Satan's Spinach: A Real Gamble
"On a dark and stormy night (for real, it was the dead of winter and very windy outside) I came to visit my family in CT when we got to thinking it would be a good idea to head to the casino for a night out. My dad is an old hippie so I figured maybe adding a little THC to the mix might make for an entertaining evening.
I rolled up a decent sized jibber of some homegrown I procured from a friend and we got to ripping on the jazz cabbage in the parking lot, clam baking the heck outta the Subie like we were in high school again.
Luckily, my wife, who abstains from indulging in the devil’s lettuce, was in the frame of mind to take a picture of our parking spot and the yellow tree or green mountain or whatever icon it was that denoted the parking lot where had our hot boxed car stashed at.
We were on the top floor of the parking garage, and we were going down, lit and fig. I commented on how the elevator dropping floor by floor made my stomach feel crazy which was accented by an abrupt stop.
The doors open and 20 odd party people appear, staring at us. Bunch of eyeballs darting around, it made me feel uneasy. We scurried to one corner of the elevator to make room. They all piled in. “They can smell us,” “dude, your eyes are sooo red” was communicated telepathically somehow because I was officially getting wicked ‘noid and was not able to talk. It was probably just an internal monologue at that point.
They all got out on some other floor before we arrived at the casino where again we were alone. We could see the entryway doors and the people behind them playing what I assume were slots.
My dad got to the doors first and started pulling on one with no success. I tried several other doors for what felt like a couple minutes with no avail. Panic had set in. My wife walks up to the door and gently pushes one open, rolling her eyes at her stoned out company.
Inside the casino we walked around for a while feeling pretty weird and we weren’t talking to each other. “This place is sinister!” I thought to myself which I’m pretty sure looking back set off a string of experiences that reminded me of why I don’t puff the reefer.
An old man bends down to pick up a Marb off the ground and begins smoking the random cigg he had found. A sea of faces pulling levers, a dude in a diaper holding his seat at a hot table. A scuffle breaks out near the bingo hall and beer is hurled across the crowd splashing us a little. We had enough and headed back to the car all freaked out and sensitive.
The elevator opens and we see a security SUV in front of the Subaru with a handful of car alarms going off. “This yours?” the guy asks us.
He laughs and moves over exposing the front of the car which had been ravaged by another vehicle that left the tire twisted and mangled along with the bumper hanging by a thread. Some dude with a tricked out honda civic had a couple too many and swiped the row of cars we were parked with and promptly took off. Talk about a twilight zone experience to cap off the night.
We called my mom and sat there for a while, reflecting on why we don’t smoke weed. I watched the forrester drive away on the back of the tow truck—“There’s like half of that doob left in there!” my dad remarked. Honestly, at that point, I was totally ok with the mechanic, or the tow truck guy or whoever the heck found the gorilla finger in the cupholder to make the choice to smoke the rest of it. Puff puff, hard pass on a night like that again."
Photo: Mr. & Mrs. Greaney. Circa 1972.