Too Much Testosterone and Then ....Bhang!

It is a beautiful day in the Trailer Park, sunny, warm and you can almost smell the testosterone wafting in the air. In one corner of the park I’d noticed an old Nova SS, all done up nicely, perhaps ready for a paintjob; yesterday afternoon it took its first tentative spring tour around the Park. Today, though, the owner is cruising up and down; getting ready to take it into town for the evening. Everywhere men are out polishing their trucks, and, here and there, the odd young man is tuning up his Harley; it’s Saturday. It’s odd that I never see any excitement around this place; no real noise, no arguments, never a party, just, occasionally, a couple neighbours having a beer together. This weekend I notice two teenage girls strolling persistently, looking, but they never seem to find any excitement, and seem to resolve themselves to the situation; however, they don’t cease their stroll: after all, it’s attention.

I’m afraid that my old, two wheel drive, bench seat, roll up the windows yourself Ford 150 would have to hang its hood in shame here. This certainly is more of a truck culture than I’m used to. It takes at least a heavy duty 250 to participate in this game, and, if you have any flair or sense of style at all, it must be diesel, four wheel drive, with all the bells and whistles. I’ve never seen so many jeeps with snorkels coming up level with the tops of their cabs; the fellas here work and play hard.

I like to watch my neighbour across the street but one. He has a diesel, four wheel drive, 250 with every option except a reasonable price; I bought a house twenty some years ago that I’m sure cost less, and wasn’t nearly as ruggedly pretty. The owner is probably 7 – 10 years older than me; he’s a detail man, and never is one overlooked. He lives in a huge ‘Golden Eagle’ 5er that is so long he can’t park in front of it; instead, to avoid overlapping on the road, he must back in on a 45 degree angle, letting the box of the truck slide beneath the extended nose of the fiver.

Even then the situation is hardly satisfactory; it makes it too awkward to get everything just so.
I watch him arrive home from work and am amazed that it must take him more than twenty minutes to get from the truck to his Trailer. He has a place for everything, and everything must be in its exact place. First is the matter of stowing his work boots; there are several ‘gear’ boxes in the back of the truck, and one is just for the boot exchange. Upon his arrival, he pulls out his street shoes, inspects them, replaces his work boots with them, then inspects the work boots carefully prior to putting them into their place in the back of the truck. Every little task receives his complete undivided attention; total concentration to detail, it’s as though he’s oblivious to the world around him.

This is just the beginning of his ritual; he must be 6 feet tall, weighing about 280 and carrying each pound well; with confidence! Completely bald, he wears an old ball cap that is so well worn that it fits his head like a second skin, and, except for those times he’s caught up in his routine, and unconsciously removes it to run a hand across his scalp, I never see him without it. Now he gives the mighty Ford a complete visual inspection, walking around it slowly, taking his time; bending occasionally to closer scrutinize. That complete, he now starts going through all his cargo boxes, checking, arranging, rearranging; this process can take five or ten minutes! Finally, everything in its proper place, he gets out a tire gauge, and checks the air pressure in each tire, and replaces each valve cap making sure that they are good and snug!

I’d buy a used truck off this guy! Finally, everything checked to his satisfaction, he backs it into position at 45 degrees to the trailer. All through this chain of non-events he seems completely unconscious of the world around him, focused entirely on his own little world; a lonely world perhaps, but an orderly one. Finally, everything locked up, he pauses for a final few seconds; one last look before retiring to his trailer. As he disappears I can picture the word "Alpha" tattooed on each shoulder, and perhaps etched right across his brow!

Late Saturday afternoon, while slaving away at my barbeque, I watch the quickening migration from the Park. The Chevy Nova is among the first to go, its tailpipes shuddering to the throb of its high performance motor. Then the trucks begin leaving, slow and deliberate, with that throttle responsive, mellow but authoritative, low diesel growl. Intermittently a motorcycle departs, assaulting the ears with that distinctive barking flatulence characteristic of Harleys, the sound rising to a crescendo after they lean onto the highway. I suppose that’s why everything is so well behaved here; the testosterone is allowed to build pressure here, but is taken into town for dispersal.

By 7:00 pm the place is desolate, and I take my customary saunter down the rows; the two young ladies I mentioned earlier are still strolling aimlessly. A couple boys are playing catch with a lacrosse ball and sticks, but they seem to be becoming bored with the game. As I come around the final corner of my lap I pass the campsite of two young men I’ve talked to before. They are just finishing their own late barbeque and invite me in for a beer. I explain that, unless I’m up at three in the morning, there are going to be about 170 otherwise well read Calgarians, with nothing to read over their morning coffee. "However," I suggest, "if you’re going to sit by your fire for a while I could get myself a cup of tea and join you." They seem agreeable to the possibility, so, halfway down the row to my RoadTrek I walk. I’m drinking ‘Earl Grey’ this evening, in celebration of my hard won paper route!

When I return the two young fellows from Northern Alberta have been joined by a young man, in the 26 – 28 age range, who introduces himself as... well, sometimes what’s heard in the Trailer Park should remain in the Trailer Park, or, if it is to meander into civilized territory, it should travel under an assumed name. He’s about 6 feet tall with a lean lanky build and when he walks, he walks with just a trace of a confident swagger; he talks low and slow, each word carefully chosen, and measured against the thought it represents before utterance. He is from small town Manitoba, and says that he’s been here about four months now; I’ll assume that his name was August Wade. Our hosts for the evening are a little younger, 24 or 25 maybe, and we make sort of a strange grouping, the three younger men drinking beer, and myself, a little more antiquated, drinking tea out of a travel mug. The mug was a gift from Julie and Allison prior to my leaving Ontario; it’s black, and well insulated, which is great on the road, but leads to a lot of burnt lips around a campfire.

August is offered another beer and, while accepting it, reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out three or four misshapen cigarettes and offers them around. Our hosts seem familiar with the ritual and accept in a casual manner. I, too, am familiar, but my familiarity is about twenty years out of date, so I demur, citing once again my 4:00 am date with my destiny. Soon the three are lit up, and getting more ‘lit up’ with each passing inhalation.

Personally I have nothing against the "Gallows Grass", and enjoyed its effect in my misspent youth. My first experience with it was at about the age of fourteen, and nothing was smoked, and I certainly didn’t get high; no, I got into deep doo-doo. A friend from Toronto, Thayer Cummings, had presented me with a bag of seeds in the fall, and suggested that I might find some place to give them light and sustenance in the spring. Peer pressure is a relentless force and I accepted the package, but I don’t honestly recall ever having any intention of planting them. I couldn’t plant them on our farm; it was a clear working hundred acres, and my Father’s devotion to it meant that not one square inch of it was ever overlooked. Even then I realized that there are some things you just don’t do to neighbours!

My Father had been in the 2nd Great War, and, after that, ten years on the Toronto Police Force. When he’d first joined, the sergeant ushered all the new recruits into a room and explained to them, in no uncertain terms, that the ‘Cops’, (and ‘Cops’ was never a derogatory term; it stands for "Constable on Patrol"), were the toughest gang in the city, and, if they hoped to fit in, they’d best measure up, right from the start! He walked a beat for three or four years and then had chosen to apply for a position in the motorcycle division. For the remainder of his years on the Force he would ride a motorcycle twelve months of each year in all weather; in winter, for stability, the bikes were fitted with sidecars, making them harder to steer, but raising their stability to an acceptable level. It was the old style Harley, with the foot operated clutch, and the infamous "suicide shift" on the left side, operated by hand; I’ll leave the reason for that particular nick-name to your imagination.

He’d never had anything to do with motorcycles until he was overseas, and had spent a winter held back at Arnum in Holland waiting for spring, and the construction of a bridge, to continue advancing. Inactive soldiers, Canadian or otherwise, find all kinds of ways to get themselves into trouble; in Holland there were lots of small fast motorcycles, but no gas for the civilians who owned them; the Canadian army had more gas than they knew what to do with. Ingenious soldiers helped deplete both excesses; they’d commandeer a Dutch bike, then commandeer the gas required to ride it. In many ways it is reminiscent of Steve McQueen in, "The Great Escape", and, all too often, the end result was the same. The Germans joked that, "While the Canadians might be problematic in battle, all you had to do was to give them each a motorcycle, and the problem would take care of itself!"

Too many soldiers were getting into trouble in one form or another, so the Brass decided that they had to initiate Training Programs, to keep the troops occupied in a more meaningful way. It was at that point, one groggy Monday morning at roll call, that my Father heard that, for some inexplicable reason, his signature had been added to the list for the army "Rough Rider" motorcycle course. It was an advanced course, for individuals with bike experience; my Father had never been within 10 feet of a bike! Before beginning though, the instructor took them down to the military cemetery and showed the trainees the markers of all the Canadians who had died in Holland through motorcycle misadventure. For the next two months, at night, with blacked out headlamps, in whatever winter weather Holland could provide they rode cross country, through fields, farmyards and fencerows.

While on the force Father dealt with a wide variety of crime, but his experience with drugs was limited to the arrest of a few Heroin addicts; as he explained it, "They were always businessmen because no one else had the right combination of pressure, time, money and opportunity to develop the addiction." At that point, in the late forties, few people had heard of, or were bothered by, Gallows Grass, but, for the rest of his life my Father would associate any illegal drug use with heroin addiction. That is why, as the sixties developed, he was concerned about North American kids and their preoccupation with marijuana. No, our Family farm was not the place I’d have ever considered planting those seeds; but I don’t recall thinking of planting them at all, I just stashed them inside an old flashlight in my night table, and forgot about them!
My mother was never a fanatical housekeeper; when your services are regularly required to drive a tractor, nurse sick live stock, raise a quarter acre garden and chase four rambunctious kids, sometimes the dusting falls to the wayside. That is why, one afternoon, returning from high school, I was devastated to find that Mother had ‘dusted’ the inside of my second best flashlight! My parents had no idea what marijuana seeds looked like, but they knew their son well enough to realize that a flashlight would be an unlikely first choice as to where he might store his delphinium seeds. Later in my teens, when my Father wanted me to go into the family business, I said "OK, but, of the 200 acres, I want one acre to cultivate myself, and, "I promised him", I’ll make more money from my one acre crop than the rest of the fields put together!" He knew what I meant then, and laughed, but, at fourteen it was no laughing matter; I had some ‘splaining’ to do.

In later years things were different; I recall one neighbour, Ernie Lines, a great fellow who had a house in Rosedale, and a hobby farm just down the road, regaling us with his astonishment at finding plants spread all over his farm! "It’s my daughters and their damned boyfriends," Ernie fumed, "they go out shooting ground hogs, and leave their roaches spread wherever they drop them!" Later still I recall a local fruit and vegetable stand where, in season, you could get the freshest just picked tomatoes, a dozen ears of the sweetest ‘peaches and cream’ corn, string beans that literally melted in your mouth, and, if you asked politely and appeared respectable, an ounce of the most righteous bhang for a young buck! Local parents enthused that, in a time of drugs, alcohol, and free love, there they were, the pride of Creemore youth, lined up on a Friday evening at the local fruit stand, getting ready for a corn roast!

Then, over twenty years ago, I gave it up! You might say that I decided to ‘turn my life around’ but the truth is a little less dramatic than that; call it more the pressure of a first mortgage, a wife who didn’t mind my using it, but wasn’t interested herself, and, most pressing of all, the faint promise becoming a father, in spite of several prior disappointments, and an awareness of the subsequent responsibilities. My daughter is over nineteen now and has caused me occasional pain, but perpetual pride! I feel no loss at all for a decision made over twenty years ago; but, it does make me realize just how out of touch with the modern Canadian world her old man really is!

Just how out of touch am I? Well, I went shopping two years two years ago for a present for my bride. The occasion was that of an anniversary and, though I really detest shopping, I knew that I had to go the extra mile. I was returning, flushed with success, to my home on Helena St., and as I rounded the last corner, I was surprised to see flashing lights about half way down the block. Helena St. is only one block long; my house is mid-block! "An ambulance!?" I questioned, but, as I drew closer, I saw that it was Police cars; not at my house, but at my neighbours house, next door but one to the east of mine. They’d lived there a couple of years at that point always kids in their yard, and a pair of German Sheppard’s that occasionally drove my bride to distraction by escaping the yard and wandering about the neighbourhood, but otherwise they seemed to keep to themselves.

I’d run into the Lady of the household just once, actually it was her that ran into me! Julie and I had just picked up the mail at the West end of our block, and were preparing to turn left onto Helena St., when a car, it’s tires locked from excessive braking, came sliding into the intersection, and collided with my front bumper at about two miles an hour. She was pretty agitated, and seemed indignant that I’d had the lack of foresight as to be sitting in the middle of the intersection just as she was tearing through it. I let the words wash over my head while she cooled off a little, then, as politely as I could, pointed out that she’d overshot her stop sign by a good 30 feet. Good neighbour that I am, I also informed her that cars steer much better on slippery roads if you keep your foot off the brakes.

I dismissed the dent in my bumper because, "It’s a ten year old truck, and the dent is hardly noticeable." She was most concerned about the damage she had laid upon her own vehicle, and a little concerned about remuneration for myself. "You can buy me a coffee some time neighbour" I teased as I said goodbye. The next morning I found a $10.00 Tim Hortens coupon and a thank you note on the dash of my truck. I never really talked to her again after that, and didn’t give much thought to the young couple. Not, that is, until returning from shopping; "Three cop cars?!," I pondered, "That’s too bad, such a nice young couple. It must have been quite the domestic dust up to warrant such attention." My Bride was late returning that evening, I suspect she was shopping also, and got home about two hours after myself; "Why," she enquired, "are the police next door?" It must have been quite a domestic!

It wasn’t till four days later that I learned the truth of the matter when the Wasaga Sun came out. The headline on the front page read, "Grow-op busted on Helena St." My chin bounced off my sternum! "Six pounds of prepared marijuana, several plants, an ounce of cocaine, magic mushrooms, and, I believe, some ecstasy tablets!" "No wonder they don’t socialize," thought I, "They couldn’t possibly find the time!" The irony of the situation was most evident by the fact that they lived right next door to our recently retired Chief of the Wassaga Beach OPP! Backing on their property is the home of my pal, Wayne, also a long time member of the Wasaga force, who retired the same day the Chief did! When I ran into Wayne a couple days later he was quite bitter about the matter; "The worst thing about it," he told me, "is that, years ago, they would have been ashamed of themselves, and would have moved someplace else! "Now-a-days," he continued, "they don’t have any shame; they’ll just go right on living there!" As it turned out, Wayne was right, and, the worst thing about the matter is that since we talked that day, I don’t think that Wayne has gotten any satisfaction at all out of his lovely rear deck!

All those things and more wandered across my mind while I sipped my Earl Grey and watched August and the boys enjoy each other’s company, but the conversation was lagging just a little, and, as I watched Mr. Wade roll a couple more I couldn’t help but ask a question. He rolled faster than a log at a lumberjack contest, and I almost hated to interrupt the process, but went ahead in spite of that, "You go through a lot of that stuff! You must have brought a hay bale sized baggie with you from Manitoba?" "No!" came his laconic response, "I get it out here; there’s no scarcity." "Did you know a lot of people out here before you made the venture?" I asked, for I’ve been here now nearly two months, and, though I’ve asked a lot of questions, I haven’t met anyone I could imagine posing that particular question to! "No," was his reply, "You just go down to 13th Ave. and 8th St.; you can find anything you want there." When he mentioned the address I realized that I’d read about it in the paper; a street preacher there had been arrested for broadcasting his message through a megaphone. He was evangelizing to the drug crowd, and, there were several testimonials to his success with several people who had been addicts prior to attending his street services.

According to the paper, he’d been threatened by several dealers who were not happy about him converting some of their best customers. Because of this harassment he’d had one of the members of his ‘church’ record the meetings on a camcorder, and in the process, several times, recorded a well known crack dealer doing business as usual. His question was, "Why do the Calgary police bother a preacher trying to do some good for the community, and ignore the overt drug dealing that goes on at that intersection 24/7? I don’t recall anyone addressing his question, but the charges were thrown out of court; if memory serves there was mention of possible ‘excessive use of force’ on the part of the Calgary police, who claimed that he ‘resisted arrest’, but at the trial the video supplied by his congregation plainly showed that he went along without a struggle. I guess that the lesson to be learned here is, that if you come to Calgary, do whatever drugs you wish ....but, be quiet about it! They’re not fond of loudmouths here ....that does not bode well for yours truly!

August went on to elaborate, "It’s right beside a university and a rapid transit line, so there is quite a mix of students, working poor, and riff-raff, the only way to sort them out, because it’s quite crowded, is to wait till a train departs; most of those left at the intersection are there for business of one sort or another." "A fairly rough crowd," he went on, "mostly young, and many of them appearing as ‘after’ pictures for a lecture on the dangers of hard chemical abuse." "But how," I queried, "would you approach people like those?" I can’t picture myself in those circumstances; at least not while being comfortable about it!

"I didn’t approach anyone," he drawled, "I just leaned against a wall, about twenty feet from the scruffiest looking cluster there, looked around and waited; I didn’t have to wait long either. In a couple minutes a guy about 18 separated from the group and wandered to a spot about 5 feet in front of me. He didn’t make eye contact, just said, while gazing upon the pedestrian traffic, eyes never pausing, "What are you looking for?" "I said, "Just a little weed bro.", and immediately his arm raised in some sort of ‘High sign’. All of a sudden I was surrounded by a milling group of about eight or nine young men; I thought, for a second that I was being swarmed! But I quickly realized that all the eyes were directed outwards; what they were doing was blocking a possible transaction from public view ....still, I knew I had to keep my cool because this was a situation where an unexpected ‘hitch’ would prove a bad thing."

August paused for a moment, I suspect reliving the scene, then he went on, "Suddenly, from my left, a young fellow cut through the crowd to my elbow. He had a hankie tied about his head, and a cock-eyed ball cap at a 45 degree angle, arching up. Later, when I thought about it, and recalled the others I’d seen, similarly attired, I realized that it was probably symbolic, in a streetwise sort of way. "How much do you want Bro," the young guy asked. August said that he’d requested a quarter ounce; perhaps an ounce if it was available. "Then," he said, "the unthinkable happened!" The guy looked me straight in the eye, his gaze not wavering, and asked, "Are you a cop?" I had to think fast, and replied, "No! But I often wish that I was a cop; they don’t have to buy their weed ....they confiscate it!"

"The answer must have satisfied him," August continued, "he said," "I have five points I’ll give you for $50.00. Do you want it?" "I did," said August, and as I pulled my money out of my jeans the kid in the hat said, "Quick and fast Bro! Quick and fast!" and as I gave him the money he pressed five little 1 gram bags into my palm. Immediately he was gone, and the crowd began to disperse, one guy, perhaps 16, lingered, and said, "I have two points you can have for $20.00 ....do you want it?" August said, "I’d wanted a quarter ounce, so I took it! It gave me a lean seven grams."

I didn’t ask Mr. Wade about the quality of the product ....from the looks of the three of them I could only assume that it was good indeed. August has a shock of red hair, the shade you might associate with a quick and fiery temper, and I notice his pronounced ‘Adam’s Apple’ bob vigorously as he tilted back his can of ‘Black Label’. To myself I wondered how much that ‘Apple’ might have bobbed through his described transaction. It was now well past 8:30, getting dark, and I had to excuse myself; I do, after all, have the weight of a paper route pressing down upon these narrow shoulders. The fellows continued chatting as I wandered back to the RoadTrek, and made my preparations for a quick departure at 4:30 in the morning.

Later, as I drifted off to sleep, I couldn’t help thinking about all the things had August told me. Before the Sandman made his stop I realized that perhaps 20 years of abstinence was a good thing ...and should be continued. My natural timidity leads me to avoid that type of circumstance; I have too much respect for the hygienic state of my underwear to place myself in any similar circumstances willingly. But, you will be relieved to learn that I passed the test; I now have my own paper route! Also, as indicated above, I’m starting to make friends out here! That conversation took place last Saturday night, and, up till now I’ve had little time to type about it. It’s been a busy week, and tomorrow is Saturday once again, and I get to sleep in till 4:30, (during the week I have to rise at 3:00 am!)

James ("You mess wit’ me and you B. messin’ wit’ the whole Trailer Park!) Mackay