It was 1972. The country was still roiled with the political aftermath the Vietnam War. The presidential election was sullied by the Watergate affair, just starting to be understood. Disagreement over politics was widespread. Friendships were tested, even within my own family, and some were destroyed.
But I was unaffected. I had escaped the draft due to an “Essential to the National Defense” certification I had received because of my research work. I had recently married Lee, after the tempestuous marriage to Melody had cratered. Lee was a second-grade teacher. She came with a son, Garrett, aged six, and a half-crazy sister, Jackie. Jackie was a chiropractor. She had recently graduated from The Palmer School of Chiropractic, and she was a true believer, not of the semirespectable form into which chiropractic has morphed, but of the original batshit crazy concept put forth by Daniel David Palmer in 1895. You may have seen wall posters of the spine, with lines drawn to specific vertebrae labeled “cancer” or “indigestion” or “influenza” or “liver disease”. Jackie was fully onboard with all of that, and her enthusiasm carried over to messianic sermons. Long ones. Also, she had somehow concluded that the Vietnam war was a noble cause, likely the saving action for Western civilization. We finally agreed that there were some things we would not talk about.
Jackie was also a serious pothead. During a visit with us she somehow scored a full kilo of marijuana, neatly wrapped in brown paper, which when unwrapped was mostly stems and seeds. She asked me if I had any ideas of what to do with the stuff. Well, I did. I put my chemical engineering knowledge to use and tossed the kilo into a large pot along with a couple of pounds of butter. After a few hours at low heat, passing the mess through a sieve produced a lovely, green-colored butter. We used that butter to make delicious, but powerful, brownies.
Jackie finally ended her visit. As soon as she was driving away Lee and I agreed that some entertainment was an essential antidote to the wearying harangues we had endured the past week.
I called some friends, who kindly invited us to their house for dinner that night. Lee arranged for a 14-year-old neighbor girl to babysit Garrett. She arrived at 7:00, Lee and I drove to our friend’s house and after a lovely dinner and a few hands of pinochle, got home about midnight.
As soon as we walked through the front door I flashed on two things: First, the babysitter was lying on the sofa, snoring gently. And second, the metal can of brownies that I had hidden on the top shelf of the pantry was now on the kitchen counter, lid ajar.
I was immediately struck with intense fear. But maybe it would be ok if the girl would just wake up. I shook her, then lifted her up to her feet. No use. She did not move and showed no sign of waking up.
Now I was thinking frantically – what should I do? We knew the girl’s parents only casually. There was no way to know how they would respond if the true situation were exposed. Lee and I talked it over – she was as scared as I was – and agreed. The girl could not stay at our house. We considered taking her to the emergency room in case she had a dangerous overdose, but I checked the can of brownies, and it looked like only two were missing. There was only one thing to do. I had to get her home, and face whatever consequences ensued.
I hoisted her up, put my arm around her, and walked out our front door and started down the sidewalk. Her home was just two houses away. Fortunately, she didn’t weigh much so I could keep her moving. At no time did she show any sign of waking up although her legs and feet participated in our forward movement,
I reached her house. It was dark. The front door was unlocked. I eased it open as quietly as I could and lifted/carried the unconscious girl into her home, holding my breath, waiting for a voice to call out. Envisioning me in a jail cell.
But no voice called. I laid the babysitter on her couch, still deeply asleep. I turned and tiptoed to the front door, closed it silently, and sidled back to my own house.
There were no consequences. Nothing was ever said by the babysitter’s parents. They must have rationalized finding their daughter on their couch the next morning. So what is the moral? What lessons are to be learned? I guess nothing more profound than don’t leave the pot brownies where the babysitter can get at them. A lesson we learned well that night.
“I find it quite ironic that the most dangerous thing about weed is getting caught with it.”
Bill Murray
Actor