A Fragrant Excursion

Ah kin see them oot the corner ay ma eye. Their hi-viz jaikets it is, ye cannae miss them. The wee day pack ah’ve goat oan ma back’s reekin. Five ounce ay primo Cannabis Indica. It won’t take the station’s tap performin sniffer dug tae come tae that conclusion.

Ah’m gaun tae meet ma big mate Stenzo at his gaff so he kin take these aff ma hauns. Trust that prick tae change things at the last minute. He wis supposed tae be comin tae me. Ah sais tae him, ‘dae ye want me tae smoke it fur ye tae?’ His response tae that wis that ah, as the purveyor of said goods, should be willin tae exceed customer expectations by offerin delivery as standard in these transactions - that in this modern, digital age ay commerce ah should be usin the fuckin Amazon model: He puts in his order, the next thing ye know, ah’m at his door. Fuckin smart cunt.

That’s the problem though, int it? It’s the globalisation ay the consumer service model. It’s created a fuckin collective monster. People noo believe that they’re entitled tae things just as a matter ay course. They believe this sort ay service is the norm - that it applies tae fuckin housin scheme drug deals.

Whit’s next? Legalisation? Decriminalisation? A wee app oan yer phone next tae Just Eat an fuckin Domino’s where ye kin order a variety ay strains ay weed, delivered straight tae yer door?

See when ye think aboot it, it’s bound tae happen. Sooner or later the Tory pigs in Westminster ur gonae cotton oan tae the revenue tae be made fae taxation, an when that happens, they’ll want tae get their snouts in the trough. They canae keep criminalisin it. It disnae work, so whit dae they dae? They monetize it. Ah’ll tell ye this, if the Yanks ur oan tae it, we’ll no be far behind. Where does that leave me, an cunts like me though - the cogs in the machine ay the cannabis supply chain? Surplus tae requirements, that’s where. It’ll be vast production facilities an warehooses an fuckin articulated lorries. Aw controlled an regulated wae the tax man takin his piece.

Ah reckon it will happen soon enough, but no yet, an no oan ma watch. Ah telt him, ‘ah’ll dae it again this time, but that’s the last.’

It still left me wae the matter at haun tae contend wae though - the two coppers walkin doon the street taewards me.

It’s the smell. Pungent isnae even the word. Like a sickly sweet smell.  That’s how ah’d describe it. Like candy floss and tangerines and cola cubes, only that’s too sweet, right? So sweet that if ye ate it aw in wan go ye’d be sick?  So imagine ye did. Imagine ye ate aw that and ye made yersel sick. Just a wee bit though, just enough so that it mixed in wae aw that sweetness; the candy floss, the tangerines an aw the other fuckin sugar an spice, Wully fuckin Wonka, citrusy sweet, teeth rotting items applicable and that’s it. . . that’s whit it smells like.

They’re oan ma side ay the street, still a fair bit away at the tap ay the road, the distance between us narrowin wae every step. Ah’ll just walk oan an hope fur the best. Keep the heid doon an walk right by them. It’s the smell though int it? That’s whit ah’m para aboot. Ah’m convinced it’s written oan ma face, like ah’m gonae gie the game away. The fact ah’ve goat two outstandin warrants disnae help ma anxiety. They’ll jail me an ah’ll be in for the weekend until Court oan Monday an aw because that fuckin fat prick Stenzo canae be fucked gettin aff his arse.

Ah’ll need tae time it. . . carry oan walkin. . . then, at the right moment. . . cross the street. The auld diagonal side step. Well mare than a step. A few mare than that.

Whit’s the fuckin problem? Ah’m just a guy walkin up the road wae ma ruck sack. Just like any other cunt. The smell though. Fuck! 

Here they come noo, the bastarts. Across the street. A bus! Up the road man. A fuckin bus! 

Ah dart oot oan tae the road flailing ma airms like a fuckin maniac. Ah don’t look up the road taewards the polis. Ah cannae bring masel tae. No yet anyway.

Zonin in oan the bus driver, ma eyes bore intae his heid, ma sheer will power alone forcing his gaze tae meet mine. Ah point tae the bus stoap a wee bit further up the road an shut ma eyes.

Ah’m oan the other side ay the road noo, no full pelt runnin, but no dawdling either. Ah’m dain that casual - nothing tae see here, just a guy trying tae catch his bus - kinda jog in the direction ay the bus stoap.

There’s a wee wummin walking taewards it fae the other direction. She sticks her haun oot.

Keep the heid. Just make it tae the bus stoap an get oan the bus. Ah slow it doon tae a walk an file in behind the auld wummin.

She’s takin her time as the auld yins dae. Fuckin aboot wae her wee tartan shoppin trolly. Ah keep ma heid doon, eyes tae the front. She’s struggling wae somethin oan the trolly. ‘It’s the handle, driver. It’s supposed tae slide doon but ah cannae seem to. . .’

Ah look up the street, tryin tae dae it incognito fae under the brim ay ma cap. The coppers ur crossin the road. There isnae any urgency tae it or nothin but they’re crossin the road an comin taewards us. Nae good fur a guy in ma position.

The auld bun’s still fuckin fannying aboot wae her shoppin trolly. Ah look again an see the coppers strolling oer the road talkin tae each other. They cannae be much mare than two hunner fit away. ‘Aw my goodness, ah don’t believe this, it just slides in there when ye pull the wee catch there, ye see?’ the wee wummin sais, lookin at me.

‘GIES IT!’ ah sais, a lot louder and mare forcefully than ah mean tae.

She looks at me wae a scowl an hauns me the trolly. Ah grab the wee catch she had pointed tae an pull at it but it’s stiff. Ah try shoogling it aboot a wee bit and yank at it a bit mare. ‘Ye gonae be long pal?’ the bus driver sais as though it’ll help. As though just in this moment - in this high pressure situation when the polis ur walking taewards me an ah’ve got five ounce ay green in ma bag an ah’m losing a battle of wills wae a fuckin auld dear’s shopping trolly - ah need his input.

It clicks as the mechanism ay the latch opens an the telescopic haunel slides doon inside the lower portion ay it. Ah don’t realise at first - so pleased am ah wae the successful dismantling ay the haunel - that it’s jammed ma finger.

‘Fuckin cow’ ah sais as quietly as ah kin manage, suckin the afflicted digit.

‘I beg your pardon?’ the auld dear sais.

‘Nuttin. Ah jammed ma finger’ ah sais, tryin ma best tae muster up a smile as ah gie her the trolly back. She smiles an gets oan the bus.

The coppers ur close enough that ye kin make oot their features. Wan’s a wee freckly cunt. The kind ay cunt that would end up in the Burns Unit if he took his tap aff oan a pleasant efternin in April. The other wan, he’s yer archetypal copper; big fuckin square jawed Alan Shearer type. Mare than likely gets tae sleep every night reciting Miranda rights tae himself. ‘Where ye goin pal?’ the bus driver sais.

‘Gonae just go mate, ah’m just tryin tae find ma change here.’ ah sais, feelin another flush ay anxiety wash oer me.

‘Aye, but where ur ye goin?’ the persistent cunt sais.

‘Eh, Glesga Cross’ ah sais, aff the tap ay ma heid.

He sniffs as he looks at me, then at the two coppers that ur nearing the bus stoap. They’re in touchin distance.

He inhales again deeply through his nose and looks at me, then the bag, then back at me again. Ah look back at him.

The concertina doors shut behind me just as they’re drawin parallel tae us oan the bus. Ah watch them as they trudge oan, deep in conversation, none the fuckin wiser. Oblivious.

Ah fumble aboot in ma jaicket’s zip pocket - ma finger still loupin - an ah pull oot a haun fae ay change afore pourin it in tae the wee machine. Ah think aboot sayin thanks tae the driver but stoap masel just as the words are oan the tip ay ma tongue. Ah know though. He knows an aw. Nothin else needs tae be said.