A BOY HOLDS HIS BREATH WHEN MOTHER WON'T INHALE

This is the story of a boy and his mother. But it's not just about them.
It's also about the boy's father, the boy's wife, the boy's brother, the
boy's brother's wife, the boy's niece and nephew, and the boy's dealer.

The boy worried about his mother. He worried because she'd had three
artificial hips, and had put so much mileage on one of the replacements that
it was long past due for replacement. He worried because a tumour the size
of a volleyball had been removed from her tummy, but there was still
something down there gnawing away.

The doctors didn't want to replace her worn-out hip because there was so
much mileage on the rest of the boy's mother that her bones weren't up to
it. They couldn't quite locate what was gnawing away in her tummy.

Painkillers were no use. For all the good they did, she might as well have
swallowed jujubes.

It got the boy thinking, though. If not conventional painkillers, what about
unconventional? What about marijuana? For medical purposes only. The perfect
thing for chronic pain. The boy had followed the discussions in the news,
and suggested it.

"We don't smoke," said the boy's father.

"It's illegal," said the boy's mother.

"You can bake it in brownies," said the boy.

"Hmm," said the boy's father.

"Did you hear me?! It's illegal!" That the boy's mother had "views" always
came as a surprise to the boy and his father, especially when these "views"
conflicted with theirs, which they always did.

"Brownies, eh?" said the boy's father. He was a pushover for brownies.

It was all the encouragement the boy needed.

"I know a dealer," said the boy's wife.

Funny, isn't it? You know somebody for 25 years and you think you know
everything about them and it turns out you don't. For instance, you might
not know that your wife knows a dealer and can give you the number off the
top of her head.

"I'd like a dime-bag," the boy said into the phone.

"Ninety bucks," said the dealer.

"Ninety bucks! Times sure do change."

"Yeah," said the dealer. "It's already the 20th century."

The boy did, however, remember a few things from his prehistoric youth. "And
not all stems and seeds," he said.

"Puh-leeze," said the dealer, like the clerk in Tiffany's when you ask if
the ring will turn your finger green.

Time seemed of the essence, and the boy's brother and his brother's wife and
their children were going to be visiting the folks the very next day. Not
being entirely sure of his brother's "views," and wishing to provide him
with plausible deniability in case of arrest, the boy slipped the package to
his niece and nephew.

The boy felt very pleased with himself. He was a good son and was helping
his mother.

As their visit ended, his niece and nephew sidled up to Grandma and chimed,
"By the way, here's the dope from Unk."

Sproing!

In retrospect, the boy was never able to figure out exactly what it was.
Whether it was the commission of a crime on her premises. Or that her
grandchildren 1) were being used as mules, and 2) were so chipper about it
(hardly the boy's fault; they are chipper children). Or that her idiot elder
son could have landed his barely adolescent niece and nephew in Kingston Pen
for transporting substances across county lines. Or that she was just having
one of her funny reactions. Obviously she reacted funny to a lot of things.

Sproing! As if somebody hot-wired her artificial hips and cranked in 50,000
volts. (Niece's report: "It was suddenly like Grandma was on this atomic
pogo-stick.")

A day or two passed with no word. The boy even imagined his mother and
father having a high old time, and pain-free.

"Have another browwwwwwnie!"

"Browwwwwwneeeeee! What a funny word!"

And the doorbell ringing. "I hope it's not the poe-leeeees!"

"Poe-poe-leeeeeeeees!"

But it wasn't the police. It was another taxi filled with Cheezies, the
third of the day.

So he phoned. His father answered.

"Your mother's not speaking to you." Not quite what the boy expected.

"What? Is she all right?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"She's not speaking to me, either."

"But you had nothing to do with it."

"She's not taking any prisoners."

After a few months, relations were normalized. Sort of the way relations
between China and the West get normalized. Some things are never mentioned.
Marijuana was never mentioned.

What had she done with it?

All the boy could think was: She's got it somewhere. She's got it somewhere
and she's holding on to it.

And so he became an even better son than he had been before.

He did this because he loved his mother.

And because now she had the goods on him. And the first time he got out of
line she would call 911.

Slinger's column usually appears Monday, Thursday and Saturday.