Here Comes the Sheriff

It was an average day at work for me at the cannabis lounge. The black table was clean and shiny minus a few industry stickers here and there. Lighters, bongs, rigs, alcohol wipes, q-tips, and dab tools are arranged in the center of the table on a lazy-susan. The papers were neatly arranged on a tray, all different brands to choose from, but Juicy Jay's are my favorite. It felt like a cotton candy paper kinda doobie, perfect for a wake-n-bake. Across the table was a regular who I toked with every morning before they headed to work.

I twisted up a nice fatty the size of my thumb and sparked the tip and gently inhale. The pyro in me loves to watch the paper ignite and burn up onto the herb. I love watching the smoke dancing in the morning sunbeams throughout the lounge. I love the way a fat doobie feels between my fingers, crinkly, slightly stiff and sturdy, yet delicate and soft.

I ash the doob, passing it to my left and my gaze wanders over to my Sour Zong, my baby, my favorite dab rig. She is a collector piece from my teenage memories, way back when the companies Sour and Zong collaborated and made the greatest pieces together. She stands about 18 inches tall with quite a few curves, thin blue ribbons decorate the base and mouthpiece. She packs quite a hit when you fire her up and is now modified to be a dab rig, she is the queen of my collection.

I reach over and pull her close to me, firing up the torch, watching the dab nail turn a nice orange-red glow, ready to go. I switch off the torch and dip my dab tool gently in some nice White 99 butter wax. Like the universe was waiting for the exact moment to be right, as I inserted the dab into the nail and inhaled, the door opened, the morning sun slightly blinding me leaving only an outline of a figure. I figure I knew all too well... the police. I blew out my dab, watching in my dismay as the vapors are sucked towards the door right at the Sheriff. To my left, my regular member quietly leaves the table and moves to the club's other room, coward.

I flash an embarrassed grin, apologizing for the smoke, walking toward the Sheriff. I put on my most professional face and look him dead in the eye and say, "Hello officer, have you been here before? You must have a membership to enter, we are a private club." I hear a muffled laugh from the coward in the other room.

Turns out the officer is a local Sheriff who is in charge of a team of officers and coordinates training sessions. He had stopped by because he heard about the club and thought it would be a good place to drop in and learn about this new thing called 'dabbing'. He did not want his officers showing up at a scene and mistake cannabis use for other illicit drugs, which could unnecessarily escalate the situation. There is no reason to call in CPS because some dabs were in the house, versus meth.

I was admittedly, a little taken back by this request, as I had only had negative experiences in my past with law enforcement concerning cannabis. Never in my life thought I would be the one in a position to teach a lesson about cannabis to a cop. To my left, my customer suddenly reappeared like smoke, so did my doobie.

For about an hour or so we sat at the table and went over all the tools, rigs, nails, torches, butane, and containers that were of normal use during a dab session. As more regular members arrived with various types of concentrates, they too were eager to pitch in on the lesson. A few startled new members watched in awe as a sheriff sat with a table full of stoners, chatting with them as they dabbed. It was a great day.

DISCLAIMER: The Sheriff never consumed while on location or in my presence. He was strictly there for learning purposes, not consumption. However, I can not attest to if he got a contact high. I do not believe one can get a contact high off dab vapors. My doobie tho is another story.