When I was 17 years old, I had a supervisor called Barry. Barry was this brash, in-your-face Scouser. A man who always had the ‘C’ word locked and loaded but who also hid a massive heart of gold.
Barry was also a bit…well, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He had street smarts but when it came to general smarts, he’d been a little short changed. He was a braying mule of a man. A man who commanded respect through back slaps and being one to “muck in” whenever it was needed.
Barry took a shine to me. His nickname for me was “Egghead” due to my somewhat nerdy exterior but it was never said in a bullying way. He was always nice to me.
Well, one day, we’re told that Barry has to go and sign a million pound contract. Barry couldn’t sign a cheque, let alone a massive deal with a very well known subcontractor. It was decided that he needed supervision. And of course, that responsibility fell to me.
While I was a low level grunt, I was Barry’s friend and the rest of the office crew knew me to have enough going on upstairs to be able to overlook a simple contract signing. After all, how hard could it be?
So, come 9am, I get into Barry’s car. The journey was going to be an hour and a half and, ten minutes in, Barry pulls out a joint the size of a Russian submarine. “I thought I’d bring this along for the ride” he says. Not one to turn my nose up at a bit of weed, I take it from him and spark up.
The weed tastes like the Amazon. We begin passing the joint back and forth and, between coughing and spluttering, we manage to get higher than a giraffe’s prostate. Like…HIGH. Tap dancing on Pluto high.
Once we’ve discarded the joint, he pulls out another one. I’m already part of the astral realm but, for some reason, I take it and light it. This joint isn’t long, but it’s fat as fuck. It looks like it was rolled by someone’s shaky-fingered grandad. It’s a mess. But it’s also packed with dankest sticky icky this white boy has ever smoked. Again, we pass it back and forth until I’m higher than I’ve ever been. I literally can’t stop wondering how the physics of kites work. That’s how high I am.
Then is dawns on me. We’ve got to turn up to a fucking contract signing. I’m five minutes away from becoming an actual figment of my own imagination and, somehow, I’ve got a million pounds hinging on my actions. I try to sober up, using my own fear as a cold splash of water to the face. I fail. I start thinking about how cool it would be to own a panda sanctuary.
We stop off for a ham sandwich and some crisps and I’m DEEPLY into my high. Barry seems to be the same as, for a good fifteen minutes, he drives on the wrong side of the road. We’re both too stoned to say anything.
As we get closer to where we’re to meet the subcontractor, Barry starts to visibly panic. He turns to me and says, “You’re going to have to do this”. “Do what?” I ask. “Sign…sign contract” he says.
“I can’t sign the contract! You’re the boss. You have to do it” I slur. You know when you’re so high you just have to hold onto your nuts? Like you expect them to flap away? I was THAT high.
“Fine…you do the talking” he says. We go back and forth for fifteen minutes until we realize that we’re where we want to be. We’re at the subcontractor’s offices. All of a sudden, it’s like a secondary high kicks in. All of a sudden I’m randomly wondering about how many uncles Anthony Hopkins has. To put it bluntly: I’m too fucking high.
So, I start panicking. Barry nudges me towards the door and I can’t feel my feet. I’m a hundred percent sure I’m floating. My nipples feel electrified. Weird.
We walk in and I’m forced to sit at the head of a very long table. A banquet table, if you will. Like Tyrion Lannister is about to offer me the spoils of his fine wines and strumpets.
A dude walks in and introduces himself. His name’s Guy. I extend my astral-projected hand and, somehow, I pull off a reasonable handshake. He starts talking about the contract and I’m completely elsewhere. I’m in the Himalayas, looking for my third eye. Barry’s face is locked in this shit-eating grin and, behind his eyes, I see nothing. He nods once or twice but I reckon that’s just on instinct. Neither of us know what the fuck is going on. I grab my balls again.
Guy explains that he’s not actually the CEO of the company. That his SISTER owns the joint. Great…now i have to deal with a woman’s instincts. My mum used to know I’d been smoking before I got to the end of the fucking driveway. Women just know.
So Guy says to me, “Wait here and I’ll go and get my sister”.
Panic mode sets in yet again. My high mind wants to write a thesis about the symbolism found in Michael Jackson’s “Moonwalker” and yet, somehow, I have to oversee Captain High-As-Fuck, Barry, singing this fucking contract. All in front of a woman who can undoubtedly sense something is up.
I look at Barry. He smiles at me. All of a sudden the double doors at the far end of the table fling open and Guy’s “sister” walks in. And by “sister” I mean Guy, fully nude, with his cock and balls tucked between his legs so it looks like he has a big ol’ hairy vag.
This is all funny in hindsight, but keep in mind the fact that I’m expecting his actual sister to sign this contract. I’m not expect a mangina wielding Guy to come sauntering in.
He walks up to me and, in a sultry, breathy whisper, says “Hi, I’m Guy’s sister”. His bushel of pubes are now at eye level with me and I simply DO…NOT…KNOW…WHAT…TO…DO.
I wonder if this is really happening. It’s only when he sits on the table, crosses his legs and gingerly touches my hand that I know it’s definitely happening.
So I do what I’m supposed to do. I say, “Um…we’re here about the contract signing”.
Both Barry and Guy burst into laughter. Like, teary laughter. GUFFAWING laughter. Guy stands up and dick and balls come flopping forward in front of my eyes. Barry leans on Guy’s shoulder and I have no fucking idea what’s going on.
It turns out this was all a set up. The contract had been signed two weeks ago. This was just a “high day out” for me. An elaborate ruse to make me shit myself and question my own being.
They’d planned to get me high as fuck and then have Guy introduce me to his “sister”. They just didn’t know it would have worked that well.
Looking back, it’s pretty fucking hilarious. The fact that I somehow expected a man with dick and nuts tucked away to help us with a contract signing is just beyond me, these days. I don’t know what I was thinking.
Needless to say, I didn’t smoke weed for a while after that. In fact, weed still doesn’t sit all that well with me. I can’t smoke even a little bit without getting high as shit.
So there you go. A little story.
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