The Marijuana Diaries: Real-Life Stories of the Marijuana Boyz

By Rodney Renton

When you put a couple of dreamers, a few planners, and a lot of hard workers together, anything is possible. Young and bold, not yet old enough to drive, a group of middle- and upper-class boys young entrepreneurs take the summer of 1993 by storm.

Nicknamed the Marijuana Boyz, Rodney, Davidido, Ramon, Luey, R. J. Treefrog, Luke, Neil, Jay, Stew, Migs, Brandon, and Mikey embark on an adventure of a marijuana-possessed youth. Though engaged in an illegal and profi table operation, the group lives strictly by their code: No violence. No weapons.

No kids. Respect and honor your brothers. No problems. Relegated to a struggle between what they believe is right and a close-minded society, these teenagers change the lives of those around them and get lost in the journey. From a run-in with a local motorcycle gang to helping resolve assaults in their city, the boys discover the power of friendship and honor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462058204

Rodney Renton

Rodney Renton is a counter-culture Canadian novelist, poet, teacher, student, vagabond, and bohemian. When not writing, studying, traveling, or with friends and family, Renton can be found haunting the streets of the neighborhood or lost in his own imagination. This is his debut novel. Visit him online at www.rodneyrenton.com.

Book preview

Contents

A Note from the Author

Chapter One

The Marijuana Diaries

Chapter Two

The Marijuana Diaries

Chapter Three

The Marijuana Diaries

Chapter Four

The Marijuana Diaries

Chapter Five

The Marijuana Diaries

Chapter Six

The Marijuana Diaries

Chapter Seven

The Marijuana Diaries

Chapter Eight

The Marijuana Diaries

Chapter Nine

The Marijuana Diaries

Epilogue

www.rodneyrenton.com

This Novel is dedicated to my

Family & Friends.

Thank you for all your love & support.

To Mum & Da.

A Note from the Author

I started writing this book while I was teaching overseas in Indonesia. The actual writing process has seen the shores of Indonesia, Singapore, Taiwan, The Philippines, right back to Kingston Ontario, Canada—where the inspiration for the whole story was born.

The idea came from a short story that I had published online and received fond critical reviews. The basis of the story was the great friendships I have had with my brothers, the guys I grew up with. I found myself looking to the past and the friends that I had been inspired by and loved along the way—specifically my male friends, my brothers.

I wanted to tell a story that encapsulated the honour and integrity that I grew up around, but it had to have a sense of adventure, a sense of humour and a sense of community. There wasn’t a thing that my friends would not do to help one and other. We listened to older men talk about the changing times and a type of honour that was disappearing. We were different. We believed in each other and supported the idea that together we could live friendships that would be envied, respected, and change our lives—forever.

I hoped that maybe, just maybe, there might be a young lad out there that doesn’t normally like reading, but picked this book up and thought Somebody out there understands. I wanted to write something that spoke to the generation I’ve been raised in, but the teenager in all of us.

I specifically focused on the political question I wanted to ask—Why?

Why do we continue to criminalize our friends, our youth, people within the community that do nothing wrong other than break archaic laws that were produced during the prohibition era and supported by nonsense? Hopefully I broke with tradition a little and wrote a story that made the answer to this question seem like child’s play, or at least like teenager’s play.

I have always felt free to have and express my own political views, but rather than throw rocks through storefront windows or protest in ways that disturb the community—why not be creative in my expression? Take advantage of the arts and entertain people while expressing my own political viewpoints. I do not expect every person to agree with the political aspects of this book, but I hope they respect the inspired format by which these ideals are expressed—no tear gas needed. It is important to me that this book is just as much about the idealism as it is entertainment.

I do not support the misuse or abuse of marijuana, or any substance for that matter, but I do hope that this story brings a little realism and honesty to the table. I prefer to make people think while letting them come to their own conclusions. I think it is important to be honest and frank. Communication is the key to resolving and understanding the issues that surround our youth and our communities—even as adults, communication is an important part of communal evolution. I hope this book may act as a catalyst for family members and members within our communities to talk about what is going on, in an honest and frank way.

I hope that you enjoy the book and I hope it makes you laugh. I hope you see it for what it is—a story. If it brings about discussion—all the better—but by the end I hope you were entertained. And to the younger generation, I hope you know that you’ll always have an older brother in me—forever.

R.R.

chapter%20page.jpg

Chapter One

The Marijuana Diaries

Real Life Stories of the Marijuana Boyz

You never really have the types of friendships you have when you’re young. Fleeting moments of time splash by, like waves upon a dwindling shore. Like many teenagers, I really didn’t believe my parents understood me, or, for that matter, even knew about the things I was going through. Hell, I had no idea and I figured everybody was as lost as me.

So, in the summer of ‘93, I decided to take an extended camping trip in the caves next to the quarry. You see, the old rock quarry had been abandoned for years and it had been filled with water ever since the bottom had eroded away to reveal natural spring water.

About a mile down the road, Lake Ontario had a little dry-dock shipping yard. Across the street and uphill lay a little patch of forest and within the forest, a small steppe with a cliff of limestone that hung over the treetops. At the very top were the caves. Each cave connected through tunnels that you could either walk through or crawl through; a virtual catacomb of little rooms.

The entrance was about the size of the mast on some of the sailboats across in the boat yard. These were sailboats no larger than 40 feet and therefore had a mast about the same height. The Great Room, or G.R., as it would come to be known, was a large entrance that was a doorway of sorts to the other caves inside the limestone cliffs.

It was here that I would have my extended camping trip.

It was here where our story begins.

I had been camping in the caves for a little over a month. I actually had a part-time gig at a local pub and school on the side. Since it was summer, I spent more time at the pub. I washed dishes in the back and sometimes helped when things got a little discombobulated and chaotic. The law said you weren’t allowed to serve unless you were 18, but the boss was an old Irish man by the name of Pearce. Pearce was one of those good ol’ Irish lads who followed the rules when they suited him, but was not adverse to bending or even overstepping a few here and there. He stood about six feet tall and had dark hair that was sprinkled with grey. Pearce had a kind mannerism about him, but also a heated Irish temper—you didn’t want to cross him, that’s for sure!

So it was at Pearce’s I would find myself behind the bar, handing off beers and mixed drinks—our staples. Now, I may have been too young to be in a pub and definitely too young to be serving, but I considered it education. Old Pearce was always generous when it came to night’s end. He always sent me home with six cold bottles and the line, Four for you and two for the girl, it’s a done deal.

It’s a done deal was kinda his thing. He’d end any kind of saying or thought he found to be intrinsic with that line. Many a night he handed me the same small carton of bottles and said the same thing. It actually was a godsend to a teenage boy—beer and a pub to work at! With one phone call at the shift’s end, my friends would meet me in the G.R. They knew my hours and we had the timing down pat.

Davidido (pronounced Da-Vid-Dee-Doe) worked with his father in the summers. His father owned a shipping company. Tractor-trailers mostly, but some long haul vans as well. In the summertime, Davidido would wash and was in charge of upkeep on all the vehicles. His father worked him hard and was stern, but ultimately, he was a very fair man who was always mindful of Davidido’s best interests.

Davidido was a slender, but athletic looking Italian. He had perfect olive coloured skin that the girls went crazy for. He had been told many times that his smile was his best feature. All the Boyz just figured that his darker complexion made his white teeth pop and we busted his balls for it—as good friends do.

Davidido had a strong work ethic, but, like us all, he would get wild with a phone call. We all had a bit of a wild streak and that suited us just fine. Davidido’s house was around the corner, about a 20 minute walk, 15 minutes from the quarry. After I phoned Davidido, he’d usually meet me at the G.R. and arrive before I got back from work.

Ramon was another one of the Boyz, as we liked to be called. He’d always meet me at the back of the pub and we’d walk back to the G.R. together. He lived on the other side of town, but always seemed to be there just as the night began to open its eye upon us.

His mother worked with my mother as a nurse down at the local hospital. His dad taught at the college in town. He spent the summer landscaping, so in the afternoon, he would take off early and sleep all of the evening away just to wake up and meet up in the wee hours of the night. (Technically the morning, as we closed around 1a.m. each morning and I was done around 1:30—2a.m., so it would have been the morning eye opening upon us.)

All I know is that it was dark and then the light would come with the new day’s dawn. Ramon would be off to work and Davidido and the Boyz would crash out until noon. Ramon was the hard one. Tough as they come and sharp as a whip. He had a wit about him. Davidido and I found ourselves laughing at anyone who tried to take the piss out of him, because we just knew Ramon would have the last word and it would obliterate the other guy.

Luey was Pearce’s younger cousin. He was the same age as us and was part of our crew as well. He was with us 80 percent of the time. The other 20 percent was spent either with his girlfriend or on some little solitary adventure.

Luey was about five and a half feet tall and looked like a younger version of Pearce. He had the dark hair, except his was not yet sprinkled with grey. He had the look of a young dark haired Irish lad, but he was 100 percent Canadian.

One time, he met us all at the G.R. and told us about the night before in which he was supposed to meet us, but got lost along the way. As the story goes (after he’d originally made the embarrassing confession to us), he’d just done a handful of mushrooms before I rang him. He’d agreed to come on over and meet us at the G.R. As he was walking, the mushrooms began to take hold. He decided to grab a cool drink, as he said it felt like the summer heat was melting him from the inside out.

So he went to the corner store along the way and the mushrooms really kicked in. The heat eventually felt as if it was overwhelming and even though it was early morning and the sun was nowhere to be seen, he felt as if he’d been under the sun in Miami on the beach for six hours without sunscreen—or so he said. So he decided to lie on the cool cement with his shirt up around his neck, so the cool cement could touch his bare skin. Now, I know how ridiculous this sounds to a sober mind picturing this, but he went on to tell us it was just then that Uncle Mike pulled up.

Uncle Mike is not really a relative of ours, he is our local police deputy chief. Luckily for Luey, Uncle Mike has a sense of humour and a boys will be boys attitude. After explaining to Uncle Mike that he had run a fever earlier and taken some medicine with some cough syrup and was now burning up and hallucinating, he asked Uncle Mike for a ride home. Uncle Mike had a laugh and took him home. Luey’s father was home, but again, the lucky bastard, his father was a pretty cool guy and had been drinking himself that very evening. So, no words and no punishment. This was not unusual in Luey’s case—he did have the luck of the Irish!

Ramon and I had to stop and pick up R.J. and Treefrog along the way. R.J. and Treefrog were also in our crew and lived by themselves. Though they were the same age as us, they had moved out of their parents’ homes and rented out an apartment down on the lakefront. (We were loved, but we also came from a latch-key generation where working parents meant a lot of time alone, so we matured and sought out our freedom.)

R.J. dealt a little marijuana and Treefrog always had a side project, but when he wasn’t scheming, he worked with his father on the side doing construction. As I said, R.J. dealt, he was like your modern day Tommy Chong, except a little bulkier. He was the guy who made us laugh, half the time unintentionally. He also had a grow room in the back, which was supposed to be an extra room to rent out. (Hence the extra money for a three bedroom, another one of Treefrog’s schemes gone amiss.)

Good ‘ol Ree-Jwé (as we commonly referred to him, to his utter disliking) saw dollar signs in the space and had the idea: Why not just grow? That had been four months earlier and now the first crop was almost ready. When the nights were all rained out and cold, we’d head off to R.J. and Treefrog’s. It was important to keep the traffic to a minimum. Uncle Mike would look past a little smoke, but dealing and growing were whole other issues.

Now, I have to admit, we all felt that by growing our own stuff, we took the violence out of the market. We also felt that we had a right to cultivate plants and put a little money in our pockets at the same time. The only ones bringing violence to the table were the guys who wore guns to serve and the thugs who wore guns to take. We never needed or wanted any violence, so we all helped out with the crops now and then. Any extra money and any extra babysitting the plants needed, we helped out with. I had found a natural atrium in the caves as a temporary home; R.J. and Treefrog had their house, aka, The Apartment.

Luke, Neil and Jay went to elementary school with me. We had known each other the longest, though about two years into our friendship built from the second grade, we met Stew. Stew was always freakishly tall and always beat up on us. That was until the day Luke, Neil, Jay and I teamed up. After that, Stew was just one of us. (Funny how even as boys, shedding a little blood together forms a bond that lasts forever.)

Luke was the natural athlete. When it came to most sports, he excelled. He and Ramon held the rushing titles for football in our county every year since high school started. He was our fullback and Ramon our halfback. Neil, Davidido, R.J., Treefrog and I led the defence two years in a row with the least points scored upon a team. Stew, with his freakish height, was our QB. Though he couldn’t run the ball or block, he could throw that pigskin the whole damn field!

Luke not only excelled at football, he was something to admire on the ice as well. He could make a goalie look stupid by holding that trigger until the last second and firing that puck into the last place the goalie ever dreamed. It was through Luke that I met the other parts of our crew, Brandon and Mikey. All of them were top players in the Ontario Hockey Bantam League and had scored over 120 goals combined last season. There wasn’t a night that would go by that didn’t have one of their faces plastered on the evening sports cast reel. They were kinda like local celebrities. Though they didn’t always indulge in the after-hours at the G.R., they were in and out and part of the brotherhood.

Last, but definitely not least, there was Migs. He was our rock star. He had the personality that attracted people of either sex. A wild man in a wild bunch. He was our confidence and because of the way he would unify us, it was something like a miracle. It didn’t matter what night it was or how it was going to go, it was guaranteed to be a real trip if Migs was there. An adventure; it was the beginning of all the boyhood memories we would cherish forever—at least I know I have!

Migs grew up around the corner from Stew and Davidido. He always had something in mind, a little plan or some kind of devious excursion. It was Migs’ idea to steal the solar cells off Mrs. Brown’s place and rewire them for use at the G.R. Davidido did all the wiring and we all pitched in and bought six new car batteries to relay and store the power generated by the solar panels. Ramon and I designed the camouflage that hid the cells in plain view of any passersby and it worked like a charm.

Ramon,