In my late teens I had a friend that we called Leaf. I honestly don't know if that’s how he spelled it or not. I never wrote his name in all the years we were close. That's sometimes what it's like to be a teenage boy. The only thing that mattered was the right now or possibly that night. I wasn't keeping track of anything and we didn't have smartphones then. Leaf was a trip. He had a maroon car, something like a Monte Carlo or something. He worked for a flooring store before I even knew what linoleum was. He also smoked like 2 packs of unfiltered camels a day that I constantly ridiculed him for even though my parliament lights burned quicker.

            Remember those parliament lights with the recessed filters. They seemed so futuristic and cool when I smoked. That stiff paper pursed between your lips felt secure while the old filtered cigarettes were wet and mushy, like baby food carrots dribbling down your chin. Not so with the parliament lights. This time period also included the smoking tricks we would try to pull off. Flipping the cigarette into your mouth with either hand, sometimes even lit. Rolling the lit cig inside your mouth to hide it and then flipping it back out again. Oh and the smoke rings. 

Leaf and I had too many adventures to name but yesterday I recalled one that made me miss him something fierce. The first time I travelled to Colorado I went with Leaf in his purple Monte Carlo. We had some excellent weed and were determined to take it with us to smoke with our hosts during the visit. This was back in the day when an ounce of weed was a guaranteed trip to jail if found in your car or on “your person.” I remember getting high and coming up with all these great ideas on how we would transport it over so many state lines. We would build a stash spot into the underside of the dash or open the door frame up and slip it between the frames. We eventually settled on a canister that was designed to seal up with tennis balls inside and keep them fresh and bouncy. Perfect. We then strapped the weed holder to the undercarriage of the car and we were ready to roll.

            This held extremely well and even though we had inclement weather, rain and snow and ice on the roads, when we got to Durango the canister was still in place. I was so excited when we got it off the car’s body still freezing and now completely filthy on the surface. Unfortunately while the inside remained immune to the outside elements the inside world of the damn tennis ball holder had turned into a humid swamp. The greens of the herb now moldy with a patchy white sickness that stuck like splattered dry paint and resisted removal much the same. I’m sure our friends chuckled and lorded their ideas of how to travel with marijuana, but I don’t remember them. I simply remember how it felt to have lost this precious weed and the money we had spent on it. Tennis ball canister, tape, screws, metal perforated hanging strap and all. Fucking shit.

            Sure, we tried to smoke some of it but our lot was elitist and considered it beneath them when so many other options existed that weren’t from a state that everyone was running away from. This was just another experience in life that reminded me you can never really hold on to anything for too long and trying usually just leads to grief. I think of Leaf often still. He left me out west and to this day I have never seen him again. I know I shouldn’t be hanging on but I do. Supposedly he moved to Texas, got married and maybe has kids. I bet he still smokes though.