The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 11

One particular topic frequently arose during my late-night telephone conversations with Robbie; the connection between drugs and creativity. So many of our literary and artistic heroes were aided in their inspiration by mind-altering substances of some description. Hash seemed to crop up with more frequency than crop circles close to Stonehenge. From the Beatles to Wilde; some of our finest minds had a penchant for the herb. The weight of those illustrious names served as a ringing endorsement for toking up. I mean, how bad could it be if it influenced these guys? And the current president of the most powerful nation on earth, Bill Clinton, had confessed to experimenting with pot, even if he claimed he didn't inhale.

Initially, we tossed it out like one of those wild suggestions of something you'd love to do, but know you probably never will; Go backpacking around Europe, Learn Mandarin, Visit the eight wonders. But somewhere along the line the notion gained traction and refused to slide.

It was the three p's that kept us invested in project pot; preparation, planning, and plotting. The drama and intrigue proved far more alluring than the actual idea itself. We arranged for me to stay over on the night his mum had her late-evening pottery class. That had taken much wrangling on Robbie's part to make happen. We bought a packet of cigarettes and rolling papers that I stashed in my wardrobe. Now, all we needed was the vital ingredient to ensure our experiment came to fruition; The Whacky Baccy.

Procuring the pot proved to be the trickiest task of the assignment. Our point of contact was Roley, who professed to have smoked a tonne of the stuff. Except as the days advanced, so too Roley's excuses. We approached Keith, only to find he was more of an opportunistic smoker. If somebody had it, he would happily partake. But he was not about seeking it out for himself. That left one option, one which I'd hoped to avoid at all costs.

Our carefully planned day did not get off to an auspicious start. On our way back from the bus stop, Robbie and I encountered the supermarket owner, Frank, humping a gas bottle into the boot of a customer's car.

He looked up, red-faced from the exertion. "Just the boy I'm after," he said, giving me a greasy grin. "I need you to come in today."

"No can do."

"That some kind of martial art?" I didn't react. The gloopy grin trickled from Frank's features. "Mark's out sick. I want you in here. Pronto."

"It's a Saturday."

"I don't care."

"I've made plans."

"Unmake them."

"If you'd told me yesterday—"

"I'm telling you now."

"That's not right," Robbie said.

The owner surveyed him in a derogatory manner that made my blood boil. "You his lawyer?"

"His friend. And it's unconstitutional."

"Listen, son. I don't know what part of darkest Africa you hail from, but here—"

"Sheriff street."

"Wha'?"

"I hail from Sheriff street."

Frank quickly shifted his irate gaze onto me. "You're either in here in half-an-hour, or you won't have a job."

Had I even been on minimum wage, I might have considered my response for longer than the nano-second I took. "Looks like I'm unemployed so."

Frank blinked. A man well acquainted with getting his way, he didn't accept my impromptu resignation with good grace. "Damn straight you are, you miserable little pox." In a rare show of defiance, the kind Johnny was synonymous with, I told him to stick it up his bollix. Fuming, the owner stood with fists clenched on his hips, before storming back into the shop. The poor girls would bear the brunt of his rage.