Bill C-2: The End of Fun
Dean Jensen, Volunteer staff
We were standing behind the Osborne Village Motor Inn vendor, drinking a freshly cracked six-pack. We had just sparked a bowl when an unmarked white cruiser pulled up, and two police officers stepped out. The pipe was on my lips and my lungs had only just tasted the sweet, skunky smoke when I realized the jig was up. Immediately, I dumped the remaining half of my open beer, stashed the pipe in my pocket, and exhaled.
This happened about two months ago — not breaking news, I admit, but it was just this past week that a quick scan across the front page of the Free Press showed a headline regarding the feds adopting some method of testing stoned drivers the same way they do drunks. Uncle Steve’s Bill C-2, or what I like to call the “End of Fun Bill.” Oh God, I thought. What the fuck had I taken part in?
Two cops, one in city police, the other in RCMP uniform, approached us, smiling and looking friendly, hands in front. One of them, the RCMP, I think, spoke first, saying, “Hey, boys. How’s it going tonight?” Nobody answered.
“I see you guys have been smoking a little something,” said the city police officer. The two cops were youngish, possibly our age if not a little older. Mid- to late-20s, brush cut country boys put out on the shitty late-night weekend gig.
There was no point in denying anything, but still, nobody answered.
“Don’t worry,” said RCMP, “We’re not going to get you guys into any trouble. We’re just looking for a little help.”
Between the two of them, they elaborated further, explaining they were looking for “volunteers” to help with some “experimental drug-testing” to “gauge the effects of THC, and other drugs” on “known drug users.” It was OK, no one would get in trouble, we’re all cool, etc.
“Bullshit,” said Dan, sipping his beer. “Soon as any of us step into that car, we’ll never be seen again!”
“No, no,” the police worked to assuage our fears. “We give our word that this is legit; no one’ll be harmed, and no one’ll be charged with anything.” Again, someone called “Bullshit!” and that’s when the cops pulled out their badges, offering them up for our inspection. “Take our numbers down,” they challenged, “We give you our word: we just want your help and we’ll have you back by last call.” We were beginning to come around, and then City Police sweetened the pot by offering to “buy you guys chips and pop after it’s all done.”
I looked over at Buddy, who’d packed the pipe. Aside from myself, he was the only one who’d had a toke, and if any of us were to bite the bullet and get the whole crew off of expensive open liquor charges, it’d have to be the two of us. “What do you think?” I asked him. He shrugged his shoulders. We turned to the cops and said, “Sure, let’s roll.”
We followed the police to their idling car as our friends stood, shocked, behind us. As I dropped the pipe, which I still had in my pocket outside the door before hopping in, I heard someone (who turned out to be a random mooch who’d only just showed up in our circle moments before the fuzz had) cry, “No! Don’t go! They’ll whip you like dogs, you dumb fucks!”
The door closed on his squawking, and I settled into a comfortable, heated back seat. Buddy got in the other side with a mostly full capped Two Rivers sticking out of his pocket. Once he was in, the cops laid on the gas, and we cruised up the alley and on to the downtown Princess Street station.
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In the back, Buddy and I passed the bottle of Two Rivers under the seat, and stealthily took slams, until RCMP, in the passenger seat looking in the rearview, told us it was all right, and not to worry. As we crossed Donald Bridge, he radioed HQ, saying, “We’ve got two in for marijuana,” and the fear rose in the both of us a moment until the voice on the other end radioed back “Standard testing?” “Yes,” replied RCMP.
It seemed as though the RCMP, city, and (where applicable) provincial police forces were collaborating on some very unreported (up to that point) drug-testing in attempts to standardize varying response times of peoples under the influence of drugs, much as they have been able to do with alcohol, in order, they alluded, to facilitate future decriminalization. Satisfied with their bullshit, we sipped on a Two Rivers and waited, as we were both certain it would, for the hammer to fall and our joy ride to come crashing to a most certainly violent end.
We pulled up to Princess Station, exited the car of our own volition, and were casually escorted in a side door. We went up a short hallway and stopped in front of two doors, which opened wide into two rooms with tables and chairs. Between the two doors stood a short plainclothes Italian guy, dressed night-clubby almost, in black and pink pinstripes, and greased-back hair, holding two clipboards. Otherwise, the place was empty.
“All right,” says the Italian, “Let’s get started.”
&
When the police dropped us off, true to the very word, an hour later behind the Zoo, unharmed, in time to hit the vendor once more for a six-pack, no one who’d seen us off could believe they were seeing us alive, much less drinking again, that night. They also could hardly believe we’d been let off OK.
“What the hell did they do with you guys?” someone asked. Buddy just told him, “Tested us.”
“Just like they said,” I elaborated.
Buddy said, “We even got the chips.”
We’d eaten them on the ride over, finishing the beer.
First off, we were separated. Buddy went with RCMP and I went with City Police, and the Italian just hovered between the two rooms, constantly checking on protocol of some sort, with a checklist. I sat down across from City Police and he read me a paper to sign, basically stating that I was not being coerced into anything. I signed readily, just to see what the hell would happen, but not after having him read it to me three times through, just to make sure I wasn’t signing myself away on some trumped-up confession. The thing was legit. I wish I had of asked for a copy, now, but you know how (sober) hindsight works.
They asked me how much I had smoked, that day. “Almost nothing,” I said.
“Almost nothing?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I had a hoot in the afternoon, and was just getting ready for another when you rolled up.” They wrote everything down, nodding, “Oh yes, hmm.” They then had me take a breathalyzer, which, had I been driving, would have failed me massively there and then. The Italian guy didn’t like the look of it, and I assented to a second test, which, after swishing water and trying every subtle trick I’d learned up till then, pulled in a more acceptable .16. After that there was a gum swab and a urine test, then your normal drunk driver routine. Count to 30 in your head (I was two seconds slow), walk the line, the balance game, backwards alphabet, touch your nose. Then, on their dual pads of paper, they’d scrape pencil marks across check boxes. Presumably, someone will feed the results to a computer, which will spit out some readings, and they’ll have their results.
The scary part came with the pupil dilation games, as the lights had to go down. This, really, was the only time I really suspected there’d be violence, but there was nothing. My pupils failed to deliver the stoned goods, and then I was, half an hour later or so, in the hallway again where Buddy was already munching on a dollar bag of regular chips. Cruising Main Street, we passed the inevitable string of prostitutes. Buddy, finished his chips, and sipping again on the Two Rivers, asked the police, who were chatting quite nicely now, “Do you ever pick any of them up for these tests?”
“Oh, yeah,” said RCMP. “We’re testing everybody.”
Editor’s note: Sgt. Kelly Dennison confirmed that Winnipeg Police Services does detain people who are suspected to be intoxicated, by alcohol or by drugs, and does conduct sobriety testing. Charges are only issued when an offense is committed, such as possession of narcotics, at the discretion of police.
