Son Of A Bitch Won't Let Me Smoke

I was the Manager of a scrap metal yard, back in the boom days of all things metal. The Chairman (thus my boss) was crazier than hell, let's call him Jim. Jim was a local boy "done good" and spoke with a heavy southern accent. Apart from no real sense of appropriate behavior, he was also a raging pot head.

I submitted a proposal to the board to open an additional location. They were favorable and gave me preliminary approval. The board asked me to take the chaiman to inspect the new facility.

Knowing Jim, I arrived at his house an hour before I was supposed to be there. I was welcome in his house at any time. So I made coffee and woke his ass up before he knew what hit him. As he sipped his first cup of coffee; "Ert, I am gonna to fire your ass some day; if you don't let me just smoke my weed. How can you ban me from smoking killer bud in your office? The gall! You got balls Ert, and you're a funny drunk. It's the only reason I keep you gainfully employed."

For the next hour I chased my boss around his own house like a herding dog and a flock of sheep. He kept trying to sneak a bong or joint into the company truck. I looked at him as he climbed into the truck. He had a printed shirt that came from a Jimmy Buffett concert. It said "Why don't we get drunk......." on a parrot's ass. There was the cut off jean shorts he had made himself. Flip flops were the only shoes I could get him to wear. Topping it all off was a camouflaged wide brimmed boonie hat and large horn rimmed sunglasses.

"Jim, you look like a dumb ass."

"I don't give a fuck. I got more damn money than these sons of bitches can shake a thorny stick at."

It was a two hour drive to our destination. The whole time, Jim went on with his one man conversation. Half the time he blasted me for banning him from smoking weed on company property. The rest of his thoughtlessness involved his new business plan that concerned making environmentally friendly fabrics from dog hair.

The real estate I had selected for our location was an old factory. It was one of those huge industrial properties built before world war two, a maze of brick buildings, pipes and smokestacks. As we pulled in, Jim points to a nook next to the garbage compactor. "Damn that might be a good place to burn one."

"Jim, please behave, as much as you possibly can."

We met up with the real estate agent (Ron) and the owner of the property (Jason.) They were both upstanding yet stereotypical business men, well educated and well healed. Ron was: a member of the chamber of commerce, director of the economic development commission, president of the lion's club, and chairman of the quarter back club. Ron was a pillar of the community, a real "square"; he also wore an expensive suit.

As pleasantries were exchanged, I saw the sideways glances between Ron and Jason. "Ron, Jason you'll have to forgive Jim's attire. He was on his way to an all day pool party when I nabbed him this morning. It was my mistake he did not get enough time to change." Neither gentlemen seemed satisfied with the explanation, but I started talking quickly to prevent them from thinking of it further.

To tour the property, we had to ride golf carts. I rode with Jason, who drove ours. Jim jumped into the driver's seat of the other. "I play a lot of golf and I love golf carts." I winced at the thought of Jim getting out of my grasp. As the golf carts took off, Jason and I were in the lead. I looked back at Jim; the look was in his eyes. Even behind his ridiculous glasses I could see it. He was about to do something he knew was wrong, but just couldn't help himself.

Jim turned to Ron "Hold on!" The cart came up on two wheels as Jim swerved off the road. Gravel flew into the air as Ron held on for dear life. The golf cart lurched and became airborne as Jim powered it over a ditch. Driving the damn thing like he stole it, he headed for the nook next to the garbage compactor. As the cart came to a screeching halt, Jim snatched a joint from his shirt pocket. Ron's head bobbed violently. Casually Jim lit the joint and took a deep hit. As he exhaled, "That short haired son of a bitch won't let me smoke my weed." Ron's jaw dropped, the look of total surprise filled his face. "Here Ron, go ahead at take the top of this 'un." Jim held the joint up for Ron to take.

"Uhhh, well, Jim I really don't do that."

"Ah hell, you a'int gotta be coy with me. I know'd you was cool the moment I saw you." Jim took another big hit.

"Really, No. I don't do drugs and this makes me very nervous. In fact could you please stop? I do not want to go to jail."

"Serve anytime Ron?"

"No!!"

"Shit, what the hell are ya so fucking worried about? You don't never know until ya try! I made some of my best weed connections when I was in jail."

Ron was now flabbergasted. He stammered and looked around nervously while Jim finished his joint. Jim started the cart and began driving slowly to find me. "Listen Ron, I need you to be cool about what just went down. Don't tell that short haired son of a bitch we just flamed one up."

"Jim there was no WE to it! You did it by yourself."

"Calm down and be cool. I won't tell, if you don't."

"What! What do you mean? I did nothing of the sort!"

"Shit they don't know that! Just be cool man."

Of course, Jim got lost. He meandered around the place for half an hour. The golf cart got stuck and poor Ron had to manually push it out.

I was discussing with Jason my plans to install a railroad connection. Just as I was telling Jason that Jim and the board had given me $600,000 for that project alone; I saw Jim's golf cart. There was a big black streak down the side of it. I knew that it wasn't there earlier. I saw poor Ron, with mud up to his knees on his tailored pant legs. Even from a hundred yards away, the look of panic and disbelief was all over Ron's face. Slowly Jim brought the golf cart up to my feet.

Ron jumped off and cleared the sweat from his brow. He looked me in the eye. "Well, that was illuminating!"

I turned and glared at Jim. "Ron would you and Jason excuse us for a moment." Sliding onto the golf cart with Jim, "I left something in the truck." Jim made a huge circle in the cart and turned back to the truck. I stared at him. As soon as we were out of earshot; "Jim, I am going to kill you."

There was a brief moment when I thought Jim and I were going to break into a fist fight. He glared at me and said. "Damn Son! Don't barbeque just sound like the shit right now?"

Jim and I left the industrial property without saying another word to the owner or poor Ron. It was clear to me. Jim had just fucked this up beyond all recognition. It took twenty minutes to find a good barbeque joint; the two of us had driven in silence. I was so mad I could have punched my boss.

Jim led the way to the bar at the restaurant. He ordered an insane amount of food and a round of Vodka shots. "Drink this ya son of bitch and lighten the fuck up."

"Jim, do you know how long I spent on this project?"

"No, and I really don't give a fuck." He nailed his first shot.

"But I'll tell you what. This seems to have really set you off. Drink four shots with me. If you are still mad at me after four, you can punch me in the face. If not, I'll send you and your wife on a three day vacation."

"You only offering three days because you don't want me away from the office for a week, aren't you?"

"You're a smart man Ert, that's why I keep you around. That, and the fact you are a funny drunk."

My wife and I had a lovely three day vacation.