Kim finishes mopping the kitchen and squeezes the water out onto the garden of marijuana sprouts.
“Hey,” calls Radiohead Robert from his decrepit lawn chair, “Don’t drown my babies.”
“They’re going to get us all in trouble, Robert.”
Robert is annoyed that Kim would suggest the risks are not worth the benefits. Smoking reefer is a holy act, a sacred tradition that is bigger than the police or the feds or the idiot mayor who is in bed with the prison contractors. Kim is annoyed that Robert would ignore the fact that pot is a powerful drug and to suggest it is suitable for everyone is pure ignorance. Some people benefit from lithium. But if you gave everyone lithium then you would have serious trouble. But no, a hippie tells you that pot is some kind of miracle drug and every deadhead in ten yards thinks it’s a doctor’s prescription. Hardly! More than half of those who smoke pot are completely incapacitated by it and suffer long term mental deterioration because of it. But the nature of the drug makes the deterioration hard to associate with the drug. It disguises itself as awareness of other factors like the police and the government. They’re the problem! One bong follows another and the kid’s ambition and ability to reason fades completely. The drug keeps him in a state of hypersensitive paranoia that he thinks is enlightenment. It’s a drug! Medicinal for some and totally debilitating for others. And Radiohead Robert thinks living in a scrap wood shack and broadcasting political rants authorizes him to prescribe drugs to everyone.
“You know, Robert, some of the kids at the meals need education more than they need to get high. In fact, getting them high is the worst thing you can do for them. They…”
“Relax, Kim. I don’t get anybody high. If they don’t smoke with me then they’ll smoke with someone else who’ll molest them. Is that what you want?”
“That’s not sound reasoning. You’re making a post hoc fallacy by projecting a worse conclusion as a substitute for your bad conclusion. They are equally bad and you can’t…”
“Blah blah blah. Why are we even arguing?”
Robert rubs his neck with his meaty hand. The revolution lost its power when the infighting started. Kim suspects this is what Robert is thinking.
“Because we have to reach consensus. The movement isn’t unified yet because we’re fractured into a thousand little movements. One part wants pot legalized. One part wants homelessness decriminalized. One part wants better housing, better health care, more representation, less money politics, women’s rights, immigrant’s rights, end the police state, more local agriculture, fewer chain stores…”
“I get your point. And that’s what the people want. And you got a magic wand that’s going to unite everyone?”
“Do I? Do I? Yes, Robert, I do.”
“Ok, good. Wave your magic wand.”
Robert traces a circle in the smoke he blows out of his mouth.
“Shazzam! The whole world is dancing to Kim’s tune. Oh, what a load of bullshit! Magic wand! Ha!”
“Bullshit to you, maybe. But I’m serious. Organization is what we lack because everyone is fucking stoned or drunk. Damn LSD killed the counterculture revolution is 1968. Why do you think the government was doing the tests?”
“Because they all out to get us,” mocks Robert as his eyes dart to the overgrown edges of the lawn where DEA agents could easily disguise themselves as bushes or hide in the overflowing trashcans.
“They don’t have to get us, Robert. They merely need to plant the poisons will keep us disorganized and quarrelling. This is how it’s always worked: The ruling class protects power by allowing the working class just enough freedom to destroy themselves with. In our case it’s freedom to argue about a fucking weed!”
“That weed brings people together. It unifies the counterculture revolution like…like the magic wand you think you have.” Robert holds up the joint he’s smoking like a torch to the heavens. “This makes family.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. You’ve got your counter culture revolution. And I’m talking about mental liberation.”
Kim sighs and grinds her teeth when she feels she isn’t communicating. Robert notices this and is immensely satisfied that he has irritated her. He deliberately picks something out of his teeth with a yellowed fingernail to demonstrate his disdain.
Kim’s neck tendons bulge as her blood pressure reaches maximum velocity. “Ok. I’m getting angry and I can’t continue this conversation. You need to get your facts straight. This isn’t my revolution. I’m taking part in something that you only see from the outside. You aren’t being helpful. I mean, I feel neglected and ignored. It’s important that when I have meetings with other people they aren’t daydreaming or fixating on the sound of a retractable pen. Why isn’t that clear?”
”Whatever. Just don’t destroy my plants. Please. I work on them all winter in the greenhouse and you dump your dishwater on them. Be considerate.”
“Considerate? When have I ever not been considerate?”
”Just now when you tossed your dirty water on my smoke. I know you’re doing it on purpose to fuck with me but I’m not playing your games. I’m not passive. I’ll fight back.”
“See, these are the disagreements we can’t afford.”
Kim turns around and stomps back into the house.
