Friday, May 1, 2009

Drug Bust

"Do you remember that night in our digs on Wotsit Street near the Graham, when Dave (AKA Fat Irish) was still living with us? Well Ed had just come back from the Ciskei with, like, a proper, proper haul of weed. None of this half-assed couple of bankies business. A couple of black bin bags in a car boot.

And yea there was much celebration, and making of ceremonial bongs and Boomerang (elegant vodka-lemon-in-a-bucket concoction), and calling of friends to share the bounty. Nesh got naked; Adam got vomitty; Stark got thrown out. Sara and Lisa got high, an annual event; Danny 'M-Net' Scotsman got babooned (M-Net because with a Scottish accent and a prediliction for drink, after 7pm you needed a decoder to understand him.)

As a result, at 3am when there was a heart-stopping hammering of iron fist on digs door, we were mostly passed out and scattered far and wide through the digs, as was the weed. There was some in every room and everyone. But panic only spread truly through the ranks when Adam came belting through the house naked but for his tighty whities, wide-eyed and white-faced, banging on bedroom doors and whisper-shouting 'Pigs! Pigs! This is not a drill!"

I looked out over the balcony and I have never seen anything like it: ranks of Boere cops in riot gear and shotguns. Not one but TWO of those blerrie scary big yellow monster armoured vehicles - what were they called? Alsations on chains. High-octane torches. Guttural shouting and crackle of radios. Jissus. It's one thing having the cops knocking at your door; it's quite another having the full Soweto riot patrol.

Cue flat panic as we tried to rid ourselves of this monster haul of weed. David attempted to chuck a whole plastic bag full over the balcony onto the street, towards the cops (verily raining drugs down upon them) and then was rendered useless for the rest of the night by his horror at the thought of this near miss. We flushed and flushed. Ed - cool-headed in a time of chaos - was methodically chucking baggies into the back garden of the Graham, in the hope we could fetch it tomorrow. I was frantically flicking through Shakespeare - I had stashed my stash in something Shakespearian but as an English major, it was taking me some time to work out which play. Comedy? Tragedy?

It was a full half hour later that, terrified but standing firm and shoulder to shoulder, we finally answered the door to the torch-wielding, helmetted, flak-jacketted cops.

Lead cop: Does Dylan May live here?
Dylan (white and shaky, ready to bolt): Yes.
Lead cop: Mr May, can I ask you to identify this?
(Flourishes grayish rag in the air.)
Dylan (bemused and traumatised): Um, yes, those are my underpants.
Lead cop: And you recently reported a robbery at this address?
Dylan: Um, yes.
Lead cop: Did you sew this name tag in your underpants?
Dylan: Um, no, my Mom did.
Us, cops: Snigger.
Lead cop: Well, good for her, because we've been on a stolen goods raid in Rhini and we need you to provide evidence. Thanks for your time. Goodnight.