Two Bongs Don't Make a Right
If you know me, you know I am no stranger to the dark corners of juvenile delinquency. You might remember the national headlines from 1997: Teenager Arrested for Loitering.
No?
Jeez, do you pay much rent living under that rock? Okay, I’ll refresh your memory. Seventeen year old Patrick was hanging around the parking lot of his hometown’s only pizza parlor on a Friday evening, talking to friends—neither causing a ruckus, drinking beer (big brothers and fake IDs were a thin commodity in 1997) or having a backseat wrestling match with a cheerleader (you’ll also recall that in 1997, boys who neither caused a ruckus or scored beer got laid).
This was back when the internet was little more than a sonogram photo of the wild child it would quickly become, cell phones were for Zach Morris and TiVo was the name of that foreign exchange student who smelled funny. I lived in a small town and had no choice but to take pleasure in particularly Amish delights like standing and chatting with other humans.
Not exactly public enemy-type activities. But, of course, our town’s sole policeman didn’t agree.
It must have been a slow night because he screeched into the parking lot with flashers blazing. Young Pat was charged with loitering, but would soon beat this rap by defending himself in court with the now famous “Wensink Defense #1”. Basically stating to the judge I was not loitering because I was going to leave eventually. Mom and dad have HBO and everyone knows the dirty movies were bound to start soon.
This previous brush with the wrong side of the law recently came back to the foreground of my mind in disturbing fashion after my wife and I ran into America’s new generation of juvenile shenanigans. The only loitering, however, was done by a potted plant.
If you guessed the neighbor boy (also seventeen) decided he’d try growing marijuana on our garage roof, you get the golden pot leaf for the day.
Okay, stop right there, smart-ass. I realize I’m no longer seventeen and might be a little out of touch with what young bucks do for fun (such as grass growing on other people’s property). I couldn’t name a Lady Gaga tune if it was tattooed on my wife’s arm, the internet is getting harder and harder for me to understand and I actually found hair growing out of my ears the other day. But it’s difficult not to think we’re going to be doomed because today’s juvenile delinquents are getting remarkably dumber.
Remember, this is coming from a guy who was arrested for standing. I know a thing or two about dumb crime.
The fifth of July was a sweet one this year because Uncle Sam’s birthday fell on a Sunday, meaning there was no work that Monday. Like any red, white and blue blooded American man, I called my mommy that day. Midway through our chat I told Mamma-W I had to let her go, something weird was on the garage roof.
Keep in mind, our one-car garage is in the back yard, has a flat roof and is no more than eight feet tall. So it’s pretty obvious when there’s a large green flower pot atop it. A flower pot we didn’t own.
My wife and I had been cautioned by a neighbor weeks earlier that the boy a few doors down had been getting into back yards and acting suspicious. This fella had dropped out of school and was unemployed, which apparently left a lot of free time to roam the wide open spaces of Louisville.
Those spaces seemed to include our garage roof.
While not the greatest student or job-holder, this criminal genius must be an excellent climber. And, for that matter, a decent horticulturist. Because when the wife dug out the ladder and got on the roof we discovered this wasn’t a bouquet of daisies—delivered to our roof by some FTD snafu—but, instead, something resembling Bob Marley’s garden.
Inside our little gift pot was, well, the gift of pot. I’ve never grown weed myself, but have seen enough Grateful Dead tapestries and Snoop Dogg albums to get an idea of what we’re dealing with.
Frankly, I was a little jealous of our neighborhood Tony Montana. This kid’s growing hearty crops and, meanwhile, I can’t grow cherry tomatoes (still legal in Kentucky, last time I checked) to save my life.
I’m sure a lot of people would have yipped for joy and started cycling through brownie recipes before getting this little bundle of joy down from the garage. But we decided to be good citizens (also known as squares) and phone the authorities.
In the interim minutes, our initial head-scratching about how this thing got there wore off. In its place we were left with a strong suspicion it was the neighbor boy and then a migraine-inducing amount of confusion about this little criminal mastermind’s intelligence level.
“Really?” was all we could say. “On what planet does he think someone fails to notice a flower pot on their garage?”
Back in 1997—when I was loitering up a storm—we heard about this kind of stuff. Guys with fluorescent lights and hydroponic greenhouses in their closet. Or some secret clearing in the woods supposedly flush with green gold. But a neighbor’s roof? Come on, even the kid arrested for loitering knew better.
I try to be an open-minded dude. If you want to grow weed, knock yourself out. But, me, I have my hands full with a rotting crop of cherry tomatoes, so I don’t really want my garage being used to rub my nose in someone else’s agriculture success.
I’m not upset about the drugs aspect at all. Lil’ Einstein could have just as easily been hiding stolen diamonds in that flower pot and I’d be equally disturbed. It’s just insulting to assume I’m that dumb or out of touch not to know what was going on.
Our confusion just kept repeating as our jaws dropped a little further. “Really, dude? You’re just going to hop on our roof and grow pot? Maybe you’d like use our cats as heroin mules? Or raise magic mushrooms in my closet—probably not the only fungus down there.”
“Mi casa es su casa.” Go nuts.
The portly, good-humored police officer soon arrived, climbed the ladder and informed us: “well, it sure looks like marijuana. But, of course, we can’t be sure until we smoke it.”
Instead of finding a bong and digging out a couple Phish albums, the officer proceeded to call about six other cops and drug detectives to my yard. A quick tour of the back alley revealed two similar growing operations in an elderly neighbor’s yard. Our street was suddenly turning into Little Jamaica.
The police seemed just as perplexed as my wife and I. “Really? Are ya kidding me? We’re not entrepreneurs, but growing pot on a neighbor’s garage roof isn’t exactly sound business.” Our neighborhood Johnny Appleseed wasn’t going to be on the cover of High Times anytime soon.
Eventually, two detectives moseyed over to the boy’s house for what they called, “a knock-and-talk.” Beaver Cleaver, unfortunately, wasn’t home. I’m sure he was reading Bible verses to senior citizens or, at the very least, at the library studying for the SAT.
The police did, however, take a little tour and uncovered (big shock) a small cash crop also growing in his bedroom. Apparently, my garage was this kid’s Overstock Department. They also removed a fair number of firearms.
At that point, the cops stopped updating us with the investigation. My assumption is that things aren’t going to go too well for Cheech & Chong Jr.. My first reaction was “good riddance” and I hope this kid gets in some serious trouble for dragging me into this mess.
But then I felt guilty. No matter how misguided his world already is, I might have inadvertently screwed it even further. I hope not. I’m a big believer in redemption and this kid’s life is far from over, considering the slap on the wrist he’ll likely get. But I’m a little worried, not only for this dufus, but all the other boneheaded teenagers too.
Ideally, this teen will soon grow up and probably get a job. And I hope he makes something good happen. Given his clearly stellar IQ and propensity for narcotics, he’s already on the fast-track to holding public office. [FAST FACT: many politicians got their start as criminals. Herbert Hoover was a notorious horse thief, John Quincy Adams paid for college as a male prostitute and Abe Lincoln built the world’s first meth lab in a one-room log cabin] But even if he’s fixing plumbing or replacing brake pads in the future, those are important jobs, jobs I don’t want a complete moron handling. So, I’ve got some gnawing worries about the nation’s weak criminal element. Smart kids tend to land on their feet in some manner of speaking, but how will the world be when it’s run by guys who think elevating a weed growing business in the air eight feet is plenty clandestine enough?
There’s probably nothing to worry about. Today’s juvenile delinquents are most likely just as smart as yesterday’s loiterers. I think I’m just getting old and mean. Frankly, I want this kid to succeed in something other than converting my garage to a greenhouse and hope he turns it around. Anything is possible. Take it from a guy who was arrested for simply standing around: when you do something moronic, there’s nowhere to go but up.
