The Salvia Trip That Took Me from Alaska to Texas
I spent eight years of my life with strangers in a strange land
Everything about existence is perspective, and no aspect of perspective is funnier than time.
I have been a member of an existential little group called the Mormon Church for years. At the time of this story, I was a kind of pastor in the church, called an elders’ quorum president.
My neighbor was also a member of an existential organization, this one called the U.S. Army. Like me, my friend was a lifer.
While he was in Iraq, we would write emails planning for his next visit home at Christmas. We had been hearing about synthetic marijuana, which neither Uncle Sam nor Joseph Smith had yet commented on. I told Karl I’d get some in time for his Christmas visit.
A smoke-shop virgin, I tried not to gape at the wares. The kids in front of me were buying a package of salvia, so I assumed this was the synthetic weed I sought. I mistakenly asked for the same.
On Christmas, I walked next door armed with a lamp-sized bong and a pocket full of concentrated trouble. While the kids played with their new toys and our wives prepared the big fancy Christmas dinner, my friend and I thought to smoke before devouring the turkey feast.
