When I was 15, I smoked a joint with a friend. High and goofy, we wandered into a grocery store in D.C. where I unsealed a bag of Pepperidge Farm cookies and started crunching away. My friend — worried about going home looking stoned — opened a small box of Visine and squirted a few drops into his eyes.
Near the exit, a plainclothes cop intercepted us, seizing my friend’s arm. “How’re your eyes, son?”
Burly and loud, he threatened us with jail, sneering at our stupidity. We were scared out of our minds.
