Thursday, June 18, 2009

Don't leave me high

Two men got on my metro car the other day. They both seemed like the homeless crazy type, but that wasn't very surprising. That's nothing new.

I glanced down and noticed that one of them held in his hand what looked to be a joint.

For a split second, I thought "no, that can't be...there's no smoking on the metro." Then I remembered who I was dealing with and looked more closely. It was joint. A live joint, which he proceded to smoke.

Did I mention he was standing right next to me. And, that there was no air conditioning in that metro car?

Luckily I only had one more stop to go. Not a long enough time to get overly hot-boxed. However, it did make me worry that I'd smell like weed at work. Not exactly something you impress your boss with.

Anyhow, it reminded me of a specific bank of phone booths, in a specific neighborhood in Paris...

Brooke and I had to use the public phones down the street from our apartment because our host lady had to have the line free to use her dial-up Internet connection (no, it was not 1995, it was 2006). We'd get out our calling cards and talk to our families, standing up, in these small, enclosed glass phone booths out in front of the opera house. The booths were in "pods" of three, so you could look in at the persons next-to and across from you as you made your call.

There were always interesting characters hanging around at night. It was a great neighborhood for bars, clubs, restaurants and other night life.

Anyhow. While I was on the phone with my mom I looked looked up and noticed that Brooke was both talking on the phone, and talking through the glass to a man that seemed quite interested in her.

I saw his mouth move and saw him motion to the joint in his hand.

I saw Brooke mouth "Non, Merci" and turn away.

He then knocked on her door rather forcefully, again motioning to the joint in his hand.

"No Merci"

Brooke then stood there, bewildered, as the man shrugged his shoulders, took a big puff and then put his lips up against the crack between the glass door and the wall and exhaled. Long, and smoke-filled into the small booth. He smiled and repeated. Several times.

She didn't want the high, but he sure gave it to her.

I wonder how the conversation with her mother turned out...

*(Brooke, I've taken liberties with the story...forgive my imperfect retelling)


  1. I've never heard of hotboxing on the Metro. But it doesn't surprise me.

  2. i remember the hotbox story! "non, merci" doesn't leave much room for interpretation.

    p.s. i realize i didn't respond to your email...and obviously tuesday did not work for me either. let's try again next week. maybe we could meet for lunch at chinatown?