesus said. "I'm Jesus, remember?"
Richard paused again.
"Oh, right," he said.
"Anyway," Jesus continued. "Everyone who comes here represents all of humankind."
Richard looked at him quizzically.
"Wait," he replied. "I have to answer for everyone. Really? Why? I'm not responsible for everyone else."
"Well, not personally," Jesus said. "But, all of you have the same problem. It's you. You guys are you own worst enemy. Some of you cause your problems and some of you just sit back and watch. Now, don't get me wrong here. I love all of you. But, you suck. You have no idea how to treat each other. My boys wrote it all down and you haven't listened to a word of it. So, yeah, all of you are equally responsible for the world you live in. Now, nobody wants to hear that. I get that..."
"But, I can't do anything about that," Richard interrupted.
It seems that no one wants to be held responsible for the problems of the world.
"Dick," Jesus said.
He had this particular conversation with every new arrival. Whether they ended up staying was irrelevant. In the eyes of Jesus, everyone was held accountable.
"There's someone on your world. Who is it? Oh, the Dalai Lama. What a great guy. I really like him. Now, he said 'if you don't think one person can make a difference, you've never spent a night with a mosquito'. Man, I wish I could talk to him."
Richard was stunned. The idea of individual responsibility had finally sunk in, but somehow he was having difficulty with the thought of the son of God sitting down for a one-on-one with the man believed to be the living Buddha.
"But, he's a Buddhist, isn't he?" he replied.
Jesus shook his head in answer to Richards question.
"Wow," he began. "You 'are' quick, aren't you? But, really, what does it matter? All religions have one thing in common. They all teach peace. So, if you can live by that, then why would you need religion?"
Richard was puzzled. He found it hard to believe that Jesus would advocate for the dissolution of religion.
"But, aren't you, like, the founder of Christianity?"
Jesus had heard this time again but maintained the patience typical of the son of God.
"Me?" he answered. "No... I didn't create a religion. Yo