Renee Regrets Getting High

Renee Hodge: moderately tall, mousy-brown bangs, a seven out of ten but considers herself an eight, running a knuckle down the schooner's perspiration. Her first had taken the edge off, half a cold glass of sharp relief, but now she nurses the second, mulling time. Dirty Granny is stronger than the median cider but her senses are already returning, second-hand. This had been her plan and this displeases her.

The Kymco People CTI 300 had been purchased a month ago and there followed a week's commutes of frisking along in open air and looking fine at it. A scooter was a good idea, renting in inner suburbia and working in the city - less fuel, easy parking, the 2002 Mazda in back-up. Then a call from her dealer had coincided with a lull in workload that opened her weekend. Smoking a slow third cone in the garage, admiring the Kymco, Renee figured why not?

The side streets had been emptied, save for the occasional pizza delivery, by that night's footy showdown. Renee remembers giggling, slack-jawed, worming around at 40 k's and using whimsy to decide her turns. The air streamed by warm and vibrated on her face, breasts, shins.

Officer Jeanne O'Keefe had also been feeling good that night. A call-out had landed her at a small gathering of young couples, in their first forays with booze, after a small punch-up. That sporting violence having cleared the air, officer O'Keefe used prudence to adjudicate who owned the Tooheys, who owned the Coronas and who owned the Doritos. Half an hour of diplomacy defused the situation and resumed the party, everything was good. One of the girls had gifted a Mudshake vodka cruiser to both officer O'Keefe and her partner who, being male and on-the-job, had let O'Keefe drink both on their slow return. They pulled over a dawdling scooter to make time.

Renee had pulled up and taken five seconds to rehearse her defences: she was a paralegal, she was two streets from home, she was riding a scooter. Then Renee was on her side, on lawn with the Kymco pinning her left leg, having forgotten to stand. Officer O'Keefe, smiling with vodka cruiser, had approached her in this position and began (Renee believes in hindsight) hitting on her. The cop was not bad looking - if THC had been replaced with alcohol, it is possible that Renee would have been the one hitting on. Perhaps a flash of the tits may have been appropriate but Renee instead:

'I am a paralegal and this is a violation of the Anti-Corruption Act 1997 part four subsection, uh, eight, and can I have some of that drink, it looks yummy.'

'No.'

'Bitch.'

The blood test showed positive for marijuana. The trial had been quick, painless, without ceremony - $900 fine, three demerit points and three month's disqualification. Worse, human resources had somehow caught wind and, not their choice but shareholder's policy, instituted a quarterly piss test. Now Renee drinks, away from the lawyer bars and keeping under the limit for one last ride.

A man approaches, dark but awkward, not really pulling off the suit. A brief introduction, Tony, before he waves down a bartender. Renee finishes her cider behind his back:

'You're not going to get me one?'

Tony sips three seconds before swivelling back to her: 'You don't want one.

Buzzless, Renee: 'And how do you know that?'

Tony tries to smile complacent: 'You're watching yourself. You've been stung.'

'Stung?'

Rocking his head right-left-right: 'The law. Driving under the influence is my guess.'

Renee contemplates buying another drink: 'You guess wrong, Tony.'

Tony chuckles, takes something from his pocket and places it on the bar. A palm-sized bundle of leaves and stems coloured green, purple, brown and grey, wrapped twice-over with cling-wrap. Renee lifts it eye-level for observation:

'That's not dope.'

Tony, who is John Galt? : 'It's catnip.'

Dropping the bundle, bemused: 'Well at least you're honest.'

Taking out three cigarettes: 'It's good catnip.'

Tony leaves two cigarettes and a Bic lighter next to the catnip before taking his drink to the beer garden.