Smokin Weed With Jesus by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 1

The roads of Bridgeton were especially treacherous at night and with the outskirts of town poorly lit, anyone foolish enough to be traveling only invited disaster. It didn't have much to offer, save for a quiet life in a small town. An out-of-the-way tourist trap, Bridgeton was little more than a blip on the radar of Southern Maine, and with the soaking rains of spring, Route 302 could quickly become a driver's deathtrap, leaving one with the life-altering consequences of poor judgment and carelessness. For Richard, as though decided by fate or some rare alignment of the planets, the time of his undoing had arrived and would lead him down the path of what was soon to play out. In fact, it would be his own damn fault.

Richard was a bankruptcy attorney who had the unpleasant task of relieving businesses of their assets. Recently, he had taken an active role in parting the owner of a porn shop from his hard-earned money. Apparently, he had fallen behind on his taxes as a result of spending an inordinate amount on cocaine and prostitutes. Richard couldn't leave the property quickly enough, having felt soiled from the moment he walked in. But business was business. And business was good. The economy left many businesses, both large and small, on the ever-present edge of financial ruin. Richard always seemed to be there as the portent of corporate doom, representing a branch of law that people loved to hate, more so than others. Still, a job was a job.

That night brought the usual spring rain as the sky grew heavy with a sullen, gunmetal gray. Richard was on his way home from the porn shop in Bridgeton. His briefcase contained the last of the paperwork on the adult retailer, soon to close its doors. All the i's were dotted, and all the t's were crossed. He had been doing the job for, at least, fifteen years, and as much as he tried to insulate himself from the emotional consequences of the financial trauma of others, he was never quite able to manage it. As a result, Richard had turned to alcohol to medicate his conscience. By the time his career reached its ten-year mark, he had become a consummate alcoholic, and the stress of his participation in a necessary evil was beginning to take its toll. His appearance had aged dramatically, beginning with hair loss and the need for bifocals. Later on, he developed diabetes, brought on by his consistent consumption of alcohol. But even this was not enough to extinguish his imminent self-destruction. Richard required an intervention, and it would soon be delivered to him personally.

He was approaching Lake Sebago, the halfway point between Bridgeton and Portland. As usual, he kept a small cooler on the floor, behind the driver's seat. Like a pirate's chest, what it contained was, for Richard, of far more value than any hidden booty. In it was a fifth of three-year-old scotch. Just what the doctor ordered, as he passed the small beach to his right, he reached back toward the cooler and found it just beyond his grasp. Continuing to drive, Richard turned back to locate the cooler, and having finally put a hand on it, turned to face the road. But before he could lay his eyes on the pavement, he was startled by the headlights of an oncoming truck. In his hasty search for his favorite stress reducer, Richard had inadvertently crossed the centerline. What happened next was unavoidable. There was simply not enough time to change course away from what was clearly the result of a bad decision, and the outcome would reach further than he could possibly imagine.

As death stared him in the face, every muscle in Richard's body stiffened while he tried desperately to recover. Time slowed to the pace of melting ice as he saw himself, as though from a distance, strike the front left corner of the truck. The force of the collision spun his car counterclockwise. But only a heartbeat later, the tires grabbed into the pavement, and the car's momentum sent it rolling down the road. Fifty feet later, it had come to a stop, landing hard on its roof. Richard, however, had been thrown from the car, coming to rest further down the road.

But, before his body came to a stop, Richard slid a few yards down the wet asphalt, shredding his clothes and grinding his skin down to bare flesh. However, on his way down the pavement, Richard had, again, become victimized by fate. In his path lay a small pothole, washed out from under the road. Its furthest edge grabbed him by the shoulder and ripped it away from its socket, tearing all its supporting tissue. The only structures to remain intact were nerves and blood vessels. If he survived, he would have, at least, a chance of keeping his arm -- if he survived.

By some miracle, Richard became conscious enough to open his eyes. He was remarkably free of pain but was unable to move. His mind was heavily obscured by the fog of trauma and shock. He was approached by quickly moving footsteps

as he hung on the edge of unconsciousness.

"Hey!" a voice yelled. "Can you hear me!?"

As his mind began to dim, Richard saw the man take out his phone. The next time he opened his eyes, he found himself staring up into the spinning rotors of a helicopter. As it left the ground, a flight nurse inserted an IV into his arm and hung a bag of fluids from a stainless steel bar welded into the ceiling. He felt the sting of the needle as his consciousness, again, drifted off.

The next stop for his broken body and displaced mind was the critical care unit of Maine Medical Center's emergency room. There, he would be assessed and stabilized by a team of trauma doctors and critical care nurses. Their goal would be to pull Richard away from the door of death and to help him recover as much of his life as possible. But they could only do so much, and eventually, the one thing Richard would need for a speedy recovery was the will to live. Even before his carelessness led him to slide down Route 302, the necessary part of himself that makes life worth living had been in short supply. Richard would have to recover much more than his shattered body.

Within thirty minutes, the life-flight helicopter touched down on the helipad of Portland's Maine Medical Center, where the trauma team waited nearby as the helicopter's rotors spun down to a stop. He had been placed on a backboard at the crash scene, and a cervical spine collar carefully applied around his neck. As the doors of the helicopter's medical bay opened, the doctors were able to get their first look at Richard's injuries. Those who had recently begun their trauma residencies were clearly disturbed by what they saw, while more seasoned doctors and nurses found their zone, blocking out any emotional reaction. This allowed them to think quickly and get the job done. The assessment of Richard's condition began as soon as the teams laid eyes on him.

His injuries initially led the doctors to assume that Richard was in grave condition. Upon impact with the road, Richards' head landed on its side, and as his body slid down the pavement, the rough asphalt grabbed his ear, ripping it away and down the side of his neck. Had his skull struck the road at a more acute angle, his brain would have quickly turned to the consistency of a bloody stew. But while the remains of his ear were recovered, this was not the most serious of his injuries. Richard had been thrown from a rolling car and skidded down the road like a pebble across a lake. His shoes had been pulled from his feet, his shirt torn from his body as his pants were forced down around his knees. Had he remained fully conscious, he would have certainly suffered the indignity of being helpless while in an almost complete state of undress. The skin on his chest, stomach, shoulders, and the side of his face had been ground off by the pavement, leaving his raw flesh exposed. In some places, his body had been burned down to its musculature, but it was his neck that gave doctors the most concern. On his way down 302, Richard had left the driver's window partly open, and not wearing his seatbelt only contributed to the potential for serious injury. As he was ejected from his car, his neck became nearly folded before his body's momentum shattered the window into a snowy storm of glass. But as quickly as the event had passed, his perception of time had slowed enough that he momentarily heard the crack of fracturing bone, leaving the underlying spinal tissue at risk of permanent damage. If he survived, he would be told the true severity of his injuries only upon his discharge from the hospital.

Accompanied by the flight nurse, the trauma team rolled Richard into the first bay of the critical care unit. They placed another IV, took X-rays, and began a more detailed examination. The x-rays confirmed the injuries suggested by his mangled body. But they also told of additional problems. His jaw had been both dislocated and badly broken, and many teeth on his right side had been shattered. Oddly enough, it had been his right hand that held the bottle of scotch, and although he had left it far behind, he received something to take its place. Pain. Unless he left the operating room in a shroud, Richard would be guaranteed a painful recovery. Hopefully, most of it would be masked by the gently consuming haze of drugs.

The CT showed no evidence of brain injury. In this respect, Richard was lucky. But the injuries to his jaw as well as his remaining teeth jumped off the computer display, and given the injury to his neck, Richard was rushed to surgery, so the fractured bones could be stabilized. With his brain intact, Richard's mind rose from the depths of unconsciousness. Now, unable to move his restrained neck, he was only able to look up at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling as he passed through the hallway leading away from the emergency room. They had identified him from the contents of his wallet, leaving a nurse to contact his family.

The trauma team took advantage of his wakefulness and proceeded to barrage him with questions. Did he know where he was? Could he move his fingers and toes? Could he follow commands? He was urged to remain as still as possible, but in spite of his willingness to follow instructions and the repeated assurances of the nurses, Richard was terrified. It wasn't so much dying he feared, but being left disabled. It is truly amazing how a crisis can cause one to consider questions and ideas that had never before occurred to them. Perhaps it is when we are forced to face our mortality that we achieve the most growth. If this is true, then Richard was about to experience a great deal of growth. Once he arrived at the operating room, the trauma team handed him off to the surgical staff, who rolled him to the first suite available. While in critical care, his clothes had been cut off and any valuables turned over to security. Still semiconscious, Richard heard the tinkling of instruments being sorted as he was lifted over to the surgical table. He heard the doctor's voice as orders were given and the O.R. team organized into action. "Hang a Diprovan drip, and let's get him under," the voice said.

There was a pause, and then Richard heard another voice.

"You mean, the Michael Jackson drug?" For one brief moment, the room fell silent as all eyes became fixed on the O.R. nurse in charge. Then, one of the surgical technicians, only moments later, was heard whispering the words,

"What the fuck?"

"Nurse," the doctor began. "Start the drip." His voice was firm and reflected a noticeable degree of agitation, as the nurse's face took on an expression of bewilderment.

"But I loved Michael Jackson," she whimpered.

She seemed to have become lost in her admiration for the deceased celebrity as she held the vial of white fluid loosely in her hand.

"Nurse!" the doctor repeated. "Hang the fucking drug or get out!"

Richard was terrified. At this point, he believed that if he didn't die of his injuries, the OR team would probably kill him out of sheer incompetence.

"But I did," the nurse continued. She stood near Richards' head like a deer caught in a pair of headlights on a dark, wintry road, as the surgeon ordered that she be removed.

"Get her the fuck out of here!" he bellowed. Two surgical technicians quickly approached her from each side, while an assistant relieved her of the vial of medication.

The door of the surgical suite was opened, and she was dragged backward into the hallway. Halfway to the double doors, the nurse could be heard screaming.

"Why! Michael, why?! I loved you, Michael!" The surgeon collected himself and brought order to what had hovered on the edge of chaos as he ordered another nurse to administer the drip. Yet, down the hall, the nurse, who appeared to have gone somewhat insane, was being pulled through the double doors. However, there was a slight problem. They were dragging her through the doors faster than they would open, and her continued screams were suddenly blunted as the technicians, quite by accident, bashed the back of her skull against one of the heavy automatic doors. The resulting thud echoed through the hallway.

"Whoopsie," said one of the technicians. The surgical team quietly chuckled amongst themselves as the procedure to repair Richard's broken body got underway.

As the nurse began the initial injection of the anesthetic, Richard was overtaken by an odd sensation. The drug had not yet entered his bloodstream when he felt himself drifting away. His faculties had completely cleared to the point of becoming hyper-aware. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and found himself suspended near the ceiling of the surgical suite. One might think that a state of panic would quickly ensue, but Richard felt strangely calm, and looking down at his now anesthetized body, he was unable to recognize his own face. But, of all the feelings and thoughts one might have during a similar experience, Richard was overtaken by only one.

"Wow, this guy really fucked himself up." He continued watching from his ethereal vantage point as instruments were passed back and forth. He heard the sounds of an electric drill and the tapping of a stainless steel mallet. He watched as the play of life and death unfolded below him when he suddenly felt himself being pulled through the ceiling. The event was free of even the slightest degree of discomfort as the world he knew fell away, replaced by a brilliant field of white. Richard experienced a warmth and peace that he could never have imagined. The light that surrounded him was blinding, yet he was not blinded by it. He simply drifted. There was no resistance, only warmth and peace. But somewhere in front of him was a small blue dot. It did occur to him that everything that had thus far transpired was simply the result of a heavily drugged mind yet, Richard possessed crystal clarity. But it was not only what he saw that seemed hyperreal, it was everything, as though his entire being had become ignited into a heightened state of awareness.