People who ride in the back of unmarked sedans look foolish, as if they’re mother is driving them to soccer practice. Riding in a taxi, however, is part of the urban experience. It’s also stylish.
“So … what kind of drugs did you take?” I ask the guy in my backseat. He’s older, bespectacled, dressed in jeans and a V-neck sweater. Has the air of a successful middle manager.
“No drugs. Just weed.”
“Just weed?” I ask, like a dubious parent.
“Strong weed!” He laughs and then goes quiet.
As I head down Mission Street, I think about the possibility of getting so high on marijuana I forgot where I lived …
It hardly seems probable, although there was that one time in college when I smoked a joint with a co-worker and ended up in bed, swaddled in my duvet, rocking back and forth and chanting, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough and doggone it, people like me.”
Must be nice, though, to forget everything. Personal and financial problems, the constant tragedies in the world and the possibility of a future overrun with technology straight out of a dystopian movie.
But it seems impossible to escape, what with Facebook and Twitter. My phone is like a needle I use to mainline the distorted fire and brimstone of the 24-hour news cycle into my brain — a speedball of conflicting narratives — until I can’t turn away from the strobe light of information
I’d love to forget all that. Even for just 10 minutes …
Halfway up Kearney, the guy in back leans forward.
“OK, I know where I am now,” he says.
I realize I’ve been holding my breath and sigh with relief.
Read this week’s column for the S.F. Examiner here.