It was the summer of seventh grade (1994). Me and Santos had tickets to go to the third Lollapalooza with my brother and his friends at Bicentennial Park Miami. We knew that the one thing we absolutely needed for the show was some weed.
We spent the next few weeks searching relentlessly like a man, lost in a dessert, does for water. We looked between the grains of sand, under rocks, behind the clouds and came up short just the same.
Finally, something happened in our favor. An eighth grader, to whom I will only refer to as Jay, told us he could get us some. We were ecstatic. We scraped up $20.00 (we had no idea how much it cost) and we met Jay in a parking lot at the Falls shopping mall. It was dim and the only sound was the buzz of the fluorescent lights.
Jay handed us a small plastic bag, and we gave him several wadded-up bills. However, upon examining what we’d bought, even without having ever previously possessed weed, we were almost positive that we were duped and sold something else.
The contents of the bag were mostly red, gold, and brown and smelled like some half empty jar from my mother’s spice cabinet. Of course, we confronted Jay about this. He told us, “no worries,” that it probably wasn’t the highest quality stuff but that it would get us high. We, somehow, were satisfied by his response.
We spent the next few days examining the contents as forensic scientist do a hair from a crime scene. We smelled it, tasted it, conservatively stuffed a little into the end of a cigarette and smoked it. NOTHING.
We knew what we had purchased wasn’t weed but the final confirmation came when we asked one of my brother’s friends to roll us a joint with the stuff and he laughed at us, saying, “Sorry dudes, but you guys got gypped…” We had failed our mission, but Smashing Pumpkins was about to come on stage, and we were still on the prowl at the concert…
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