Mad Atoms

I’m involved with an older man.  My boss actually.  Each week, we secretly meet outside of work, behind closed doors, away from the prying eyes of the world.  Though ours is not a rendezvous of the heart.  No, what we share is more special than clandestine candle lit dinners, fine wine on a beach, or roses petals on pillows.  We smoke pot together, and after hours, behind our coworker’s backs, the two of us eat terrible food, play video games, and watch Adult Swim reruns: my boss and I are in a weed affair.  

I forget who said it—either Plato or Jesus, but some dead blabber-mouth advised someone else to never dip one’s pen in the company ink.  Nowhere in the great annals of advice though does it say anything against filling your lungs with the company dank  (eh? eh?).  I must say, befriending an authority figure is dangerous--especially when illicit drugs are the relationship’s foundation, and double-especially when you depend on your boss’ medical marijuana card to secure said substances; but then again, it’s that same danger that makes our discreet stonerhood so fun.   

My keyboard poking coworkers could never understand the passion of our codified marijuana-speak, the thrill-filled winks and raised eyebrows over questions like “how was that new gasoline last night?” While the rest of the workplace is busy recounting the previous night’s episode of “Glee,” we’re exchanging giddy texts like “…meet by the dumpster…BUDdy.”  

Under the noses of our officemates, we’re placing eighths of “AK-47,” in a used Sour Cream n’ Cheddar Ruffles bag to mask the scent of our private pot swap. Because if this were to ever get out, my manager would undoubtedly disown me—or worse, I would lose access to an affordable means of securing that new strain of “Green Kong.”

One may feel I am taking advantage of my 35 year-old boss’ need to relive his post collegiate glory days by my consistent smoking of his weed and enjoying of his videogames.  Hey, I’m only playing a part baby, just like every other survivor in this big blue hustle known as Earth.  I’m a weed hooker, only I get paid in good times.  But I’ll tell you what I’m not: a fool.  It’s only a matter of mooch-saturated hangouts before my boss realizes the true nature of our relationship and I start back-sassin’ for being ordered to do stuff at work, when nine hours prior we were slouched side by side in a dim glow and green haze, partnered in virtual zombie battle.   Eventually, we’ll revert back to the regular boss-employee dynamic, and another shady friendship will dry up and disappear like so many far off stars, dead before their light even reaches human eyes.   

[Editor’s note: We do not condone any anti-drug ads that Google adsense may be running on this page. We do condone you clicking on them anyway, for laughs.]