Rastaman folk tales: About three potheads and good man Valera
Rastaman folk tales: About three potheads and good man Valera
Potheads came to the club but NADA is there. Boys are stiff, girls are ditzy, only drunks are dancing, and DJ is a dancefloor killer. There are no sits left in the chillout, everybody is angry, everybody smokes tobacco and nobody already waits for nothing. Oh boy, it sucks!
Potheads went outside and started to look up for another opportunities. One pulled out his cell, called guys on another party, then on more party, then somewhere else. Second one pulled out his iPhone and started to browse the Internet. Actually, he's more poseuring than browsing, because he just bought this iPhone and isn't very well with it yet, spending five minutes just to open an email - but looking so damn serious - like a circus manager.
Suddenly, the first pothead went out of money on his prepaid cell and told to the second one: "Let me use your cell." The guy gave him the iPhone and for five minutes was making fun about how he tries to find buttons on it. Finally, he told: "You are so lame, man. Tell me the number and I'll dial."
He dialled and called. Nobody is at the first number, nobody is at the second one, but guys at the third one answered: "Everything is here, DJs are cheerful, bouncers are our friends, so everything is positive." "Well, give us the directions then." Guys started to explain but the iPhone battery dried up. It already popped up a warning at the very first call and now is totally empty, so they've got a brick.
In meantime the third pothead is making video of their dances on his phone. He just bought a cell with a camera and shutterbugging just everything around. They told him: "Stop playing with it, man. We found a great partay but we need to make a call. He dialed - but nothing. No network coverage. And he can't even swap the SIM-card as his cell is CDMA.
They are so lost: should they try to catch a taxi and go don't know where or stay in the club and wait for don't know what? Then, out of the club comes a man, which doesn't really belong here - neither by age nor by dress-code. Aged man in denim leisure suit with a beard and untrendy haircut, not a clubber at all - what the fuck he was doing in the club? But it doesn't matter - the important thing is that he should have a cell.
A pothead approached him and asked as politely as he could: "Do you have a cell, sir?" The man answered: "Yep." And pulls out a huge radio, antique one, like a half of a brick.
The pothead tinkered with it for a while, pressed all buttons - but nothing happened, even the display didn't turn on. He asked: "How to turn it on?" The man smiled and asked: "Why would you need to do that?"
The pothead told: "Uhm... I wanted to make a call." The man replied: "Well... Now I see what your problem is. It's not what you think. It's my stash box."
He took the radio, opened it like a cigarette case, took a joint and gave to the pothead. He told: "It's enough for three, even four, people." Then, he got into his car and drove away.
Well, the potheads puffed up the joint and stoned right in the front of the club. They stood quietly, enjoyed a magic music, sometimes even danced, but they didn't return to the club. It's so cramped, stuffy and loud there and outside there is a lot of free space and stars, and the best sound is exactly in this spot. The chemist already came to the club and brought everything is needed, so everybody in the club bought what they need and he still got a lot. He already came outside and asked the potheads: "Guys, need speed? Guys, need acid?" They answered: "Nay... We're already high..."
By the way, it's a real story. The very man who smoked up these potheads told it to me. He lives in this club in the cold season and in summer he lives south of the border. He's a good man, his name is Valera: he's a mechanic and an electrician and a cabinetmaker and a pot grower - the jack-of-all-trades! And he drives car like he was born behind the wheel - by the way, that's how we met.
I was in rush, tried to hitch a ride and Valera stopped. I got into his car, heard the music in, told him something, he answered me something, and we already understood everything about each other. He asked me: "Do you smoke pot?" I told: "Uh-huh." He opened his radio, took a joint and we puffed it up the two together. After that I was not in rush anymore and we were just driving around the town, listening music, talking about all kinds of positive things - for three or four hours - until we sobered up. Then he drove me home and didn't take any money nevertheless I honestly tried.
I told him: "Valera, let's write down our phone numbers?" He told: "I don't have a phone - I'm not a drug dealer, why would I need it?" I told him: "Well then, maybe you have an email or ICQ or some other way to get hold on you? You are such a nice guy, Valera, and I do not want to lose contact with you like that."
He told: "Take it easy, HighDuke, you won't lose me. The Earth is round and there is a lot of ganja, so we will meet each other.
I hope that we will meet indeed, and not just once. Because, you know, Jah and so on. And, finally, I know this club and I can always go there to visit Valera. It's far away, like twenty five miles from my city and it's harder to get there than fly to the Moon - but sometimes I need to do it anyways.
Original Russian text: (c) HighDuke
Ð*ñò*ì**ñêèå **ðîä*ûå ñê*çêè :: ?ê*çêè è ïðî÷åå
English translation: (c) juzy
juzy: П??о ?????????? об?*ебо?ов и ??о??о??его м??жика Ð??але????
