Stoned or Stupid?

In 1980, my family took a road trip leaving Wisconsin that took us through South Dakota’s Mount Rushmore. 

In the gift shop, my mother allowed me to buy whatever I wanted with my own allowance money, I was 10 years old at the time. When we returned to the van and I produced my wares, my mother roared with laughter at the button I bought that read: Are you Stoned, or just Stupid? 

I am not even sure I knew what stoned meant, being so young, and not yet a Californian. Perhaps I thought the stoned reference was about the faces carved in the giant granite stone mountains we’d just gawked at from the fenced National Park parking lot. My mother explained the reference begrudgingly, but I wore the button proudly on my tan corduroy jacket. (Foreshadowing? – Ed)

When we arrived in California a few days later, we went straight to the beach at Del Mar. My older sister cried because it was empty. Not a soul on it, whereas her expectations were that of the hollywood variation – beautiful bodies always sunbathing and scoping each other out. While we eventually found our way to the more popular beaches, which were all crowded at the appropriate times, we were also exposed to a whole different culture. Within 8 months of our introduction to California, I was also introduced to weed. 

As a sixth grader in Elementary School, after crossing-guard duty, I was offered a toke off a fellow crossing guard’s joint. He was also a sixth grader, waiting for his older brother, from whom he gets his weed, to pick him up after he got off work. I was supposed to go straight home on the designated route to my house in a cul-de-sac, about a ¾ of a mile away, across 2 busy streets and down one big boulevard, on foot.  

I declined that day, but my curiosity was piqued. How cool and aloof this kid seemed, and how comforting to offer this invitation to share that aloofness, together on this bench while he waited for his brother. If not today, how about tomorrow he had said…