The commotion lasted half a Saturday morning, taking place almost directly in front of my house on Railroad Avenue, otherwise known as El Barrio.
It was back in the ‘50s, on a summer morning when several of us spotted a shirtless neighbor, Tommy, driving while guzzling a can of Coors.
Sure, it’s a grt-tasting brew (or so some of the older boys in the neighborhood told me). But why did Tommy flaunt his guzzleability and flout the law? I assume Tommy was of legal age to drink, but isn’t it illegal to drink and drive anyway? (Yes, dear reader, we used to ask that question even six decades ago).
After about his 20th u-turn, some of us flagged him down, asking what his game was. “Do you see any beer in my car?” And before we got a chance to respond, he asked, “Do you smell any beer?”
Well, he had us there. Barely able to contain his laughter, he explained he was hoping to get stopped by police; he’d then ask them the same questions he directed as us, show them he was drinking water out of a beer can and drive off in paroxysms of laughter. He almost got his wish. Apparently someone had called the cops, not to get sweet Tommy in trouble, but to provoke the action our water-drinking driver so desperately craved.
Naturally, several of us vatos gathered ‘round as the cop made the stop. True to form, Tommy went through his “it’s only water” routine, but in mid-giggle, Tommy realized that the cop wasn’t convinced — or at least let on as if he weren’t.
“I might need to take you and the drink to headquarters to have the liquid analyzed,” the patrolman said. “Just to be on the safe side.”
Big mistake, Tommy. That analysis took most of the morning. We got to observe the interrogation — I believe the policeman enjoyed the show just as much as Tommy might have enjoyed his. The result was no fine, just an oral warning. But what cracked us up the most was the paperwork to allow his release. The policeman instructed his secretary to “type very carefully; make sure there are no mistakes; and type it over again if you have to.”
Still nonplussed, Tommy found humor in his non-alcoholic venture. And the rest of us joined Tommy to laugh about how funny it would have been if he hadn’t been taken to the police station and questioned.
• • •
Well-meaning people sometimes do stupid things. The stupidest thing I did as a pre-teen was to ask my sister’s boyfriend to give me a cigarette.
Our acquaintance, Jon, smoked a lot, but that didn’t seem that unusual, judging from the role models we all had in that day. We watched black-and-white movies at the Serf, Kiva or Coronado. The movies showed romantic couples retiring to have a drink, then lighting up, then having another drink and yet another cigarette.
So Jon let me light the first cigarette of my life. Immediately. I came close to gagging, got dizzy and felt lightheaded. That should have cured me, but later, much later, on another attempt, I convinced myself, “That first time wasn’t really so bad. I’ll try again.”
That began almost 30 years of a pack-a-day habit. Isn’t that how many of us get hooked?
The addiction ended in 1984, almost 30 pounds ago. The beauty was never having the craving return, and nobody’s tried to get me to fall off the wagon (a common trait of people who try to sabotage others’ diet regimens, for example).
The stupid thing was how I’d celebrate my freedom from addiction. Accordingly, on two successive anniversaries of my kicking the habit, I’d buy a pack of candy cigarettes, pass them out to my Highlands students, and “puff” away. Some took my offerings and played along; others ate them like candy (which they are).
The second time I bought the candy cigarettes, one of my students, a male close to my age, said, “You know, Trujillo, that’s really stupid.”
“What? I’m simply celebrating the end of my 30-year addiction.” He convinced me that my celebration, though well-intentioned, set a bad example. “Don’t ever encourage bad habits, even if it’s with candy.” Ernesto was certainly right. I stopped buying and providing them and don’t even know if brands like “Lucky Smokes,” and “Rolled Gold” exist anymore.
Though my close friends may insist that I have many more stupid things to report, I’ll desist. Instead, let’s discuss a really stupid thing that’s been in the news.
“Breaking Bad,” a drama on AMC, is filmed in Albuquerque and features rock candy dyed blue to resemble blue meth, one of the staples of the TV program.
A Washington Post blog mentioned the financial benefits the idea has brought to a shop called The Candy Lady. The fake meth “doubles for the real thing on set,” the proprietor says. The owner says she’d already sold 300 bags of the blue meth candy.
Hmmm. Harmless as the rock candy might be, is this the right example to be setting for people? Isn’t that as bad as the manufacturing of candy cigarettes so we can act like grownups?
Did someone say New Mexico has a serious drug problem? Didn’t agents arrest 25 people in this area just a couple of weeks ago, on drug charges?
True, people do stupid things. Fortunately, there are consequences.