High society

My stumble upon the promised land

MORGAN MODJESKI

I have recently stumbled upon one of the most interesting places I have ever been. It all started while walking through University Centre. As I was putting something into my bag, I spotted a small white business card on top of one of the many garbage cans. I picked it up, and saw that it read “420” on top of a giant weed leaf. It also listed an address and a phone number. Me, being the pot enthusiast that I am, pocketed the card and took note to make further inquires on this strange stoner business card. When time allowed I examined the card more closely, and noticed that the address was nearby. I decided to check out what this place was. I quickly bought a gram of Winnipeg’s fi nest and headed down to whatever this address had in store.

When I arrived, the place was tactfully out of sight and adapted to its surroundings. Th ere was no obvious giveaway that this store had anything to do with weed, except for the Canadian fl ag that had the maple leaf replaced with a large red marijuana leaf. It was only noticeable if you have the right kind of eyes; any square walking by would surely mistake it for the fl ag of Canada. Th e bright neon sign in the window read “open” and I made my way inside.

When you enter the place there is a small room that eventually leads to another door. Th e second door actually led into a bigger space; I could see it through the window. I reached for the handle and pulled the door open. Immediately, the smell of reefer overcame me; I was knocked back by the intense smell of burning marijuana. I stepped inside to see a bright orange wall covered in blue and black paintings of every famous musician from Bob Marley to Rob Zombie. I thought to myself, “what is this place?”

Th e fi rst person to notice my arrival was actually my good friend Fehr*. He was holding a joint and sucking on it wildly when he saw me. His fi rst words to me were, “What the fuck?” He then asked me how I was doing and introduced me to the owner. Th e owner, who was now taking a hit, quickly inhaled and said his name was Morris*. He said it in an out-of-breath sort of voice and released a huge amount of smoke from his mouth. He then looked at me and passed me the tightly rolled joint; I took it in my hand and sucked on it like a cigarette. I passed it on to one of the other stoners around the shop and then exhaled a huge cloud of the pungent white smoke. Th e feeling was one I was familiar with but the setting was not. Th e store consisted of three cases, all fi lled with random marijuana paraphernalia. In the back of the store there were a couch and three chairs, all occupied by stoners passing around a joint.

Th e store was colourful and sent off good vibes on all fronts. It seems that this place got left behind by society, or left society behind. Whichever it was, I was right in the centre of it. Th is place was crawling with all sorts of interesting people, from tattooed freaks to the mellowest hippies, all under one roof. Th is was a place where all stoners can come and unite. A place in which it truly does not matter who you are or where you came from. Th is place’s only concerns are that you’re a good person and that you smoke dope. Th ese people are a strange breed, one that started their own kind of society. A society in which pot is the main focus. A truly “High Society.”

* Names have been changed for privacy reasons.