4:20 :)

4:20

The girls used to say it out loud: “4:20”—and smile to one another. “It’s time to buy drugs,” they would jokingly say. They informed me that it was code, that “420” meant, to all the world, that someone was planning to/wanting to/going to, make some kind of drug purchase. I guess this was sent to a pager or cell phone or just whispered in someone’s ear in the back alley.

4:20 has become something of a meaningful time for me in my “old-dage” OF 51. It started a few years ago; possibly it came with the concurrent, organic withdrawal of my hormones—in the middle of the night with sudden spurts of sweaty wakefulness. At a certain time of night a wash of creative glee would blanket my mind and my ruminations would begin glittering. I thought deep and wonderful thoughts belonging to the heavenly realms, conversing with angels, challenging Hawkins, writing fiery, velvety words like Annie Dillard. Invariably when my dreams gave way to wakeful brilliance I would look over at my clock (after I’d turned on my little bedside fan) and note: “It’s 4:20!”

I’ve been drugging myself lately. I wanted to sleep all night. I’d take Benadryl, and sometimes Tylenol too, just to get me through the 4:20 hours, to detour the parade of genius that marches at that minute across my pillow. But last night I didn’t. I wanted to get up for a 7:00 a.m. garage sale—it sounded so juicy. So, while the alarm was set at 6:20 a.m., I awoke earlier than that. I startled awake in a flash, threw on the switch of the bedside fan and pointed it straight in my sweaty face, hurled off the covers from my heated body and began thinking deep and amazing thoughts; composing masterpieces of literature in my head.

“No,” I said to myself. “I won’t look. It can’t be.”

“But surely it is,” I told myself.

“No, you’re silly.”

“Just look.”

“No.”

“But the story in your head is so pungent—so perfect.”

Thus it went for three minutes. Finally, I succumbed and picked up my iPhone, pushed the button and peered at the screen: “4:23”….Ah, I knew it.