I Want to Shroom at Disneyland

I Want to Shroom at Disneyland               

                Brett and I had been living together for about a month in relative harmony with the exception of one incident involving cigarette smoking.  His apartment had a balcony attached to the living room, and one night I stepped out onto it to have a smoke.  Unbeknownst to me he was in his room, and had his window open, and a few minutes after I had started, he knocked on the sliding door and stepped outside.

                “You smoke?” he asked me.

                “Yeah, I’m sorry, is that a problem?”

                “It reeks, man.”

                “I’m sorry.”

                “I can smell it from my room.  If you’re gonna do that shit, just do it outside, downstairs.”

                “Okay,” I said, taking another puff. 

                Then I tried to make some sort of conversation about one topic or another and after answering me in abbreviated phraseologies, he said, “Are you going to put that out or what?”

                “I’m sorry,” I said, and tossed it off the side. 

                Shortly thereafter he mentioned that he had a friend that might be interested in moving into my bedroom at the end of the year, starting January 1^st.  I told him that was fine, just to let me know in advance so I could find a new place.  I felt as if I had crossed an invisible line that I had not been made aware of.

                But at the end of November, after I came back from Thanksgiving, Brett asked me if I wanted to go to Disneyland with him.  He said he had arranged to buy tickets for the “Disney at Night” event off of craigslist and that he would give me one for free.  I was hesitant to go at first, because the tickets were good for 9 PM through 2 AM, and I usually went to bed between 9 and 10 PM so I could get up around 5:45 or 6 for work, since I started at 7.  But the night of the event came, and he asked me again if I would be joining him and I said it was too rare an opportunity to skip.  I would go with him.

                We left around 7:50 PM and had to rush to get to the Green House, which closed at 8.  Brett had recently run out of his latest stash, and wanted to pick up something new for the evening.  He also showed me the psilocybin mushrooms he had acquired that he planned to take.  Though he drove like a maniac to get there, and later apologized for it, we made it to the Green House with about three or four minutes to spare.  He purchased some strain he assured me was “sick” and we headed towards a random area in the San Gabriel Valley to meet the guy to buy the tickets.  We found the exit and parked on the side of the road, where the other guy’s truck was as well, and Brett made the exchange.  We happily proceeded to Anaheim.

                Brett paid for parking and we drove up into the Donald garage.  I remember because he told me to remember for finding the car afterwards.  Besides the shrooms and the weed he had just purchased, he had also brought his bubbler, and some wheat thins with a few different kinds of hummus for dipping.  He broke out these snacks and I had a couple, and then he packed a bowl in his bubbler. 

                “Let’s warm up,” he said.

I took a hit, he took a hit, I took another, he took another, and the bowl was depleted.  He started packing a second bowl, and then took another hit.  Then he started putting the wheat thins away.  I guess he was just about to get the shrooms out of his bag and eat them.  But then a Disney security van drove by one of the outer lanes.

“Is that a security van?” he said.

“Are they coming for us?” he said.

When it became clear that they were slowing down near our car, he said, “Alright, get out.  Let’s just start walking.”

Three guys jumped out of the security van.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, where you guys going?”

“Just into the park,” Brett said.

“Do you know why we’re here?” one of them asked, looking at me.

“No, I don’t, I’m sorry,” I said.

“We can smell why we’re here,” another said.

“You guys can’t do that in the park, this is a family-oriented place,” another said.

They went into Brett’s car and found the stuff. 

“I have a prescription for that,” he said.

“And that’s fine, that’s totally legal, except not on the premises of the park,” one of the security guards said. 

We stood around for a while, maybe five minutes, and it appeared that Brett was almost joking with one of the guards, whom he had pegged for a partier. 

“I’m really sorry this had to happen, but could we just go into the park and pretend this never happened?” he asked.

“All we want to do is go into your park and spend money,” he said.

“We’ve been told to keep you here.”

“For what?” Brett asked.

“Just to sort some things out.  Hopefully you will just be able to go on your way and we can forget any of this ever happened.  The last thing we want is for anyone to get arrested tonight.”

A minute or so later, an Anaheim Police Department car pulled up to us in the garage.  Two cops got out in a rapid movement.  I could tell they were not interested in being cool.  This was very serious business.

One of them immediately wanted to search Brett’s car, and Brett allowed him to do so, as per the nature of intimidation in those scenarios.  One of the cops asked for my license and became confused at my Lake Forest address.  Then he went into his car, apparently did some research, and came back out and asked me, “Do you live at 422 S. Palm Dr?”

“I did before.  I just moved on November 1^st.”

“He’s my roommate,” Brett said, “We’re really peaceful people, we were just going out, trying to have a fun night, we’re not interested in doing anything bad or violent.”

The cop searching Brett’s car found a spiral notebook with many bizarre messages written in large type.  I saw one of them said, “YOUR MUSIC SUCKS.”  The cop showed this to his partner and they had a great laugh about what an odd piece of kitsch they had found.”

“That was a gift from a friend,” Brett said.

The cop continued to search, let out an audible gasp, and said, “Well, well, well, look at what we have here.”

And he brought out the shrooms.  Brett let out an audible moan. 

“Now the pot, yes, I know you’ve got a prescription for that, but you are only allowed to consume that product in the premises of your own home.  Even though you broke the law a little there, it would not amount to anything particularly serious.  This, though, this is a felony,” the cop said.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“From the same place I purchased the marijuana, sir,” Brett said, hoping that the cop wouldn’t know whether shrooms could be legally obtained with a prescription or not.

“Please sit on the hood of the car, both of you,” the cop said.

The two cops stood away from us for a few minutes.

Brett looked over at the cops and said, “I just want you to know, I train some members of the force in judo, and I would be more than happy to offer you guys some free lessons.”

“Will you just shut up and stop interrupting us?” one of the cops thundered.

A line appeared to have been crossed.

Brett said, “I’m scared, man.  We could have gotten out of here if I had just taken the shrooms, but this doesn’t look good, this doesn’t look good.”

I didn’t know how to keep him calm.  I was shaking, myself.  Brett had tried to elicit sympathy from the cops earlier, saying, “He’s really scared,” talking about me.

“Just try to keep calm,” I said, “Whatever is going to happen will happen, and we will deal with it, and we’ll get through it okay.”

“I just want you to know,” Brett said, “That if they put me in jail, I want you to call my Dad to have him bail me out.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I’ll give you my cell phone if they take me.”

The cops came back to us.

“Sir,” they said, referring to me, “You can step away from the vehicle.” 

                “Oh man,” Brett said.

                I looked on, feeling more sympathy than I had ever perhaps experienced in an immediate, personal moment.  The cop told Brett to place his arms behind his back and look down at the ground.  He clasped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists and began reading him his Miranda rights.

“You have the right to remain silent.”

 I heard Brett making sniffling sounds, heaving lightly. 

The cops came over to me after putting Brett in the back of their cruiser.  One of them gave me his business card, so that I could find the address where Brett was being held.  He called over for me from their car and they allowed me to talk to him there.

“Here’s my phone, and my car keys,” he said, “And don’t call my Dad.  He’ll just say that I screwed up and have to get myself out of this mess.  Call Jeremy.”

                “Okay,” I said, “I’ll call Jeremy.  We’ll get you out soon.”

                “I am so sorry this had to happen, man.”

                “Don’t worry about it all.  We’ll get you out of there soon,” I said.

                I went back to the cops and they asked me if I would like custody of Brett’s car and I said yes.  They asked me if I was in a good enough condition to drive it home, and I said yes.

                “You realize, we saw you smoking on camera.  We know you are under the influence.  It would be very easy for us to follow you out of the garage and pull you over and give you a breathalyzer and determine that you were impaired.  Do you still want to take the car, or would you like to seek other methods of transportation.”

                “I think I’ll seek other methods of transportation.”

                “Okay then.  This is the address where your roommate will be.  Have a safe night.”

                And they walked back to their car and I walked towards the exit of the garage, a huge wave of relief washing over me.  They had seen me smoking and I was not being charged with anything.  I immediately called Sycamore and Molly.  It was about 10:00 PM.  No answer.  So many times I would call them and there would be no answer.  I didn’t want to call Caroline in this situation.  I would call Rich.  He picked up.  He lived in Montebello.  I told him the story of what happened and though he had never, ever been a user, and frequently derided me for using while we were roommates sophomore year in college, he was not beyond sympathy.  He clearly wanted to help.  He told me he would check to see how far a drive it was to Anaheim and then he would let me know if it was reasonable to pick me and drive me home or not. 

                I walked to a gas station just outside the Disneyland gates and tried to ask about buses that would be going into the city.  There were none.  I talked with the cashier there about the situation and he seemed sympathetic as well.  I became very flustered as the minutes continued to tick by.  I had to get up for work at 7, still, and it was now nearly 11:00.  I used the ATM in the gas station and took out $140 or something.  I decided to give up and call a taxicab.

                I walked to a nearby Howard Johnson and talked to the kid at the front desk.  I told him about the situation.

                “Oh man, I’ve always wanted to shroom at Disneyland!” he said.

                “I know, me too.”

                He called the cab for me and I was very grateful for his efforts, and I was very happy to see the cab.  Rich called me be back when I was in the cab and told me it was an hour drive for him to get to Anaheim and I told him not to worry about it.  I called Jeremy, and left a message explaining the incident.  I arrived back in West L.A. shortly after midnight, and I paid the cab driver $110.00.  It was very funny on the drive home, because he was using a navigation system, and he got confused around National Blvd, which curves around in strange ways, and the female computerized voice kept saying, “You have arrived.  You have arrived.  You have arrived.”  It became so insistent that I had to laugh, and so did the cabbie.

                I walked up the steps to our apartment and just as I was going to open the door, Jeremy called me back on Brett’s phone and asked for the details.  I gave them to him and he said he would go out to Anaheim and bail Brett out.  I was glad I had fulfilled my end of the bargain.  I went into my room, smoked a bowl, and went to bed. 

                Around 4:00 AM or so, Brett knocked on my door.  I gave him back his cell phone and car keys.  He said it was fine, he had gotten his car out of the garage, everything was cool.  I wasn’t anywhere near as tired as I expected to be the next morning.