My buddy tells me a sad thing, that The Good Girl’s father had died. We all loved the Good Girl. She was pretty, she was popular, but she had none of the in-crowd mentality of avoiding being seen with out crowd people. She was good hearted in a calm and clear and deep kind of way, which is not common among high school girls, or anywhere else.
So my buddy says you know, her father died, so we have to go get her stoned. The idea was simple; the healing powers of marijuana would ease her pain. We tended to look down on alcohol at that particular time, so this seemed like a much more enlightened idea than drinking with her.
But we needed a place to take her, it being cold out, and we being kids, had no apartment or house of our own.
The problem was solved in a highly questionable way but I am confident that the statute of limitations has run out on this kind of thing. It was well over fifty years ago that we found a tiny summer house that was empty for the winter, and gently found our way through a front door window so we could open the door. In truth, our entry did involve some breaking of glass, but we did it with the utmost care and reverence.
We then sat in the semi dark with The Good Girl and proceeded to put our pathetic stash of weed into a pipe and light it. But fumbling around as we were in the cold, we managed to let the pipe twist upside down, dumping all of the loose weed on the lap of the Good Girl in mourning.
The two of us guy then carefully went about trying to rescue as much weed as we could from the legs and crotch area of this poor girl, us two on the floor, she sitting in a chair above us. Today I wonder what she must have been thinking of these two knuckleheads fumbling around her crotch in a desperate search for fallen marijuana bits.
In fact, it was a sweet attempt to do something nice for The Good Girl. There was nothing sexual about it, we didn’t have that motive; we were just idiots.
I don’t remember if we rescued enough weed to get her stoned. I don’t remember how long we stayed in that cold, dark, summer house. All I remember is The Good Girl sitting there dignified, like a queen, while two self appointed jesters goofed around her lap.
Years later my girlfriend and I were on the way back from some event in New York City and we drove via Bear Mountain. We decided to walk up to the top and there, half a century later, was The Good Girl, now the Good Woman, still a great presence in the world, still calm and clear and good hearted.