Take Your Cane, It Makes You Look Sicker

My high school friend Craig Marquis was the valet parker at Rubini’s restaurant, an older-than-old-school Italian restaurant on the outskirts of Fairfax, California. I smile when I write outskirts and Fairfax in the same sentence. To be certain, Rubini’s was indeed on the fringe of the town proper. At the same time, Fairfax itself remains endearingly on the outskirts of conventional thought and behavior.

Rubini’s was one of many Italian joints that served a large Italian American population and their allies, some of whom had been in Marin County for generations, others who came on weekends until the 1906 earthquake made San Francisco a shakier place to raise the family. In close proximity you had Deer Park Villa, Buon Gusto Villa and Rubini’s, not to mention a handful of saloons—all run by large and generous Italian families quite expert in serving too much food and alcohol.

As I recall, Rubini’s was a nondescript establishment physically, save for its view of the creek and a piano bar. It had a massive parking lot, half black top and half dead grass and dirt. Craig’s job, which I substituted for occasionally, was simple. He’d park his truck near the entrance and hang out listening to the Grateful Dead in his long white valet coat until a patron arrived, generally driving a large, late-model American sedan, mostly Buicks and Cadillacs. Craig would open the passenger door for the well-coiffed wife/mother/mistress, greet the patron and exchange a ticket for the keys.

Once the guests were safely in the restaurant, he’d drive the car out to the dirt, spin a few donuts and park the car as close to the restaurant entrance as possible. Once the customers finished their meal, Craig would back the car several feet from the parking place to the valet kiosk, open the doors and thank the driver for the buck or two tip.

When the restaurant stopped serving, the piano bar would continue on for several dreary hours. Then, you’d take the remaining keys into the bar and try to match them with their owners, who were often badly singing something by Tennessee Ernie Ford. Invariably, the men would try to buy you a drink in lieu of a tip and the women would ask you to sit down for a minute. The bartender would look on knowingly. You’d escape the piano bar gauntlet with a few lipstick smudges and about $15 in tips, which was enough to keep you in weed for the following week.

A Rubini’s valet shift was about four hours, 15 minutes of which were actual greeting and parking and the rest was sheer boredom. Craig broke up the time by taking the pounds of crappy 1970s-era dope he’d buy from a Rubini’s waiter and portion it into the one-ounce plastic baggies of leaf, seeds and stems we called lids. I’m pretty sure Craig’s operation used those lame fold-over sandwich bags because zip locks hadn’t been invented. Freshness didn’t really matter. Weed scientists didn’t understand active ingredients as they do today, so we got high by smoking so much you’d deprive your brain of oxygen.

Pot in a 1970s Marin County high school was like air. My Albany High School students were incredulous when I explained that the pot cloud that formed over the Drake High football field right after Labor Day persisted until graduation.

Berkeley in the late 1970s had the same pot feel as home, just without your parents around. Telegraph Avenue had head shops on every corner selling skull, vagina, boob and penis bongs.

With the arrival of work, family and kids and actual worries, my pot consumption waned, save for occasional visits from less responsible friends or sneaking off with my sister-in-law Jill when she was battling breast cancer.

I am 100 percent in favor of medical marijuana and think that the benefits of decriminalization and recreational use far outweigh the alternatives. Needless to say, pot is among the many issues about which Jeff Sessions (remember him?) and I disagree.

Of course, my feelings to date have been particularly abstract.

Right after starting my retirement in June 2017, I was diagnosed with melanoma. Shortly thereafter, I had several successful surgeries on my right leg to remove the growth and some lymph nodes. All appears clean thus far. Save for some discomfort, I have never really been in pain. The biggest pain, frankly, is realizing that I’m in my 60s and my physical recovery is slower than before.

The next step was a course of immune-drug therapy to minimize the risk of recurrence. These therapies are not without potential side effects, all of which seem to involve some form and degree of diarrhea. In my countless hours of introspection, I thought that it might be time think about medical pot as a potential way to ease any attendant side effects.

Like all else in this journey, my Primary Care Giver, known more commonly as my dear wife Ellin, is way ahead of me.

A contextual digression in on order here: Those of us who have been students or who are parents (or teachers) know the awkward feeling of the parent/teacher conference or the more advanced IEP/504 meeting. Students float above the room, like they are observing themselves, while adults speak about the student in the third person. Adults, even if they are sitting next to or facing the student, find it necessary and appropriate to speak about the student as if they are indeed floating above the meeting in some sort of limbo state, from which they may or may not return. If they do return, all sorts of plans have been decided for the student, generally without their input.

Nearly all discussions about my health care over the last few years have been conducted in a similar fashion. I am on my back, looking at the ceiling or averting my gaze altogether, while Primary Care Giver and myriad health care professionals consider my sutures, staples, drains, possible infections and my junk. I have had more women, known and strange, look at my balls in the last four years than in the previous 63 years.

While the main focus of concern was the various surgery sites, my “team” also conducted related discussions about my care as if I am not there. “The Q-tip should go six to seven inches into the drain site—force it if you have to. Drill baby drill!” “When flying, make sure Ned gets up every hour to walk around.” “He will feel a lot better now that 18 inches of surgical drain and these staples are out of his crotch.”

To add to the spectacle, Primary Care Giver and I visited my regular doctor to discuss additional constraints on my freedom. As I should have expected, Primary Care Giver waited until I was in the submissive position to pose her key question: “Do you think Ned would benefit from medical marijuana?”

Before the words were out of her mouth, my doctor had written the recommendation. His nurse quickly chimed in where to go and who to see. The office manager then showed us the best websites to explain the virtues of medical pot.

Suddenly, my healthcare team is all hovering over me in my frat house room in their wrinkled Led Zeppelin t-shirts extolling the virtues of sticky sinsemilla in a bong filled with Scope mouth wash.

Primary Care Giver was particularly interested in whether she, as Primary Care Giver, could pick up my “prescription” for me. My professional health care team assured her that with the proper paperwork she would have the same rights and privileges as me. I should note that Primary Care Giver’s gynecologist laughed at her when she asked about getting a pot card for the long-terms effects of menopause.

Primary Care Giver was insistent that we get the ball rolling at the Cannabis Buyer’s Club of Marin. As you have likely surmised, the CBC is in Fairfax, a short walk from the long-shuttered Rubini’s.

An artifact of this whole cancer thing is you find yourself saying or hearing things that you have never said or heard before. As she is hustling me out the door to go to the CBC, Primary Care Giver tells me, “Take your cane, it makes you look sicker.” This is a challenging command to react to, especially if you’ve never heard it before. Perhaps they indeed have a tribunal at the CBC that evaluates your relative sickness and if you indeed warrant medical pot. Maybe it’s like a bouncer looking stern at the doorway of one of many Fairfax saloons. Then I think that this can’t be possible—every kid at Albany High who wants one has a pot card.

Like everything else in this process, I acquiesce to Primary Care Giver and grab my cane.

The Marin CBC is on the grounds of a converted elementary school. Most California businesses are on the sites of abandoned public schools. As Primary Care Giver and I approach the dispensary, I hear a voice whispering, “hey baby boomer, we no longer need to educate you so here is some wicked pot to ease you into your dotage.”

We are greeted by Avis, who couldn’t be more welcoming and helpful. She is also right out of central casting for a Fairfax earth mother—long purple tie dye dress, Birkenstocks and a voice colored by her share of bourbon, cigarettes and a regular bong rip. Would love to hear her backstory.

Avis sits at a clean desk, covered only by some clipboards with dispensary applications and a copier. In the corner of the room is an ATM. After all, medical pot is a cash-only business.

I rest my cane on the front of the desk to make certain Avis knows I’m sick.

Avis explains that she can sign me up for the dispensary. However, due to changing state laws, I will also have to register at the county to get my Marin/California card. With a valid Marin/California card, I will pay a one percent tax on my prescriptions. Without a Marin/California card, I would be subject to the 30 percent recreational pot tax when retails dope sales start.

I see Primary Care Giver making the county appointment on her phone.

Avis explains that I do have 30 days to use the dispensary while my county paperwork is being processed. She takes my application, copies my physician recommendations and asks if my doctor is working on Saturday. When I explain I don’t think so, she says, “no big deal, we’ll call on Monday.” She then says now that the registration is over, “let’s go next door and meet your budtender, Justin.”

I grab my cane and hobble into the dispensary, my gait slowing measurably while my grimace worsens.

There are several customers ahead of me, so I sit down in one of several mismatched chairs, making certain that my budtender, Justin, sees my cane.

The dispensary looks like any other retail setting—a camera store, a card shop—any store selling lots of small high-value items. There are several white boards with long lists I don’t understand. The CBC also looks to sell its own merch, as it is called today—fancy ball caps with “California’s Finest” in huge embroidered letters. How did they know I am a native son?

There also look to be several chest refrigerators or freezers in the corner.

Justin is standing behind a simple glass display cabinet. Its shelves are lined with wicker baskets, some with small bottles and vials and jars. Some of the baskets are full of baggies with well-trimmed dope buds.

It is readily apparent that there are many more offerings than what Craig Marquis sold out of his truck at Rubini’s. Moreover, these customers really know their dope. The customer in front of me buys some cartridges for vaping. He and Justin have a long chat about the qualities of the strain and a bunch of other pot jargon that I don’t yet get.

My turn is next. I prop myself upon my cane and hobble to the counter. Justin looks me square in the eye, introduces himself and says, “welcome to the community.”

Justin has the tattoo sleeves and piercings required of all Fairfax service workers. I think he was wearing a Frankenstein t-shirt. Primary Care Giver thinks it was Herman Munster.

Justin says, “It looks like you will be starting some sort of treatment soon.”

I look over at Primary Care Giver who has suddenly gone silent. Thinking that I’m already in so deep, I figure I might as well go for it.

“Yes, I am going to start immunotherapy soon, and I am concerned about nausea, appetite and other side effects that have yet to present themselves. I’d like to stay ahead of the game if I could.”

When Justin mentioned community, he was not kidding. There are now half a dozen men in the dispensary, all hearing each word of our conversation. I gather medical pot dispensaries are not subject to HIPAA regulation.

“Do you prefer to smoke or take it some other way?”

“He’s interested in edibles,” Primary Care Giver injects.

“I am not opposed to smoking, but I am really new at this, what are my options?”

For the next 15 minutes, Justin patiently explained buds, edible candies, tinctures, creams, oils and likely some other things that I can’t comprehend.

I decided on a bag of edibles—they look just like gummy squares made with ridiculously potent weed, a tincture of weed that you put under your tongue and some smoking material. He explains the best way to dose yourself, but says not to worry if you take too much. “The worst that can happen is you eat a lot of popcorn and watch silly cartoons.”

When it came to the actual buds, Justin pointed to a long list of strains on the white board. He talked about which were good for pain, which for appetite and those that will make you forget how to move your limbs.

Frankly, Justin demonstrated as much subject area knowledge as any of the health care professionals I encountered over the last few months. Sort of an anesthesiologist with a wicked nose piercing who gets to come to work baked.

As has been the case since medical pot became a thing, I get stuck on the names for the various strains. Presumably, the pot industry is trying to gain some measure of legitimacy. Why then do they insist on complete stoner names for the weed? Among my many choices were “Girl Scout Kookies,” “Nine-Pound Hammer,” and the ever popular “Purple Kush.” I will never be able to look at a Thin Mint the same.

I decide on Urkle Berry. It’s a simple brand name, like iPhone or Camry.

Justin bags up my order, says they have a money back guarantee and asks that I please let him know how I like his recommendations. I thank him for all his help. As I turn to leave the six or so men waiting for Justin smile at me knowingly. I’m sure I recognize one of them from coaching Little League.

On our way out we thank Avis who gives us each a big hug. She was hanging out with another tied dyed member of the dispensary community who also wished us well.

I followed Justin’s instructions and put my medicine in the refrigerator. I was feeling no pain or anxiety and my appetite was fine, so I saw no reason to experiment.

Moments later the brother of Personal Care Giver arrived and asked to see my stash. He asked for a baggie and took two of my gummy edibles. He then left. He tried a quarter of one later that night and said the effects were imperceptible. He is going to try a half next time. I guess every king needs a food taster.

My medicine is still in the refrigerator. Not sure when and If I will need it. Need to keep my eye on Primary Care Giver, though.

I know it would be much more enjoyable to smoke a joint with Craig in the Rubini’s lot. I think we could even convince Jeff Sessions to change his thinking if he joined us. We’d make him sit in the middle. For several reasons, I know this is not possible. Obviously, I have my own health issues that are changing how I think about and will likely use weed.

More important, as best as his family and friends can ascertain, Craig was murdered in the jungles of Central America while photographing the civil atrocities there in the early 1980s.

Whenever I see a green Chevy pickup I check to see if it has the huge galvanized pipe that Craig welded to the bumper in shop class. I have not yet seen it. Maybe I should check the Rubini’s lot.

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End note: Since originally writing this, much has changed in the weed world, with boutique dispensaries and delivery services popping up everywhere. While convenient, I contend that much of the fun is gone.