Read Online The Marijuana Chronicles by Jonathan Santlofer - Free Book Online

and my girlfriend, Johnny, and the older guy—were piling into my pink Studebaker, windows down, air on my face like a wind tunnel, lightning and comets above us as I drove through Harvard Square, all of us laughing.
    At some point I had agreed to help the older guy clean out his apartment though I could not remember when; then my girlfriend said she didn’t feel well (an excuse, I was sure) and wanted to go back to the dorm, so we dropped her off but kept going until we were in the suburbs, the whole time the older guy rolling more joints and Johnny and I smoking them, radio blasting Sly and the Family Stone, “Everyday People,” and singing along.
    Slum-er-ville , the older guy said when we got there. What everyone calls Somerville, the only place I can afford, with my college loans and all , a dark street of single and attached houses, none of them nice and not at all like Boston or Cambridge, no streetlights, no charm. I was a Communications major but can’t get a good job so I work part-time for a record producer who fixes me up with cool singers like Grace Slick, who I fucked by the way , says the older guy, which I did not believe though he went into detail about how Grace smelled and how she talked during sex and how she was from a rich family and how she was kind of a spoiled brat, and then Johnny, always competitive, said, You wanna hear about the time I fucked Mama Cass? and he goes right into it.
    It was in Monterey, you know, California, and she announces her hotel room from the stage, can you believe that? So I figure what the hell, I go after the show and sure enough there’s a bunch of guys hanging in front of her room and finally she comes out, good ol’ Mama Cass, I swear to God, all fat and cute in a flowered muumuu, and she crooks a finger at me and says , YOU, and next thing I know I’m in her room, in her bed, and we’re smoking dope and drinking champagne out of the bottle and I’m trying to find her clit, not so easy, heh-heh-heh, and she’s telling me what to do and saying what a big cock I have — and I do, man, I really do have a big cock — and I fuck her and she gets off practically screaming and when it’s over she asks me if I like her, can you dig it, Mama Cass asking me if I like her? I say, sure, sure, of course I like you, and ask if she’ll autograph my T-shirt, and she finds her panties and writes on them , To Johnny with love, from Mama Cass, and hands them over and I’m like , Holy shit, right, so I say , Hey, will you do me a favor and sing something for me? and she starts singing, “Dream a Little Dream of Me,” but she’s changed the words to Dream a Little Dream of Johnny, and I swear to God I get goose bumps up and down my arms but I see she’s crying, so I ask what’s wrong and she says nothing but tells me to go because she’s got to get some sleep because they’re on the road in the morning, so I fight my way through the crowd of guys still outside her room waving her undies in the air, and they’re all hooting and laughing and smacking me on the back and making fat jokes and —
    The older guys sneered and said, Bullshit . I backed Johnny up, said I’d seen Mama Cass’s large-size autographed undies, which I had not.
    Well, she’s no Grace Slick , the older guy said, and told me where to park, and we trudged up the stairs of a smallish house to an apartment on the second floor and he’s thanking us over and over for helping him and rolls another joint, which we smoked in between regular cigarettes.
    Inside, there was hardly any furniture but the living room was a mess of overstuffed Hefty bags and lots of cartons, and the older guy explained he’d just moved in and was still clearing out all the shit left by the former tenants and how he had to get it looking good because his girlfriend from New York was coming to live with him.
    I was only half listening, still tripping and a little worried I’d never come out of it, though the older guy assured me