Monday, March 19, 2018

Medical Wonders

Let’s see. First I make up some kind of snowflake, baby boomer, whiny complaint. Then get someone to give me a recommendation. Check, check. Oh, and now I have to talk to a real doctor who specializes in that sort of thing. Dr. Burnham. Ha! Burn ‘em if you got ‘em. Cash only, of course. I found the medical center in Glastonbury. Got in the hall. By the elevator. A sign said for Medical Marijuana treatment, go down one floor and then outside of the building and you will find Dr. Burnham’s office to the left. Of course. Like in high school. We had to go out back behind the gym for that, too.

Filled out the normal forms like a legitimate doctor’s office. Age, height, gross displacement. Is that physically or metaphysically? The answer’s the same, either way. Next of kin. Previous of kin. Why not current of kin? Hey. Their forms, their norms. I turned everything in and waited.

Dr. Burnham invited me into his office, where a beautiful little dog was bounding around being in everyone’s face. Nice doggy. I think it was a terrier. She was friendly. And promptly fell asleep. Dr. Burnham took me through a very extensive litany of questions. He was friendly. Professional. Genuinely interested and did not want to miss a single detail. I was there almost an hour. Ya. Motorcycle accident. Broke my back. Heart condition. PTSD. LSD. Can’t sleep. Life sucks. Chronic pain. I tried it in Oregon where recreational is legal. It helped. Well, smoked in college, like everyone else. Is good? He bought it.

Then came all the caveats. Connecticut is one of the strictest states vis-a-vie marijuana law. This is medicine. For you only. Don’t drive after taking. Don’t give it to anybody else. Don’t leave it lying around. Don’t sell it. Someone just recently got seven years in prison for selling. Don’t fuck around. Point taken. Listen what the Man says.

So. What’s next? Next I go down to the dispensary in Uncasville with a picture ID, my car registration, and a hundred bucks to send to the State. Not sure why they need my car registration. Do I need a permit to go parking, too? It would be nice to have a partner to go parking with. They will take my picture and enter me into the system. No need to take anything from Dr. Burnham, since it is all on line. Oooooh. Coooool. It’s computerfied!

The visit cost $250.00! Where am I supposed to get scratch like that? Phew. They take credit cards. I thought drug pushers only took cocaine soaked dollar bills that had been run through a few poll dancers and a couple-a hookers? It’s a new world, Charlie Brown.

Hmm. I made out alright with the dealer, now I have to talk to the supplier. Uncasville is where my bank is. So I went there and withdrew the requisite cash. A hundred bucks. Small bills. Unmarked. Unscented. Unfazed. This was the payoff for the Feds. Well, the States, actually. The Feds haven’t wised up yet, stupid Feds. There is an actual department of money laundering at the State capital for this thing. Groovy. It’s about time they just admit that they’re all corrupt. Everyone knows that, anyway.

I found the joint with the joints down the road, almost to where the old drive in theater in Montville stood. Old stomping grounds. It’s called Thames Valley Alternative Relief. Perfect. Make it sound respectable. It was in a little mall with an accountant, a pizza place, and some other places. Mom and Pop. The inside smelled. Hmm. Familiar. Soothing, even. Like the music teacher’s office.

I went up to the window. People were in the waiting room. Every once in a while the bouncer would open the door and call someone in. I guess it’s by invite only. Good to know. You don’t want to bump into your proctologist or priest or someone. I let them know that I wanted to get my picture taken for the Medical Marijuana card. They were more than happy to help. Too happy, I thought. What are they on? Oh, ya. Right.

I gave them my driver’s license and registration. The registration was expired as of last October and I, of course, had not put the renewal in my glove compartment. They said that they basically just need something to show that I am a resident of Connecticut. My driver’s license doesn’t show that? Apparently not. If the State doesn’t recognize the State as a valid validation validator of valid residence, who can you trust? I had the receipt from the bank withdrawal I had just made. That had my home address on it. Today’s date. Nothing expiry about that. So I brought that back in and feigned ignorance. OK. I pretended ignorance. Fine, I am ignorance. Happy now?

They said they’d call the Staties and see if that was acceptable. They are very particular, you know. Oh, ya. They’re like that. In the mean time I got a sheet of ‘menu’ items that they sell. They’ve got dried Flower, 3.5 grams unless noted otherwise. Solid Concentrates for Inhalation. CBD cartridges. THC cartridges. Ooooh. Wild berry! Tinctures, Sprays, Syringes, Medibles (whatever those are,) Capsules and Tablets, Topicals and Honey. Oooh. That gives me an idea. I could be way ahead in the honey market!

While I frillied away in my Child’s Garden of Grass, they got back to me on my residential status. Someone (Bob?) came out and said that the State would accept a bank statement as proof of residence. They should, it is the State’s own credit union, after all. I just looked humbled.

So he ushered me into the holy room, one step closer to nirvana. He took my picture. Nah, that looks hideous. He took it again. Well, less hideous. That’ll do. They created an account for me on some State website or other. I had to get an email and approve it. And they spelled my name wrong. Oops. We’ll fix that. In two or three weeks you will receive an email with a temporary certificate. At that time, give us a call and we will set up an appointment for you to come down and talk to our pharmacist (that’s what they call them?) to show you the (hemp) ropes. Can’t wait. Just in time for my heart surgery.

I owed the Staties fifty bucks for my privilege of smoking a weed that grows abandonly if left on its own. So I got out the two fifties I got from my bank, that same bank whose bank statement saved me from an expired car registration, and gave it in payment. Well, this time they didn’t take cash. Since it was going to the state, they needed a credit card or a check, presumably from that same bank that just got me out of weed trouble. OK. I’ve got my Visa right here. I don’t normally carry that much cash on me. I’m afraid I might rob myself. You can’t be too careful with shady characters, especially when they’re hanging around shady joints like this.

On my way out a girl at the computer told me that they are relocating in a week. This place is too small, so they are moving a mile or so down the road. Good to know. I wouldn’t want to come back when I get my curriculum vitae and find the place busted!

It’s a sketchy business, you know. But it smells nice.

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