"I wondered who we was supposed to represent but now was not the time to ask. I tore a page out of my notebook and scribbled BUGS.
"I told you I was going to show you my little guys. They are really. . . oh . . . never mind. More about that later. Let me show you around."
The tour of her lab was conducted in silence. That was all to the good for I do not think I would have understood her explanations Did she have bugs? She had bugs! Beetles, thousands of them scrabbling this way and that while chewing the heck out of some sort of leaf, others were sucking on stems. In my low powered brain, the light dawned slowly. I could recognize a marijuana leaf at ten yards but an Erythroxylon leaf I had never been privileged to examine before although, I had studied scores of pictures during training. That really is the height of irony, now isn't it?
Was this a lotus land grow operation right in the middle of academia, a personal supply for the faculty? Had Saturday night snorts and roasted beetles replaced whisky sour soirees? Did debates still continue into the wee hours of Sunday morning? Were insights still achieved or were the participants too blitzed to bother? That did not quite fit with what she had just told me about good works. Or was she just striving for good press? If this was a private grow operation conducted under the guise of research, she would hardly show if to me, now would she?
"Let' talk outside," she scribbled on my by now rather abused scrap.
We took my car. I followed orders. "Turn left here, watch that truck, turn right at the light."
"Lovely day for a drive," I said for something to say.
"Pull in here and wait for the Lincoln to leave. I'll be back in five." Was I in danger? I got out of the shitbox and stretched.
Clarissa returned swinging a picnic basket. "I picked up some nibbles," she said hoisting the basket into the back seat. I know a great little spot that's out of the way. It's relatively cool on a scorching day and this promises to be one."
We sat at a table in a wilderness park or what passes for wilderness this close to LA. A white line, murky in the haze, indicated that the surf was up. The conversation was stilted at first. This is where the real skill comes in. Move too quickly and you blow it. Move too slowly and the moment of truth passes you by. Trying to read an invisible cue card, I listened to her words while focusing on her body language.
"We believe that addicts should be given help and not turned into criminals."
Her opening remark invited a response. Her hands had been lying in her lap. She propped her elbows on the table and made a steeple with her fingers.
"Cocaine is illegal," I said. I did not have to be told that she was referring to cocaine addiction. I had seen the plants in her office and the beetles feeding on the leaves and the stems. I sounded like such a prissy pig that I was sure that my face had gone scarlet, not with rage but simply from embarrassment at the ease with which she managed to push my buttons. What a knee jerk reaction, what a jerk, I felt myself to be at that moment.
Unless, you have a permit, of course." She smiled. She had perfect teeth.
"Mass criminalization is too costly for the government to sustain, never mind the philosophical aspects," I agreed.
"Did you know that one third of the increase in the prison population between 1980 and 1996 was due to the increasing number of drug law violators? Because an incredible number of citizens have been criminalized due to their addiction, a bunch of us have banded together to fight the problem."
"You mean like NORML?"
"No. We are not in favour of legalizing hard drugs. What we support is stepped up research and a study of procedures to wean addicts off their addictions. We get more banging for our treatment buck than we do for our interdiction buck. Have you ever heard of a drug called ibogaine?"
"Can't say that I have, " I replied trying to suppress a smile.
"It acts in a manner that is almost entirely the opposite of cocaine."
"How so? You mean like heroin?"
"No, it's not soporific. Cocaine takes over the pleasure center of the brain. Ibogaine impedes the connection to the pleasure centre. Frankly, we have no idea why or how it works."
"It kills addiction right?"
"Yes, it works wonders suppressing the addict's craving for cocaine, incidentally the most addictive substance on the planet. Let me rephrase that. It negates it to the point, that the neural pathways are blocked so effectively that it is as if the person was never hooked on heroin or captivated by cocaine."
I wondered if this was what Irish Spring was about. I decided it was too early to risk curiosity killing the cat.
"It's got great potential in treating addictions of all kinds."
We went for a short hike in the still cool forest and paused for awhile lounging comfortably up against an old stump. We shot the shit like old friends. Returning to the car we retrieved the picnic fixings. After spicy potato salad and wraps that were an acquired taste but filling, and apple turnovers the likes of which mother never achieved, we both seemed ready to reveal just where each of us was coming from.
I was about to pour the last of the iced coffee and asked. "What did you do with your cup?"
"I threw it out. We can share a cup, Max. I'm sure you don't have a dangerous disease."
It broke the ice. Gradually, we let go of our little acts
"I agree in principle with what you said when we were on the stump, but I don't think it's quite the whole story. What's the catch?"
"Have you read Heller's Catch 22?"