For the story, I’ll call him Billie.
Little Billie was one of those bright, hyper kids with an I.Q. approaching genius. He dazzled adults with his sharp wit, toothy smile and exuberant charm. He managed straight A’s without effort. Like many kids of the 1960’s, Billie was the product of divorced parents. Mother Dorothy remarried when he was three, and he grew to love his new stepfather. When he was ten, that stepfather suddenly disappeared never to return again.
The year was 1970, the age of Aquarius, Viet Nam, hippies, rebellion against the establishment and a new culture that would change the complexion of America in future generations: Drugs.
Now liberated, Dorothy thought marijuana was no worse than having a cocktail. Billie watched as Mama’s behavior changed. Pot seemed to make her mellow, and more sociable. A new circle of friends visited. She made no secret of her lure to cannabis, openly toking up with her guests. She kept a hearty supply around. She even offered a toke to little Billie, saying, “Here, I don’t want you doing this behind my back.”
Billie found her stash one day and brought a handful to school where he promptly lined his pockets …