I don't do edibles

The first thing you need to know is I don’t take edibles. It’s a rule. I have a few rules that I think keep me out of trouble. Two that were important today were: I don’t drive on ice. And I don’t take edibles.

I broke the second rule because fuck it, it’s an ice storm and I’m not going anywhere. Which is how I found myself stoned out of my goddamn mind in the deli section of HEB during an ice storm.

This is why I don’t take edibles. They have a habit of kicking in at the worst fucking moment—when you forgot about that zoom call, when a cop wants to say hi to your dog, when you’re trying to shit in a 150 degree porta-john at a concert. Fuck edibles.

But my dog wanted to take a walk and no other dogs were out to play with on account of the annual Austin ice storm. So I texted a friend who lives down the street and asked if she and her dog wanted to come out and play. She had to work but said to come over. Her new job is as a photographer at an edible startup. And I’m extremely susceptible to peer pressure. You really just have to ask me a second time. “Do you want an edible?”

No. Thank you. I don’t take edibles.

“You sure? Come on, have an edible.”

All it takes. The streets were clear when I walked my dog home and I thought I should really make a run to the grocery store before the temperature dropped again. I needed dog food and seltzer. I didn’t need seltzer and I probably had a couple days of dog food left, if not I had eggs. But eggs are a lot more expensive than dog food these days. Not the point. The point is, I forgot about that edible. Didn’t feel a thing. Fuck edibles.

Like I said, the edible kicked in while I was looking for… I don’t remember what I was looking for. It felt like that time when I was five, and I got distracted by a dog. When I turned around and my dad wasn’t there anymore. And I was a five year old alone in a train station in Santiago.

But I wasn’t five. This is one of the things I told myself—I’m an adult. I have my phone and my wallet. I just need dog food. And something else. I couldn’t remember.

I was trying to remember what else when a guy who I can only describe as really popular on the golf course, a real straight arrow, has strong opinions on handshakes. That guy. That guy said, “That’s a great cable sweater.”

I looked down at my sweater to figure out what I was wearing. I think it might be important to describe my… look. I’d been walking the dog. So I was wearing jeans, with mud streaks from my boots. A flannel shirt that wasn’t quite warm enough so I’d grabbed the sweater at the top of the bag I still hadn’t unpacked after Christmas, and a Red Sox beanie. I’d left the jacket at home. What I’m saying is I had no intention of starting a conversation with my clothing. I have a Sox hat because I needed a hat and this is what they sold at the gas station in Attleboro.

The guy with handshake opinions asked where I got the sweater. I was trying to remember why I was in the grocery store. Someone bumped me from behind, apologized, then reached again and I realized I’d been blocking the tortillas. I don’t know what grocery stores are like where you’re from, but you do not block the tortillas at an HEB. I would never, even in my condition. But the handshake guy was blocking my escape. I moved out of the way as best I could and told the handshake guy my grandpa gave me the sweater.

This was my first or third mistake. Too much information. I should’ve said it was a gift. Fuck. I tried to scoot around the guy. I was trying to think of an excuse. I left the stove on? Wait. Did I leave the stove on? No.

“Sorry, what?”

“I was saying, do you know the sweater’s provenance?”

Provenance? “Nope. Sorry.” The guy had to move to let a cart by and I tried to make a break for the seafood section. It looked empty but the bread was between me and the empty seafood section. We’ve all seen the bread aisle during a storm. Goddamn combat shopping. And this guy was still talking. “Was your grandfather from the old country?”

What? I said, “Yeah.” But no, he was not from the old country this guy was referring to. This guy meant Ireland. I’m sure his sons, who were taught to shake hands properly at the age of seven are named Brendan or Brennan and Sean or Gavin or something.

My grandpa whose name was Jim was from McAllen. He was a dick but he did give me a nice sweater once because he lived in Texas and had no use for it. I wear it about once a year because I live in Texas. It’s lasted a long time.

The guy was saying something about having traced his family back to Donegal or some Irish neighborhood. We’ve traced my family back to a wagon that showed up in Texas at some point. Who knows. The point is, I’d usually tell someone who’s trying to talk to me in my condition that I am very sorry but I am way too high for this. But I was pretty sure this guy plays golf with the police chief or district attorney. He’s a real straight shooter.

Either way—and I’m not proud of this—but all I could manage was to agree to whatever he guessed and maybe he’d be happy he was a good guesser. The crowd would clear around the mini muffins and I could make a getaway. I just needed him to stop asking questions. I should’ve made a grocery list. Why would I need a grocery list for two items. Fuck. My mouth was dry. Seltzer! That was the other thing I needed.

Dog food. Seltzer. Dog food. Seltzer. Dog food. Seltzer. Did I need bread?

“Oh are you from Boston?”

Fuck. The Sox hat. I like the sox. Not enough for this hat or to talk about the sox. I just like baseball, the sounds of it, going to a game on a Wednesday afternoon. And I needed the hat. Which is to say, I think I like baseball until I meet a baseball fan.

I said, “No. Attleboro.” I am not from Attleboro. I was there for Christmas. It’s where I bought the hat at a gas station because I needed a hat.

He didn’t hear me anyway. Not surprising. We’d been jostled over to the deli case and people were discussing orders all around us. He asked, “Marlborough?”

“Yes.” Sure, guy. Anything. Dog food. Seltzer Dog food. Seltzer. Fuck I should get some popsicles.

“That’s next to Concord, right?” Jesus christ. This dude was relentless. I have never been to Concord or Marlborough and couldn’t find them on a map if you offered me an ice cold glass of seltzer.

“Yep.” I was getting away. Store employees were hauling bottled water from the back. A couple more steps to the left and I could see a clear shot through seafood all the way down to the meat section. I was going to make it.

“Hey do you want to get coffee sometime?” With you and the district attorney? I do not. But the crowd parted and I shot through. The guy was trapped behind a jacklift of bottled water.

Freedom. As long as I moved fast, before he remembered where Marlborough is not—and it is nowhere near Concord.

I made it back to my car with dog food, popsicles, and orange juice. Close enough. I fucking hate edibles. I do not do edibles.

I took this selfie in the car to show what I looked like when I figured out the problem with how I’m dressed. It’s the fucking hat. And the sweater, but it’s a great sweater.