Senior sedan embarks on medical pot odyssey

Things sure have changed in the pot world over the past 45 years. In college, in order to score a joint, one had to have a friend who had a friend who had a friend and on and on.

Fast-forward to present-day San Diego — a typical day in Hillcrest where three atypical seniors (two retired attorneys and one retired paralegal) are lunching at the India Palace.

Paula suggests that we go to a clinic to get some medical marijuana. She has trouble sleeping and remembers how well she slept, back in the day, when she had a few tokes before bed. Her husband offers that he has a bit of a tremor that might be remedied by some pot, and I decide it might be just the thing for my sciatica.

Enjoying the freedom of retirement and no longer worrying about what others think, we decided to go for it and explore the world of medical pot. A quick smartphone internet search showed a clinic in nearby North Park on Adams Avenue. Sated from our Indian buffet lunch, we piled into our “senior sedan” and headed to the clinic. Parking was easy on a Tuesday afternoon.

The clinic blended in with the commercial street without calling attention to itself. The door was windowless and there was no sign. We walked in and were greeted by a 20something young man with a ponytail. He asked for our driver’s licenses, which he copied, and then handed each of us a clipboard with three pages of questions regarding our medical conditions. Ponytail told us that the appointment was $40.

We took our clipboards and sat on three of the numerous industrial-green metal folding chairs that surrounded the open room. There were about ten other people filling out their questionnaires. I noticed that they were all Caucasian, clean-cut in appearance, and looked to be in their 30s, 40s, and 50s. The three of us seniors completed the picture, adding the 60s to the demographic.

The waiting room was plain except for a few framed photos of Bob Marley and marijuana leaves on off-white cracked plaster walls. In addition to Ponytail, there was a young, pretty blonde woman at a desk taking payments and issuing medical marijuana certificates (the doctor’s statement required by CA law).

I felt giddy, like a kid goofing around in church. Paula joked about how funny it was to fill out a questionnaire where we could say “yes” to so many conditions of malaise. Given the number of issues we identified, scoring some dope would be a cinch.

When I finished my form, I took it to Ponytail, who promptly took my pulse. Even though it seemed my heart was beating fast, he didn’t bat an eye, reporting back that all was well as he knocked on the door of the clinic’s physician and entered with my completed medical questionnaire and blood-pressure reading.

He then escorted me into the doctor’s office. I sat across from an elegant, large, black woman who introduced herself with a French accent (I guessed she was Haitian). She was warm and charming, but I couldn’t help thinking of Marie Laveau and that song about voodoo. The doctor told me about her sister who had suffered greatly from cancer and how that experience led her into her helping others gain access to the soothing and curative powers of medical marijuana.

She asked me about my sciatica and what I had done for treatment. I told her about my use of massage, ibuprofen, and walking to lessen my symptoms. She inquired as to the effect of these treatments, and I told her that they helped a bit but I was hopeful that marijuana would be more helpful. She agreed that it would likely help my problem and wrote out a script.

She then gave me a three-fold pamphlet that described three types of marijuana: Indica to be used for body effects, Sativa to be used for mind effects, and the hybrid of both to be used for a combination. Having recently struggled to lose 20 pounds, I asked how to avoid the munchies. She advised that all three types enhance appetite so she suggested eating a meal before use. She then gave me a couple business cards with information on where to purchase my medicine.

About five minutes after it began, my interview ended and I took my paper to the blonde woman who takes the money and issues the certificates. She advised me that an additional $10 would buy me a wallet-size laminated certificate. I decided to go for broke and buy one to add to my other important cards filling my wallet.

Soon Paula and Val followed – each also deciding to purchase the wallet-size memento. No more than 45 minutes after we’d arrived, we walked out of the clinic with our new certificates authorizing us to buy and use marijuana. How civil it all was — so much nicer than hiding in back alleys and staring over your should to avoid detection and having to stuff towels at the bottom crevice of the door to avoid odor detection by neighbors who might be “narcs.”

When we left, I wondered, “now what?” I had thought that this would be a one-stop shop — not realizing that actually buying the stuff would be yet another adventure. We decided to go to Paula and Val’s place to research what to do next. We called the number on one of the cards from the clinic. A young man answered and we explained our desire to purchase medical marijuana.

He explained that he would come to us and bring a variety of options. Less than an hour later, a young man named Ahmed, who appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, arrived with a large black cooler-type bag containing the stash. He displayed numerous plastic medicine bottles of pot. I was totally confused by all the options and their curative powers.

Unlike medicine, the labels had names such as “Animal Cookies,” “White Widow,” and “Pineapple Express.” It occurred to me that picking my pot was like picking a racehorse: rather than research the benefits of the horse (or the pot), I settled on the name I liked best, choosing “Animal Cookies” for my first four-gram container. One container was $50 but there was a 20 percent discount for purchasing four containers. Val and Paula decided to take advantage of the discount and bought four different kinds. Because we were first-time customers, we were each given the option of a THC-infused Rice Krispies Treat, a brownie, or a rolled joint.

The only thing left was to get a bong for a more comfortable smoke. Paula suggested we head to a smoke shop a few blocks away on University Avenue.

It was a good idea. The shop had lots of options, albeit somewhat expensive. I decided on a “starter bong” made of purple (my favorite color) plastic. Paula reminded me to get a lighter so as not to burn my fingers with matches.

All set after my afternoon odyssey, I hugged Paula goodbye and walked home laughing to myself, thinking about my crazy old lady afternoon. Scoring pot in California at 65 is a lot more fun than doing so at 21 in the Midwest. By the way, my sciatica is much improved!