Two Joints in Boston: Part II

The conclusion of Grubbycup's account of traveling, shared Cannabis experiences and making human connections in Boston, Massachusetts

Part I of Grubbycup's story found him in the dark alleyways and side streets of Boston, making contact with some of the city's homeless population...

Torture just motivates people to say whatever they think will make it stop; the real trick to finding out things is to shut up and listen. I have learned that if you just sit with folks and smoke with them, listening closely, more often than not they will tell you things that they would not tell their therapist. I will not go into this homeless man's tale of woe; suffice it to say that he was a down-on-his-luck kind of guy with a long history of being down-on-his-luck, such as having the misfortune to be born to parents who should not be allowed around children. As he put it, "My parents hurt me about every way they could think of."

We left our discreet little spot and he led me to the place where the bar put out their garbage cans. While he talked with me, he methodically went through the can of empty bottles, looking for those with a little booze left in the bottom. His vision was not very good, so he held up the labels for me to read aloud before upending the remains of certain bottles into his mouth. He would ask, "What kind is this?" and I would try to find the spot on the label where it said what sort of liquor it was and tell him.

Inside one bottle, he found what looked to be about half a shot and the glee with which he drank it rivaled the joy I have seen upon the faces of newlyweds. I could not stop thinking: "How fucked up does this guy's life have to be that, not only does this sound like a good idea, but it is obviously one of the highlights of the day for him?" I was glad it was not food he was digging for - I could not have watched that.

As a group of college kids came around the corner, drunk and falling over each other, I took a step away from him, instinctively distancing myself from the outlier so as not to be shunned by the herd, as if there were something wrong with being seen talking to him. It was a small step; neither he nor they noticed, but I did.

I bought him a sandwich and walked back towards the hotel, deep in thought.

I felt ashamed at how many resources I had carelessly used up over the years, when this guy and people like him go without help day after day. It tarnishes us all when desperate human beings are allowed to sink so low.

Homeless people are people - real people, just like you and me. They have their own problems, at least two of which are worrying about being able to eat and sleep indoors. I have not been homeless myself (count that blessing), but I can tell you from experience that the more nerves are spent worrying about food security and housing, the fewer you have available to deal with the rest of the stuff that life throws at you. I have never slept outside because I was forced to, but I have been in situations where I felt "at the end of my rope," despite having a place to stay. I cannot even imagine what it would have been like to have been that depressed and out on the street, too.

Walking back to the hotel, I noticed a well-lit smoking area for its guests. I had used another entrance and exit previously, so I had not noticed it before. Since to the best of my knowledge the hotel itself was still very much non-smoking, I stopped in for a quick smoke. I wanted to sort out how I felt about what had happened earlier.

Second Joint

The bench nearby the smoking section of the hotel was not entirely empty. A gentleman who appeared to be in his early twenties was sitting there; he bore more than a passing resemblance to my idea of d'Artagnan from The Three Musketeers. A charming British lad, we engaged in small talk for a bit; in no time at all, yes, another joint was produced and shared.

He was well-mannered and polite and claimed that this was his first experience smoking weed without tobacco mixed in. He eyed it curiously and asked, "Just weed and paper, is it? No tobacco at all?"

That struck me as a bit of a cultural difference since, although it is common to mix the two overseas, here in the United States it is considered to produce a lower quality smoke, and this gentleman was obviously not the sort who was used to lower quality anything, as a general rule. Still, it seemed to rather agree with him - his beaming smile was practically radiant.

He had come to Boston with his parents to visit Harvard. The three of them were trying to decide if he should attend Harvard here in the States, or Oxford back at home. Apparently the cost difference was something like $300,000 or so more for Harvard, but he was still leaning towards it as he did not "fancy Mum and Da popping 'round easily." He revealed that he was studying Sanskrit, and although he did not have much of an idea of what he wanted to do with his degree after he earned it, I am sure he will make a fine linguist.

Although the temptation exists to draw some sort of analogy about the poor Americans and the rich British citizen that took place that night in Boston - practically across the street from a cemetery where patriots are buried - it really was not like that at all. The homeless gal and the rich kid were both nice people, in my opinion; they could have made a cute couple if circumstances were different.

Sadly, I do not think there is much hope for my bottle-drinking friend; he needs the kind of medical attention and psychological help that he is not likely to receive during his lifetime on the streets of America.

Peace, love and puka shells,
Grubbycup