The Casual Observer: Pot Holes

My trusty pick-up truck turned 20 this summer. To paraphrase Johnny Cash it has been everywhere, man. 13 states and Canada, actually.
By Dan Haag
The A/C no longer works, it perpetually smells like wet dog, and the CD player has long since died, forcing me to listen to the only two working cassettes still in existence, mix-tapes from the early 1990’s.
Still, I love that little truck and there’s a lot of life left in it.
But there’s a bit of a mystery hovering over the little beast, something that I’ve tried to solve multiple times over the years without any luck.
In a storyline worthy of Cheech & Chong I’ve been told that my truck is carrying a hidden pot stash.
Flashback to 1997 and I just brought it home from the dealership. Then phone rings with a rather nervous phone call from the salesman.
“Have you found anything…. odd in the truck?” he asks.
I told him I hadn’t and he proceeds to share with me the following story:
It seems the man who originally traded the truck in left a rather sizable stash of cannabis stored somewhere in my new purchase. He called the car dealership demanding they find it and return it to him because, and I quote, “life is hard enough without it.”
The dealership, in turn, calls me wondering if, in the course of going over my new vehicle, I happened to find said misplaced agriculture.
“Sorry, I haven’t seen anything like that,” I say, asking where on the truck I should be looking. Hubcaps? Glove compartment? Seat cushions? I repeat that I hadn’t seen – or smelled – anything out of place.
Unable to help myself, I say “I didn’t know that came standard with the Toyota nowadays.”
“Never mind, then,” car-dealer-man says, sounding extremely irritated. I can tell by his voice that he doesn’t believe me. In fact, he’s likely imagining me sprawled on the kitchen floor, eating chips, giggling at the ceiling and listening to Pink Floyd.
20 years later and I have never found this mythical marijuana mountain. I suspect the original owner was mistaken or lying. Perhaps he had imbibed a little too heavily on his favorite natural product and imagined the entire scenario.
Still, I’m always a little worried that I’ll be pulled over for some minor traffic infraction and right when the officer leans into my window to ask for my license, a heretofore secret compartment above my head will pop open and dump an enormous bushel of weed into my lap.
“Well, well, well. What have we here?” the officer will ask.
Because I often listen to Pink Floyd while driving and usually have a bag of chips with me in the car, nothing I say will sound remotely believable.








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