Gummies and I
by R. Andreas Lopez
GUMMIES AND I
Where to start? One day, while walking home from work in the East Village where I live, I nonchalantly thought — you know how that happens — I needed something to take the edge off and relax. Maybe I should buy some gummies. I heard it was good for that sort of thing. It would be nice to just lay down and let go of all the muscle pain I’ve been living with for so long. People swore by it. I mean, whole companies now make the stuff. And it’s good for old people like me they say. Now, I’m not a marijuana smoker or a drug user. Never have been. All of that was drilled out of me by my culture in my early life — Just say no! I’ve only puffed on maybe five joints in my life. I never liked the acrid smoke and the inhaling. I don’t like to be annoyed, and smoking marijuana annoyed me. But, of course, it didn’t stop me from smoking cigs! liked smoking cigarettes. I started smoking when I was twenty-one or so. My friend Cathy offered me a Salem when we were at University. “Here take one, Robert, you’ll you relax.” Well, I relaxed for thirty-five years. Then it took me five years to quit. I’ve was offered marijuana many, many times — for sex. It was supposed to be an aphrodisiac, but it didn’t do anything for me. My erections would just disappear. It just made me soft, woozy, and obsessed with my thinking. I’ve never been a drug user of any kind, not even cocaine, which is pretty abnormal. My instinct told me I would become a drug addict. And I still think that. But I became an addict anyway in many ways. Almost everyone is an addict now of one sort or another. You name it.
Ummm, so anyway, I walked into my neighborhood “dispensary.” Just what the doctor ordered! When I was in the Army, I was a medic, and the building I worked in was called, guess what? A dispensary. Yes, indeed. Well, I didn’t know anything about the medicine that are called “gummies,” which is really a misnomer because gummies are not “gum,” which you chew. Gummies are sort of sucked on. At least that’s way it seemed to me.
Well, anyway, I went up to the counter and said to the proprietor [drug dealer?], “Hi, I’d like to buy some gummies.” Simple as that. And the proprietor said, “Great! I have just the thing for you.” He said they were really good and had a good price, too. I asked him how much? He said $25 for a pack of ten. Right away he must have known I was a novice. Well anyway, I was excited. I felt like I was buying something illicit. Nancy Reagan was hovering about me. But something began to nag at me. It was a very quiet voice: “You know, you better call Cassandra about this.” She was a dispatcher for such things. “Naw,” I said to myself, “What’s the big deal?” Well, the thought just sailed out of my head faster than a shooting star. I think what I always think: I know what to do. And in any case, I didn’t want Cassandra or the counter man to know I was a newbie. I didn’t want her to say, “Bob, be careful, you’re an old guy.” Just the thing I don’t want to hear — mind you even if I’m in my seventies.
Well, I bought the gummies on the spot. Then I turned my head from the door as I was leaving and looked at the proprietor and thought I should ask him how to take it. Well, again, the thought sailed away in my dustbin of questions I should have asked but was too head strong and stupid to ask. I don’t like to admit I don’t know something I don’t know, which translates to I don’t want to know what I am doing or going to do. What’s there to figure out anyway? So I walked home, and I didn’t call anyone about what I was about to do or even google it. I didn’t want anyone to stop me. Now, what does that tell you?
When I got home, I straightened out the living room, fed the cat, popped a gummy and laid down on my sofa and waited for the effects to kick in — relaxation and a pain free hour. Great! So I snuggled into the cushions, closed my eyes and imagined the moment heaven would come calling. As you can see, I have a lot of fantasies about this kind of thing because I went through the Age of Aquarius and didn’t participate, so now it’s my time. So I waited. Nothing was happening, and being the person that I am, you know, I don’t like waiting for things. I want things immediately. So I popped another one. Why isn’t it working I asked? Five minutes passed. Nothing, so I popped another one. How many are you supposed to take?! After another five minutes, still nothing. What the hell! So I took another. And so, being an impatient addict, I took another one. Twenty minutes later I was very frustrated. I paid good money for this shit. Was I scammed? So, like all good addictive personalities like me, I finished the rest of the package — that is, ten. I had taken 5mg times 10 equals 50mg worth of gummies. Well . . . if you know anything about this kind of stuff, you know what was about to happen. What can I say? If you are a cannabis smoker, or whatever, you can just imagine what the results will be for a first-time user who was an old man. Okay? Now I’ll let that sink in.
Well, things started to really happen, and I mean “really” happen, and not the thing I thought would happen. I started feeling dizzy. I couldn’t sit still. For a moment or two I was feeling euphoria, but it started quickly changing in a peculiar way. I don’t know if I really have to spell it out. Suddenly it wasn’t fun or was relaxing anymore. I was spinning out of control. I was feeling sick to my stomach. “What the fuck!!” I said over and over. Then the thought hit me. I had taken too much. Shit! Shit! Shit! I had fucked up again smarty pants!! I didn’t even know to call it or a bad trip, if it was one.
I had eaten a volcano that was going to explode any minute. I was erupting. I was feeling crazier and crazier, and I said this can’t be it. What is this shit? Then I began to really feel fucked up. You know the kind — panic. I kept saying this can’t be right. I must have taken way too many. What else could it be? I was in the rapids of hell. I didn’t know what to call it at the time. I was “high” as they say. But really, I was so high I was going to be blown apart. I felt a creepy darkness begin to envelop me. So out of the blue I put my fingers in my throat to vomit the shit out. I couldn’t move, so I sat there and vomited into my lap. I didn’t know else to do. I saw it falling out of me onto my legs and floor. I was zipping out. Then I realized in that moment I was probably going to die; I was unconsciously wanting to kill myself!
Then I was pleased. At last it was all going to be over. I so wanted to go with it. I wanted it to take me out once and for all. Then a thought hit me like a hammer. What about Margo? Margo is my cat. I kept on vomiting trying to get it all out. “Fuck! I’m going to die here; what’s going to happen to Margo? She’s going to starve to death! I’ll be dead on my sofa and Margo will eat me! They say animals do such things. I don’t know, but I think Margo would. She is not an ordinary cat. She has many un-feline features. Even so, she is very lazy.
Well, anyway, I was getting sicker and sicker and crazier and crazier. The vomiting was helping, but I knew I was dying — really. Shit! I had to do something. Then I thought of my neighbor who lived across the hall on my landing. I’ll go to her and tell her what I did and ask her to call 911. I was really, really worried about Margo. Who would feed her; and who would give her water and snuggles? I didn’t want Margo to be alone with my body. My God, I can’t do that to her! It’s terrible! So, for once, I didn’t think about me and thought of her.
Then I realized I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even get off the sofa. I was stuck. My legs were not functioning. So I threw myself on the floor into the pile of vomit. I lay there for a moment and dragged myself to the door of my apartment. Then I had to crawl back to fetch my sneakers, but I couldn’t put them on. Then I took the empty package of gummies and put them in a sneaker just in case the medics wanted to know what I died of. Finally I managed to open the door and crawl out into the landing dragging my sneaker with the package in it. I shouted for Elizabeth as I crawled my carcass to her door and banged on it.
Help me, I’m overdosing on gummies!!
While I was screaming, she opened the door.
Oh my God, Robert! Oh my God! What happened?!
Call an ambulance! I overdosed on gummies!
I was on the floor in front of her apartment door.
Oh my God! Should I get you a chair! Oh my God!
She went inside her apartment and came out with a wicker chair and placed it in front of me. I grabbed the seat and got up and sat in it, but I didn’t want to sit, I was too jittery. I was way too sick to sit, so I told her I wanted to stand. I braced myself with the chair and started to vomit again. The floor in front of me was covered in slime. Elizabeth ran into her apartment and called 911. She continued to question me, but I was too sick to be say anything coherent. All I kept saying was I needed a shot to get rid of it. After about ten minutes of this insanity. I asked her where the ambulance was, I’m dying here. She said would call again. Then we heard the front door open with a bang. Someone was coming. I could hear them in the stairwell. Thank God! It was the fire department. They were carrying one of those plastic stretchers. Then at that moment I started vomiting again. I was in a pool of my entrails. I started pleading to the head fireman.
Please, please help me I need a shot!
The fireman looked at me and asked me my name.
Robert Lopez.
Mr. Lopez, what happened?
I overdosed on gummies!
How much?
I don’t know, the whole pack!
You ate the whole pack!
Yea, I didn’t know what I was doing. Please, please give me a shot!
Well, Mr. Lopez, we don’t have a shot for that.
What! I need a shot! I’m dying here.
Sorry, Mr. Lopez, it’s got to wear off.
What?!
I must have given him the most incredulous look that they started to laugh.
Com’on you’ve got to be kidding!
No, Mr. Lopez, I am not kidding. So what do you want to do?
What do you mean?
You can stay in your apartment until it wears off, or you can come with us to the hospital?
What! Of course I want to go the hospital. I need that shot!
Mr. Lopez, there is no shot for your condition. Okay?
Then they put the stretcher in front of me on the landing.
Mr. Lopez, get on.
What!
Get on.
I can’t. I can’t move!
Why not?
I can’t move! I’m stuck.
You can’t move. Yes, you can, Mr. Lopez, you can.
No, I can’t.
Yes, you can; it’s all in your head.
I’m telling you I can’t’ move.
Yes, you can. I’ll prove it to you.
How?
I bet you can move a pinky.
Are you kidding me?!
No, I’m serious.
I was completely dismayed.
Okay, okay, okay. I’ll try!
Go ahead. Move your pinky. You can do it.
So I look down at my left hand and sure enough it moved.
That’s good, Mr. Lopez, I knew you could do it. Let me help you onto the stretcher. Everything is going to be alright. I get these calls all the time from you old folks who don’t know what they’re doing.
I didn’t say anything and with his help I was able to lie down on the stretcher. Then they strapped me in. Really it felt good. I was going to be alright. I was in good hands. I did notice, however, some more smirking by the group of other firemen, but I didn’t mind. I guess it was funny in a way. So they carried me down the stairs and out to a waiting ambulance. I was spinning like a crazy dog, but I was really enjoying the ride. The sky, the handsome firemen, the ceiling of the ambulance, the moving to-and-fro, the ejection into the emergency room, the doctors, the nurses, the hospital bed. I was going to be okay. I fucked up, but I was not going to die. Finally I was going to get the relaxation I so ardently wanted.
My hospital bed was situated in a small alcove with barely enough room for a nurse. There was a wall on my left side and a curtain on my right. They had taken all my clothes and gave me pajamas and a blanket. Then — I swear to you — a beautiful, black African Queen came to my bed and started to singsong me.
Hi, Mr. Lopez, what happened?
I overdosed.
Ohh . . . on what?
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Marijuana.
Marijuana?
Yea, gummies
Oh.
Well, we’ll will take care of you. Don’t worry about anything. You’ll be all right.
Can I get a shot for this?
Afraid not Mr. Lopez. There isn’t such a shot.
Why?
Well, there isn’t. It just has to wear off.
For how long?
Well, how much did you take?
The fireman said 50mg?
What? You kidding me?
No.
Well, Mr Lopez, I’m sorry to say that means it’s going to take five days.
What!!
Yes, 10mg per day.
Oh, my God!
Yep. Well, Mr. Lopez, let me take your vitals. Then all you need to do is just rest. Close your eyes and dream good things.
Now let me tell you, this nurse, was a beautiful human being. She took my breath away as they say. Her black skin was brilliant; it shot off sparks. She had an aura I’ve never seen in woman before. I just loved having her near me. And her tone of voice was so loving. Well, she left a trail of light, but then my neighbor started in — screaming.
What time is it?!! What time is it. Where’s my doctor?!! Where’s my doctor?!!
After a while I answered.
It’s twelve o’clock.”
Oh, thank you.
Of course, I made it up just to shut her up. I didn’t have a watch.
Oh thank you, I’m waiting for my doctor.
Yea, I know.
What time is it?
Then she started in on another round. Finally I screamed.
It’s seven o’clock!
I kept changing the time every time she started in. Then she fell silent. The nurse had come in and started telling her to be patient, the doctor was on his way. The minute the nurse left she started in again. Then my nurse came in.
Mr. Lopez, you know, you’re not the only one. It happens all the time. Older people get these ideas that are not good for them. As you now know.
Yeah . . .
Then a group of nurses came by and stood at the head of my bed while my African Queen was doing her stuff with me. The nurses were cute and young. Then they started whispering and giggling with each other.
Mr. Lopez, tell these nurses why you’re here?
I started giggling, too. I couldn’t help it.
Ladies, I overdosed on gummies.
Then we all started to laugh. We were having fun. Then my African Queen stopped what she was doing and looked at me square in the face and said:
Mr. Lopez, do me a favor.
What?
Don’t tell people you overdosed. If they ask you how you feel, tell them you’re “lit.”
All hell broke loose. Everyone was laughing.
You mean like a bulb?
Yeah, Mr. Lopez, just like a bulb?
Oh . . .
Then I smiled. I thought it was just the thing to say. I loved it. I loved being lit. Then she grinned and patted my head, just like a mother. Then they all disappeared and I was alone. After a while I settled in my bed and got comfy under my blanket. Then, of course, I hear my neighbor again. I think she might have had a case of dementia.
Doctor, doctor, where’s my doctor?! What time is it? What time is it?
I didn’t say anything. I felt sorry for her, there was nothing I could do. Finally, a nurse came again to comfort her. Finally I had some peace and quiet.
The nurses would come by my bed and ask me how I was doing. I always raised a hand answered that I was lit. They loved that and I loved it, too. And so we all laughed about my situation. But it wasn’t all fun and games because I had a lot of trouble moving, I was so weak. I wasn’t functioning properly. I tried to get out of the bed but couldn’t. A nurse came by and offered to help, but I said no. I am a very proudful person to my detriment at times.
Mr. Lopez, you’ve got to get out of bed and start walking.
I can’t.
I know I was whining.
Well, why don’t you try?
Later.
After a while, I started to move my legs in the bed, then off the bed onto the floor. This is my therapy now, walking, my big “shot.” Just as I was getting used to it a nurse comes by and says:
Okay, now you’ve got to start thinking about going home.
Now?
Yes.
Okay.
Do you need someone to help you get home? Want me to call someone for you?
No, I don’t live far.
Well, okay. When you are ready Mr. Lopez, get your things and we’ll sign you out. Rest and be patient at home. It’s going to take a couple of days for this to be over, you’re going to have cannabis in your bloodstream for a while. It will be working its magic on you for about five days. So please expect that.
I got my papers and left the hospital. When I got home, I spoke to my companion, Margo, in a resigned tone.
Well, Margo, I didn’t commit suicide today, even though I may have wanted to. So there you go. I’m still alive. You need anything? Are you hungry?
And so I sat down and watched TV and decided I needed to go back to therapy. Next time it might not turn out so well, and Margo would be all alone.
So that’s it — a cannabis calamity. I haven’t googled “lit” yet; and I don’t plan to. Well, that’s the story.
Too-da-loo.
