Culture Shift

He was minding his own business. And his business at the moment was to finish smoking a ridiculously small joint he’d constructed from an emptied cigarette tube. Dolores was in their room scanning possible Netflix shows as he went to put himself into a movie-viewing frame of mind.

They’d been in Mexico a little over a week and everything had gone as hoped. No hassle at the airport, the room clean, cheap and close to the beach. The weather had been exactly what they came for. It was so trouble free it felt like it would go on forever, much like when his hockey team wins a stretch of games then loses. The disappointment is surprising. A few losses in a row and a new norm sets in until he’s pleasantly surprised when they win.

The current norm in Mexico was that the culture of marijuana had shifted. Nathan knew people who’d spent time in a Mexican prison back in the ‘70’s and had to be bailed out by their parents. They were charged with possession though their story was they’d picked up a hitchhiker that had some pot. It was a finger-wagging story the parents of the parish told their children to warn them of the evil called marijuana.

But Nathan loved smoking pot. He had since grade 11 and it became a pretty constant companion by grade 12. It had been a part of most social situations and he tended to gravitate towards people that shared his love. He was aware it made him quiet and self-conscious but he was normally a gregarious, fast-talking guy so he decided this was a good balance.

He’d stayed in Mexico the year before with an airbnb host who left an open bag on the coffee table and encouraged him to roll for the both of them. The host told him a story about being pulled over by the police, as gringos often are, and the officer grabbed his hand and sniffed his fingers. The officer declared that he had been smoking pot and it was jail time. The hero of his story said “No way, but here’s 500 pesos. Have a nice day”.

On this trip, Nathan had seen people on the beach smoking pot. Vendors of pipes and paraphernalia quietly offered to sell something to go with it and he smiled as he declined, the childhood stories still lingered. He wasn’t surprised when an itinerant vendor stopped at his beachspot selling pipes and more but surprised himself when he started thinking “Why not?”. When he asked “Do you have any papers?” the deal was done and a few grams of green were in his possession. No papers came with it but the fellow tourist on the recliner next to him said, “It’s ok, I already got one rolled” and sparked it.

Two things happened when Nathan smoked pot and in spite of 50 years of indulging he was always surprised. The first was that in a secure environment it was dry eyes and a bumbling buzz but in a strange environment it was paranoia. Keep your head facing forwards, just move your eyes, they’ll know you’re onto them if they see you move your head. Scratch your right ear when walking past that next doorway to block the camera. That kind of stuff.

The second was that he got cold. He felt like his core heat was extinguished and even cool air made him shake. Thoughts of hypothermia and a youngish death made him turn inside, ball up and breath out into his shirt to savour all that life-saving warm air.

And here he was, in a most unsecure place -  the place his parents had warned him about - and the next part of today’s tour was snorkeling. But the afternoon was delightfully uneventful. The water was Mexican warm and the core fire stayed lit. No police boats came by to smell people’s fingers and there were no dogs sniffing gringos as they got off the boat. The new norm had taken hold.

In the cab it was decided that after a vigorous day of snorkeling and tanning an evening of Netflix and chill would crown the day. “I don’t have a paper”, said Nathan. “Ask someone for a cigarette and hollow it out”, said Dolores. Nathan had trouble with that. He didn’t like to ask people for stuff, like ever. He figured if he was still a smoker he’d have smokes and it was his distaste for bumming smokes that helped him quit. Dolores rolled her eyes and asked the first smoker she saw if she could bum a smoke… and then gave it to Nathan right in front of the guy. It wasn’t the worst part of his night.

A few minutes back in the room yielded a few puffs concealed in paper and Nathan went for a walk. Nathan liked his neighbourhood; a block and a half to the beach, less to the stores and restaurants, clean and safe - while the sun shone. When the restaurants closed and the stores pulled down their metal defenses the few streetlights sparkled on the discarded bottles and threw deep shadows beyond that sidewalk-busting tree.

“Once around the block”, he told himself and set off. He turned left and a few meters past the motel he pulled it out. He lit it as he walked and glanced to his left as he stepped around the tree that forced him off the sidewalk. Behind it stood a young man in silence, intent on making eye contact as he walked by. Nathan’s head snapped forward and his arm dropped to his side as he feigned nonchalance and cupped his puff.

Ten more meters and a glance over the shoulder was appropriate. There was no gang ready to pounce so he re-lit and turned the corner. There was more light here though the 24-hour store on the next corner was closed. Just ahead two vehicles were nose-to-nose with hoods up in the traditional gimme-a-jump pose. Nathan glanced at the men staring at their engines as he passed and smoked.

Ten more meters and the sound of running feet behind him set off alarm bells. Paranoia time; don’t look back, swallow the joint. “Senor!” Nathan turned and raised his eyebrows in fake curiosity. He saw a twenty-something in uniform. “Fuck”, he thought. His hockey team was about to lose. The young man came on purposefully and put is hand on Nathan’s shoulder. “Senor, ven conmigo”. Nathan didn’t need his high school Spanish to know the language of a man on a mission. He was first being taken back to where the young man thought he’d thrown his joint. He was encouraged to join the officer in the search for the missing roach but being non-existent, it refused to reveal itself. A couple of pre-teens who saw the action sidled close and were enlisted to search as the young officer took his catch back to the senior officer.

As they approached the vehicles, Nathan noticed that the raised hoods had blocked his view of the police lights on top of the pickup. 

"I should have known", he mumbled to himself, "I'm going to die of terminal stupidity".

The senior jumpstarter looked at Nathan and grabbed his right hand. He pulled his fingertips to his nose and shook his head.  “Prohibido”, he said and pulled handcuffs from his hip. Nathan’s balls shrunk. “I don’t have any marijuana!”, he proclaimed. “Some people passed me on the street! They handed me something. I said No thanks and handed it back. That’s why my hand smells like…” “Prison”, said handcuff man and Nathan babbled.

“Es possible a pagar una fina?” Nathan didn’t know the word for ‘fine’ but hoped it would get across the message. Could he pay a fine for his miscreance? The mustachioed officer looked about to ensure the gathering crowd had slipped into the shadows and slapped his hand down on the metal surface of a box in the trunk of his pickup. Nathan wanted to be a model prisoner. He followed the leaders lead. He put his hand on the metal box to demonstrate his willingness to co-operate and show he didn’t need to be handcuffed if his captor was going for a walk. 

The officer looked at him but said nothing. Nathan, now really confused, asked again, “Es possible a pagar una fina?” A moment passed. The officer looked at him, took a slow breath and said “One hundred dollars” and double-tapped the box. “Ahhh!”, thought Nathan and almost missed his back pocket as he dove for his wallet. “No tengo dolares, estoy Canadiense”, he explained for his lack of desirable currency. “Tengo solo pesos. Un mil?”. His offer of a thousand pesos was a hope that it was close enough and the exchange rate would save him about 35 bucks. He was actually negotiating his bribe. A serious nod ended captivity.

He rifled through his wallet, through the tens, twenties and five hundreds and found two, side-by-side. He pulled them and the officer looked away and lightly resumed his double-tap on the box. “Ahh!”, thought Nathan, “I am so fucking thick!” and placed the bills in the pay slot. He looked at the officer. The officer looked back. A heavy second passed followed by the slightest of nods from senior officer.

Nathan quick-stepped to his room, 150 meters back from the near disaster. Dolores, without looking up from her magazine asked, “So you didn’t get arrested, My Love?”.