Hoodies Down Unda

 

The Unda Brass, drinking vodka in the airport lounge and dressed like fat rich tourists from Florida, were waiting for me when I flew in from Washington, and we have agreed to disagree. I’d been asleep for 8 deep hours thanks to the LA Dispensary lollies and they took me by surprise, but we soon undastood each other. I know too much and so do they. 

I get to keep the fortnightly cheques (which Pipe claims as the Tribes now!) but they leave me alone in exchange for “certain favors”. Like where the good weed is, and any new big movers. Little chance of that in the land of unorganised crime I said but that’s just what fascinates them. 

Almost a free man I mused but the very next day the emergency buzzer grafted in my armpit goes off and being a CDE (Covert Drug Expert) I was called to talk to London for hours in a GFDMPH (Global Forces Decision Making Phone Hookup). 

Nimbin is legendary in the Force computer, in the top 5 all over the place and more than any other beat. It’s all stats per square metre and the tiny village is unique. The most pot busts, and with the least related violence, the most watched on camera (with London), the most disability pensions, the most “loose screws and unpredictable nuts”(who invents these categories?) and the most hoodies per head in a country village! I can tell you Undacuvas own the hoodie, we invented it. I personally never travel without one. It took all my training to not react when someone suggested it be outlawed. They did however decide every hoodie sold from now on is to be tracked after refusing the call for cutting off “reasonably suspicious” hoodies on the spot! 

How do we keep the violence down was the subject of the 50 way phone call. My turn took ages and followed endless painfull suggestions better suited to movie scripts. From hard labor to amputations, on and on they went, until I heard,”Befany from Ningin Orstaya.” My jaw dropped and the words ran out like a dog let off the chain after weeks tied up. I kept thinking of Pipe as I heard myself say, “In a word gentleman, weed.”

I swear the phone got physically colder. “Nimbin always has weed available and we have to make sure of it, despite the law. There’d be a riot if we took it all, no kidding. Street agro is dealt with by the bong. I watch the youth medicate each other all the time. ‘Jim is stressin out is missus cun afford the dentist make im a billy will ya Sam Dingo’ll chuck in he’s got good bud dis mornin.'”
“Anyone stressed, someone chops for them. Sharing weed when it’s needed goes without saying. You hammer the weed and the real hammer appears. Leave the dreamy weed alone. I’d even let ’em grow their own, if that’s what they want.” I tried to sound tough, detached. 

“Your trouble started with the shot crack dealer, right? If he could grow his own weed he wouldn’t have been there. Make peace not war. Or do you really want it? We might all be out of a job.”
Someone laughed nervously and it seemed a long silence until a solitary cop spoke.”Clive from Birmingham. He’s right you know. If the Moroccan is in town everyone chills. Whenever we bust him we have trouble.” The Yanks started argueing then, Feds against the State who love the medical dispensaries rolling out across the country and emptying the jails. Then someone from Russia starting raving like a lunatic about corruption and my short moment on the Global Force Stage was gone. 

Back home, lost within the new streams of homeless and helpless on Cullen Street I’ve had a hassle free month otherwise with the ADHD kid on the back foot, having pretty much fished out the pond. Pipes mushroom soup tipped me upside down last full moon. It’s hard enough to remember who you are anyway without a death and rebirth thrown in. Though I am finding it’s easier than ever to blend in now on the street, and without even trying. Bless the hippies for they have shown me the truth. But can I live with it, and what do I do now?

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