Anatomy of an Active Stoner 3: The Charity Banquet

Previously on Anatomy of an Active Stoner:

• Episode 1
• Episode 2

Saturday night, 7:30

A generic Android ringtone pulls me out of my reverie. I look at the Dr.Dre Chronic 2001 clock on my wall.

What the hell?!

Time flies when you get lost in the ocean of your mind. I had been writing content for the business, pacing around the room like a madman as my cerebral wheels spun visions crafted into words by my hands.

There must be some metaphysical hack that stems directly from your brain and influences the minutes around you, whether you travel abroad having the time of your life only to wake up in your bed wondering how the trip finished so fast, or find yourself locked in a classroom, watching the clock move backward. Maybe the future gamer playing this human simulation loves to mess with my ass by messing with the flow of time, who knows?

I dislike phone calls and tend to ignore them, especially on a Saturday night, but this one came from my top client Bruce.

"Hey, Bruce what's up?"

"I'm picking you up in fifteen minutes; I got us tickets to a charity gala downtown, there is someone I'd like you to meet."

Bruce was a merchant from the south who had made his fortune after selling his online store to a group of Asian investors a decade ago and now dabbled in a plethora of international ventures.

"I don't know man, sounds pretty lame."

There is nothing worse than spending a Saturday night locked up with a pack of one-percenters in tuxedos and hear them lament on matters like minimum wage or the awful experience they had at a luxury resort in Gibraltar.

I had always felt the need to over network in the earlier years of my career, an eager drive to meet more clients and increase revenue, but I lost precious sleep and resources wandering around these galas, hopping from one prospect to the next, trying to make the best impression and leave my business card.

Making new clients is a matter of enthusiasm. The real challenge is finding the right ones for your venture; these events often reaped the wrong type of crowd. I would much rather stay in and work on improving my set business relationships, either by refining the product or creating new content, then reap references from my happier clients.

But you ought to put on your party shoes when a top income source decides to go out and introduce you to his friends.

"Nonsense, you stoner. This event will be a night to remember, and, there's an open bar. Be ready in ten, wear a tie." He hangs up.

Ten minutes in Bruce-time means I have about an hour to get ready.

The thought of free flowing alcohol sends shivers down my spine. What ever happened to All you can smoke? Everybody would be out by midnight, well fed after a night of giggles and fruitful conversations.

Many of my life's awful decisions happened under the influence of alcohol. They say weed is a gateway drug, but apparently whoever came up with that utter bullshit never went out drinking with masters of the universe like Bruce Abbot. The worst that's ever happened to me after a few joints too many were passing out early or forgetting the topic of conversation mid-sentence.

I slide my black loafers, wrap a dark red Canali tie with a double Windsor knot on a white dress shirt, covered by a charcoal suit tailored by my man Roger from the fashion district.

I pay half the price for designer suits just by visiting the garment factories in the north of the city, where none of the sharks attending tonight would ever step foot, and cutting deals with importers directly.

Roger was a poet of all things suits who never failed to dress me like a million dollars.

I never cheap out on ties, though, for they are the centerpiece of an outfit like Superman's S on his chest. An ugly neck-piece will ruin any suit, no matter the price, while quality can make your Salvation Army outfit look Italian-made, so long as it is well fitted.

These high-end sharks can smell poor tie choice from a mile away, which leaves a sour-taste in their mouths when you hand them your business cards.

My experience teaching wealthy clients to exercise brought me several pearls of wisdom earlier in my career that I still apply on a daily basis today.

I take the dog out of a fast walk and arrive as Bruce's black Mercedez G65 pulls into my driveway, a four wheeled monster he purchased from some Sheikh in Dubai two years ago. You could invade Yemen with such machinery.

He honks twice. The tall, broad mustached man greets me with a solid handshake as I step into the vehicle.

"How do you do, motherfucker? "

The Charity Banquet

We arrive at the venue in half the time any decent human being would take to cover the distance. Bruce pulls out a nicely rolled bastone after handing the valet his keys.

"You have to try this new strain my botanist designed. This guy's thumb is so green you would think he shoved it up a leprechaun's ass."

He lights the monstrosity, inhales three big puffs, and exhales into his nostrils, straight out of a Snoop Dogg video. My turn comes. The smoke seeps from my lungs into my blood stream to light up my cannabinoid receptors like a Christmas tree. You can tell this is quality botany after one toke only.

"What are you going to call this?"

"No idea, I thought you could help me out, you're usually pretty good with creative shit like this. Feel it out tonight and let me know."

The weed is definitively a sativa hybrid since my brain started working out immediately, sparking vivid pictures on the screen of my imagination with a slight sense of exaltation. I knew this would serve me well through the storm of small talk coming ahead.

We step into the hall. The scene is how you would imagine; Ice swan sculptures, distant rumble and fake laughter, over clanging wine glasses and an orchestra, men, and women of high nobility hanging awkwardly, as if someone had shoved a stick up their asses. The air reeks of expensive cologne and perfume with the hint of a scam.

Nobody wants to be here, which is why open bars are standard procedures in these events, but the dire need to display one's capital to other wealthy counterparts inspires these profit sniffers like nothing else in the world.

The charity is for cancer, although most of the night's income will pay for the chairman's salary, his travel expenses, a chauffeur, and slip into the pockets of the other board members, who all contributed to launder their dirty money. The rest will cover the organizing committee led by the chairman's wife, the over the top decor, all the wasted food that will hit the bottom of a dumpster at the end of the night, and the boatload of alcohol to fill up everyone's livers.

A small fragment of the earnings would go into research.

"Would you like to donate to the cause, sir?" asks one of the staff.

"No thanks, but I'll slide a hundred in the chairman's pockets if I run into him tonight". She gives me a weird look- The weed seems to fuel my wits.

Bruce takes us to our table.

"I'm going to go mingle with some of these pigs. Can you handle the show without me for awhile?"

His question is rhetorical.

I find myself seated at a table with seven other guests. The woman next to me strikes up a conversation. She has an open back powder blue dress, several layers of plastic surgery on her face, and smells like a blend of Chanel and Tanqueray.

"My husband is on the Board of directors for this event."

So glad I asked.

"Is that so?"

"He's a senior executive at Bronson & Son, do you know the Chairman? He and his wife come to the beach villa every summer, they are good friends of ours."

Her gaze is empty, soulless, drowned in a cocktail of spirits and prescription medication. Her husband is nowhere to be seen, probably out railing lines of blow in the bathroom with one of the many escorts in attendance.

"No, I am afraid not, although I'm sure he's a stand-up guy."

"What do you do?"

There it is: the ultimate probe for her to classify me.

"I wake up early in the morning, and let the rest happen on its own."

My table neighbor is not amused.

"No I mean, for money?"

"Oh, pardon me - I'm a business owner."

"What kind of business? "

I give a vague explanation, hoping to end the small talk at once.

"That's cute, you didn't want to be a lawyer or a doctor? You know, a real job. Hey, do you smell The Pot? Must be one of the colored waiters."

For fuck's sake clueless woman, listen to yourself. That's my cue to get some food.

The buffet offers a broad selection of delicacies designed by a nutritionist to fit within an alleged cancer-free lifestyle: Limited meat, fish, tons of soy derivatives, whole-grain bread and pasta, low-fat dairy products and a dessert table bigger than a football field.

I stock up on the little filet mignon available, enough to feed a small army, another plate of sushi, and some vegetables. My appetite rumbles from within, both of my legs wobbly from the workout, begging for nourishment. High volume training requires intensive feeding, and this weed enhanced the hunger experience big time.

I bless the animals that died for this meal, who will rejoice reincarnating into human leg muscles. Bruce comes back with a glass of Glenlivet double wood.

"Here you go good sir, single malt liquor aged eighteen years for you to enjoy. How do you find the green?"

I stare into my empty plate. "Still hungry. "

"Still hungry? That's the best name ever! How do you come up with shit like this?! I have been chowing down food like it's my business. This grass will be great for people with appetite disorders."

His loud voice disturbs an otherwise boring table.

"Listen, let's go meet my friend. She has neck pain coming out of her ears and could use your help. Her self-made fortune and industry contacts would be beneficial for your business."

My exercise science background allows me to fix people's chronic pains before even mentioning my venture, which sets the tone for a solid relationship afterward. People are more than willing to invest in your vision when you rid them of their daily, soul draining injury first.

To be continued...

Disclaimer: This is not a promotion of marijuana as a solution for anything nor an invitation to partake, but rather a demonstration that a healthy optimal lifestyle can include smoking up.

In case you missed it:

• Episode 1
• Episode 2