The Great Weed Heist of ’78

 Sure! Here’s a wild, funny story set in 1978 about some poor seventh graders, a bag of weed, and some chaotic timing on the oceanside bridge.

The Great Weed Heist of ’78

It was a warm afternoon in 1978, and me and my best friend Jimmy were leaning over the rusty railing of the Oceanside Bridge, staring down at a scene straight out of a TV crime show. A police boat was idling in the water, red and blue lights flashing over the rippling waves. Officers in those tight polyester uniforms were poking at a very dead-looking dude slumped over in a tiny rowboat.

Now, we were only in seventh grade, so we had no business being there, but this was the most exciting thing that had happened since Old Man Russo’s dog bit a mailman last summer. Plus, I had a freshly acquired bag of weed stuffed in my jacket pocket, courtesy of Jimmy’s older brother, who had a mustache that made him look 30 but was only 16.

We were whispering all kinds of wild theories.
“Maybe he was a spy.”
“Nah, mafia hit.”
“Maybe he just drank too much Schlitz and fell asleep wrong.”

Then, right as Jimmy was about to say something dumb, I felt it—a hand slipping into my jacket pocket.

I whipped around so fast I almost fell off the bridge. Some grimy, rat-faced dude was yanking my precious bag of weed out of my pocket like he was picking a dollar off the sidewalk. I swear, he grinned at me with a mouth that had maybe three teeth.

“Thanks, kid,” he said, and before I could even react, he bolted.

Now, normally, I would have screamed bloody murder, but let me remind you: the cops were RIGHT THERE. You think I’m gonna yell “THAT GUY STOLE MY WEED” while they’re literally investigating a dead guy?! No chance.

Instead, I just stood there, jaw hanging open like a broken Pez dispenser. Jimmy, the genius he was, shouted, “HEY! THAT GUY STOLE OUR STUFF!”

The nearest cop turned, looked at Jimmy, then looked at me, then looked at the rat-faced dude sprinting down the bridge like he just shoplifted a six-pack. For a moment, I thought, Oh no, we’re doomed.

But then—the cop just sighed and muttered, “Not my problem,” before turning back to the corpse in the boat.

Me and Jimmy just stared at each other.
“…Did that just happen?”
“Yeah.”
“…Should we chase him?”
“Nah, dude’s probably halfway to Mexico by now.”

And that’s how, at the tender age of 13, I learned two important lessons:

  1. Always keep your weed in your front pocket.
  2. Sometimes, even the cops don’t care enough to chase a guy who looks like a rejected Muppet.

We walked home in stunned silence, the scent of ocean air and missed opportunities lingering in the breeze.

The End.

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