The basement rec room of the mini-mansion was dim and narrow. Colored light filtered through a stained glass window, illuminating the dust motes in the air, which smelled of sandalwood and something medicinal, like ether.
Descending the stairs as directed, I called out tentatively. I knew from experience he didn't like to be surprised:
Rick? You here?
His voice was so familiar. Gravelly, phlegm-tinged, stuffy-nosed—like a country preacher with allergies. We'd talked a lot on the phone.
"What'd you bring?" asked Rick James, a.k.a. Super Freak.
We'd met first at Folsom State Prison, when I was writing about him for Rolling Stone. He'd served two years, convicted of assaulting two women while under the influence of crack. He'd been released in 1996. This was a couple of years after that. Somehow I'd become his phone pal. He'd call me late at night. Once from his hospital bed after his hip replacement. Another time after his stroke. I even know the two women he was partying with the night he died in his sleep from heart failure at the age of 56 in August 2004. One of them is an accomplished designer. (She points out that Rick never uttered the catchphrase "I'm Rick James, bitch!" until after it was made popular on Chappelle's Show. After that, he said it all the time. He was tickled by the coinage.)
Stepping further into the room, I produced from my sock a plastic sandwich baggie, knotted at the top. Rick was sitting at one end of the sofa, wearing short dreads strung with decorative beads that framed his face, which seemed bloated. His infamous come-fuck-me eyes were bloodshot, the lids half-mast. He tore open the baggie with his teeth and emptied into his large leathery palm a chunk of freebase cocaine, white and crystalline like an aquarium stone. He nicked it with the edge of his long, manicured thumbnail. The rock was hard and crisp and shimmery white, clearly not purchased on the corner. Street crack is piss yellow and full of holes like a moldered piece of Swiss cheese; it crumbles like sandstone. This was more like tumbled marble—an antique from the early 1980s, before the advent of "blowup," which dealers started adding to the mix to increase the weight. The high has never been the same.
Rick raised his eyebrows. He was, of course, a connoisseur. During his heyday, he had a guy on staff who cooked his coke for him. Later, Rick cooked it himself, usually in his bedroom in a soup ladle or a serving spoon.
"Where you get this shit at?" he asked, smiling appreciatively.
I'd come to visit Rick in person because I was working on a novel called Deviant Behavior about a young father suffering his own Dante-esque run of post-partum depression. I told Rick about my themes: Prohibition. Control. Denial of the human urge.
"Idle hands are the devil's playground and whatnot," he said, catching the drift. "I got my PhD in that shit. What you wanna know?"
"It seems like everything pleasurable anymore is considered evil or life-threatening," I said, offering my thesis. "Fat, sugar, carbs, cigarettes, sex, marijuana. If everything is bad, if we have no hedonistic outlets, where does that leave us?"
"You mean like priests?" he laughed, musical and gravelly at once. "Look here. It's unhealthy to hold that shit in."
Rick retrieved a glass ashtray from the arm of the sofa and transferred it to the coffee table. He placed my rock in the tray and sawed into it with his thumbnail, extracting a wedge-like chunk.
"Sounds like you got plenty of theories," he said. "What do you need me for?"
He picked up the chunk, dropped it into the bowl of his water pipe. Parting his lips to accept the stem, he raised a butane lighter—a metallic click, the whoosh of pressurized gas, an ice blue cone of flame. Then he abruptly stopped. He lowered the lighter thoughtfully.
"It ain't only humans who get high, you know. Coke was discovered when the people in the Andes Mountains noticed they llamas were eating it—man just followed they lead." Like an eccentric professor, he waved his pipe for emphasis. "Elephants in the wild have been observed eating fermented fruit until they fall over drunk. Same with birds and other species—been observed flying into trees, stumbling off cliffs, all kinds of crazy shit. There's this scientist at UCLA who wrote a book about it. He says that getting high is a natural urge.
"People would rather blame the devil than look in the mirror," he chuckled, raising the bowl again.
I've been thinking about Rick because I just read A New Leaf by Alyson Martin and Nushin Rashidian. From what I can tell it's the most up-to-date assessment of the confusing and rapidly changing landscape of marijuana policy in this country—a place where 49.5 percent of all drug arrests made last year were for pot and 87 percent of those were for possession only.
Today, medical cannabis is legal in 20 states, with more than one million registered patients. It's well documented that marijuana has medical uses. As a person with chronic spinal problems, I can personally attest to its efficacy. But I didn't have any medical issues at age 12 when I bought my first manila envelope of shake in a bathroom stall on the second floor of my Sunday school.