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Mark M Lichterman

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Contact High 5
By Mark M Lichterman
Posted: Monday, May 14, 2012
Last edited: Tuesday, June 26, 2012
This short story is rated "PG13" by the Author.
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Somehow getting through the next forty-two days ó without taking another bite of Alanís remaining four and a half cookies that remained in their baggie at the far end of the second shelf of our refrigerator...

Copntact High5 can be found following "High 4"


Contact High 1

For some of us older people… For some of us that had lived through the “sixties”, we, us older people know what a “contact high” means.  A “contact high” is when one is with someone, or a number of someones that are smoking pot; be it merely standing nearby, or in car, or in a room; particularly if it’s in a room with a bed where one may be standing… or lying even closer nearby, or at a party, or at a bar: becoming a bit giddy, becoming a bit giddier than giddy, having uncontrollable laughter and, above all else, becoming hungry, then even hungrier. Even though this hypothetical “one” had taken not so much as one hit off of that “joint”, just by breathing the marijuana tainted air one feels and has the same symptoms as though it were he/she taking the last drag on that, by now, finger burning, skanky, saliva drenched “roach”.  

But that is not what happened because there was neither “joint” to smoke nor any marijuana tainted smoke to be inhaled… either time.

A bit of an explanation here: From as far back as I can remember I have had a right knee problem. My first remembrance was when, I think at about age twelve, kneeling alongside my bicycle, as I stood my knee locked with excruciating pain, but as I stood the knee popped back into place and the moment of pain had passed. Throughout the years of my life, every now and then my knee would lock and I would quickly straighten it and the moment of excruciating pain would immediately pass. However, as I grew older the knee would lock more and more often until, now at age seventy-seven, it began to happen so often that I’d asked – I’m a “Kaiser Permanente” patient – for an E-ray that showed nothing, but then I did ask for and received an MRI that was performed in December of 2011 which did show a meniscus problem requiring orthoscopic surgery that was then – in mid-December— scheduled for surgery on February 14 (Valentine’s Day) 2012.

Okay, yes, this was a long time to wait for surgery, but I’d waited all of my life and, even though the knee began to lock more and more often, I knew the secret to unlocking it…

Until the second of January 2012 when, while at brunch with friends, the knee locked… and would not unlock.

Somehow, with a lot of help from – my soon to be wife – Bonnie and our friend Tom, I made it out of the restaurant into the car and home to my bottle of Vicodine which actually didn’t help a hell of a lot.

So, hearing of my painful plight, my friendly neighbor; and I’d like to add here that he is probably the best neighbor one could possibly have because, not only is he truly a “jack of all trades”, but the kind of a guy that, without being asked, is always ready to give a very knowledgeable, helping hand. Also… also, though I did not know it until that very painful evening, my friend and neighbor has a renewable prescription for medical marijuana, and hearing of my painful plight…

Coming into our home, “Here’” he said, handing me a small plastic bag with what appeared to be five cookies.

Sitting on my recliner with my leg elevated with an ice pack on my knee, “Thanks’,” I said. “But why cookies?”

“Oh,” my friend said, with kind of a sly smile, “these are ‘special cookies’.”

“ ‘Special cookies’?” I questioned.

“Yeah,” he said, adding emphatically, “Do not eat more than one. Better yet, better not eat more than half a cookie!”

“Only half a cookie, huh?” Catching on, “These are, uh…”

“Yes, they are.”

 “Okay to kudunk?” I asked.

“Couldn’t hurt,” he said.

“In vodka?” I asked.

“You on any kind of a pain medication?”

“Yeah, Vicodine.”

Vodka probably wouldn’t be a good idea.” he said.


Contact High 2

Hearing the conversation, Bonnie came into the living room and distastefully asked, “Those cookies have ‘pot’ in them, don’t they?”

“Yes,” Taking the baggie from me, Alan handed it to Bonnie. “It’s ‘really’ good shit,” he said, “so make sure that he,” nodding his head in my direction, “doesn’t take more than half whenever he’s ready, and if that doesn’t work, give him another quarter cookie in about an hour.”

Attempting to show – through all the pain – that I still had a sense of humor, “With ‘no’ kudunking in vodka!” I said.

Glancing at me, ignoring my stab at humor, Bonnie held the bag of five moderate sized cookies between her thumb and forefinger as though, rather than cookies, the bag contained a squirming mouse.  

A bit about my Bonnie: A small woman, at 5”3’ weighing about 112, even at her age – that I think best I do not disclose here – Bonnie is a dynamo and an absolute sweetheart. She does like her wine, though, not always, but most often mixed half and half with “Sprite”. But Bonnie had never partaken… actually hated the thought of marijuana or drugs of any kind.

A bit of my marijuana history: In my younger years, many years ago I enjoyed occasionally smoking a “joint” – or actually more like usually ‘sharing’ a “joint” –  and at that time, in those earlier years, I did enjoy the effect of marijuana much more than alcohol. But now, at this time, I couldn’t remember the last time that I’d had any… marijuana, that is, not alcohol.


But then again, my memory being jogged… Remembering: Going back about twelve years, when joining my seniors’ citizen bicycle club, wanting to be of help in some way, I volunteered to be the jersey and jacket chairman which meant that I would be in charge of having our logos silk screened onto the pre-ordered cycling garments. At that time the Jersey and jacket chairman was also the club president and he very readily agreed for me to assume the position. Hell, he all but threw the position at me, and I found out why very shortly thereafter.

I don’t remember his name, so I’ll call him, “Brad”.

Brad was the owner of a small, silk screening company in a neighboring community and, as I was about to find out, Brad was one hell of a liar. As a matter of fact, Brad was the very worst, or, I suppose, depending on how one would look at it, Brad was the best liar I’ve ever met.

Having fourteen or fifteen people on my back awaiting their pre-ordered, pre-paid club jerseys or jackets, after about three hundred (slight exaggeration) stalls: “Brad, it’s Mark. When do we get the garments?”

“Hi,” Brad said, “today.”

“Today?” I disbelievably questioned. “Really!”

“Yeah, I’m running them right now.”

“Really, right now? You’re really running them right now?”

“Yeah! That’s what I said, ‘right now’!”

“Great! When can I come and get them?”

“Oh, about two.”

“Okay, thanks, Brad, I’ll see you at two.”

About an hour later, driving the twenty minutes over the hill to Camarillo, “Hi, Brad.”

“Yeah, hi! I’ll get to you soon as I finish these.”

Spotting the black T-shirts and not the lemon colored bicycling garments on the screening wheel, “Where’s ours?”

“Told you,” Brad said, “I’ll get to ‘em soon as I’m done with these.”

“You said,” I said through clenched teeth, “that you were working on them when I called and that they’d be finished and ready for me to pick up by two!”

“Yeah, well, I’ll be done with this order in a half hour then get right on yours, and you’ll be on your way in about an hour.”

I’m sure, seeing the look on my face, “Tell you what,” reaching into his shirt pocket, “here, have a “joint”, relax.” Brad said, “I said you’ll have everything in an hour.”

I did. I smoked the skinny – not such great shit – joint and did relax… Well, actually wanting to kill the lying son-of-a-bitch, I attempted to relax.


The pain in my knee rather intense, what I really wanted a second Vicodine but Bonnie wouldn’t allow it for another hour and actually not too anxious to eat a marijuana laced cookie on top of the first Vicodine, I waited a bit longer for the pill to kick in, but when it seemingly didn’t and seeing as I had to go to the bathroom anyway, painfully pulling myself off the recliner, hobbling into the kitchen with the help of a cane, “Where’s the cookies?” I asked Bonnie.

Not too happy about the marijuana, “Right there,” she said, pointing to the counter.

“Thanks.” Breaking one in half, chewing slowly, tasting the white chocolate and crushed macadamia nuts in an otherwise rather dry, tasteless cookie, I swallowed…

Contact High 3

Swallowing the first half of the half of my rather dry, tasteless pot laced cookie, thinking that I’d like to drink something with it, and, as apparently vodka was out of the question, I thought of milk — you know, a milk and cookies kind’a thing – but maybe it was my Hebrew heritage, you know, the dietary thing of not mixing dairy with meat products. But of course, “yes”, I am very well aware that marijuana is more a hemp product than a meat product but, somehow, the thought of milk – actually “Lucerne reduced fat Milk with 38% less fat than whole milk with only 2% fat” – somehow, the thought of milk and Marijuana not setting well in the mind of my stomach, I settled for what has always been one of my favorite beverages: a glass of ice-cold seltzer water.

“Seltzer water!”  I’ve a story to tell you about seltzer water that I’ll get back to in a minute.

For me, pot is not like booze. Booze I can feel right away, or nearly right away. Anyway, I feel booze right away but pot is more subtle sometimes taking ….?

In the meantime: Well remembering that it takes a bit of time before pot begins to affect me, I thought that, so long as I was standing — albeit painfully standing — and as I hadn’t checked my computer for a while, and, as at that time I was in the process of finishing my “Climbing Boy” series, I thought that, so long as I had to sit, I might as well sit at my desk in front of my computer.

First checking in at Authors Den to see if I had any reviews…

For those of you that do not know, good reviews, a “goodly” number of good reviews “really” helps us guys with extremely painful knee problems. But, alas… To be honest, I have no idea if I had any reviews, good or bad, in the late afternoon of 1/2/12.

Okay, after painfully hobbling to my desk… now that I’m at my desk and as we’re waiting for the half of the pot laced cookie to kick in, I might as well, so long as we have to wait any way, go on with my seltzer water story.  

Okay, “yes”, other than drinking it to wash down that rather dry, tasteless marijuana laced cookie I

am well aware that seltzer water has very little – if anything— to do with my bad knee/marijuana story, but I can’t imagine any other time when I might be able to think of some kind of a lead in to tell you what I want to tell you about… “A shtikl for a nickel and a two cents plain.”


Shtikl: Yiddish; to rhyme with pickle. Shtikl: A small piece of something.

Seltzer water mixed with chocolate syrup is called a “chocolate phosphate”; except on the east coast where it called an egg cream because, adding a half ounce of milk changes the taste and color of a chocolate phosphate, hence, an egg cream; add a scoop or two of ice cream and you have a chocolate soda.

However, I’m not talking about a chocolate phosphate, an egg cream or a chocolate soda, what I’m talking about is a “two cents plain”.

I don’t know if they did this in any other large, or, for that matter, any small city, but so long as I grew up on the west side of Chicago, going back to the thirties into and through the forties, all candy stores along with delicatessens of all sizes had a soda fountain where, for two cents, one could purchase a Coke glass full of… Now I’m not speaking of those panty-waist Coke glasses they have nowadays, but a “real’ Coke glass containing twelve ounces of seltzer water for two cents; hence, in Chicago, west side Yiddish lingo, “A two cents plain”.

As for the “shtikl for a nickel”?

Go into any “real” Kosher style delicatessen and, hanging from hooks, you will find salamis – usually “Vienna” brand salamis – of numerous lengths and weights in the process of drying out and, as they dry, they become hard and wrinkly; the dryer the salami becomes, the wrinklyer and harder they become. Now, believe it or not, people pay more for the hard, dry, wrinkly salami than the soft, fresh greasy salami… And what to they do with the very end, the end with the string that allows the salami  to hang from a hook while in the process of becoming dry and wrinkly and worth more money? As the guy slicing the, by now brick hard meat can only slice so far, there is this salami tip that, depending on the frugality of the store owner and the sharpness of his knife, can weigh anyplace from two or three ounces to a quarter pound, and this salami tip, in Chicago, west side Yiddish lingo, is referred to as a “Shtikl”.

So, going back to the thirties and forties, going into one of the larger delicatessens, slapping your seven cents onto the counter, one could ask for, “A ‘two cents plain’ and a ‘shtikl’ ” that costs a nickel.

One neat side line regarding a ‘shtikl’: If one were so inclined, wrapping the string about one’s wrist, one could use the brick hard shtikl as a blackjack, then, so long as one’s teeth are in good shape, eat the evidence.      

Contact High 4

Don’t know how it is with the rest of you AD authors that love to write, but as for me, when I drop my ass onto my chair and put my fingers onto the keyboard, sometimes… hell, most often I forget the time and can sit for hours – or so long as my bladder allows, and at my age, sometimes that isn’t too long – but I can sit and type and correct and embellish and correct with one word leading to another as lines form and sentences come to life and — except for those other times when I sit with nothing coming to my brain frozen mind, but even then – I forget time.

Now, sitting for about forty-five minutes with my knees cocked with one knee in severe distress… Severe distress? Hmmm? Surprisingly, I seemed to have forgotten the distress, along with the time as I wrote, until…

“Mark!” Bonnie yelled from the kitchen, What are you doing?”

“Uh, nothing.” I called back from our office/second bedroom.

“You’re supposed to be sitting with your leg elevated with a…”

Actually, not hearing from the doctor yet, at that time we had no idea whether I was supposed to be using ice or heat.

“You’re supposed to be sitting with your leg elevated with a…”

Actually, as the heating pad felt better than the ice bag….

Now standing in the doorway of our office/second bedroom, “You’re supposed to be sitting with your leg elevated with a heating pad!” Bonnie scolded.

“Okay!” Taking a moment to finish the line. “Okay, already.” Taping the “SAVE DOCUMENT” button…

Turn it off!” Bonnie demanded. “You’re not coming back to sit in here!” Then, “You’ve got to keep that leg elevated.” Said in a gentler, sympathetic tone.

“Okay, in a minute.” Checking on Authors Den one last time, seeing nothing new, then going off-line, hearing the AOL, “Goodbye.” I tapped the SHUT DOWN key.  Then, swiveling my seat, attempting to straighten my legs and stand…

Not wanting to be “overly dramatic”, and definitely not using literary license here, but, “Oh, my God!” a lightning bolt of unbearable pain shooting through my knee, “Oh, my God!” I repeated as, attempting to stand, my right knee simply would not obey, and if it was not for the fact that I was gripping the back of my chair with one hand as Bonnie held onto my other arm, I’d surely have fallen flat on my face.

As my reclining type chair was on wheels, with the help of the rolling chair and an arm grasping, very slowly walking Bonnie, I was able to make it out of the office/second bedroom.

“Dinner’s ready.” Hanging on to me, “Think you can sit at the table?” she asked.

“Yes, If I sit at the end, I think I can keep my leg stretched forward.”

“That stuff working?” she asked.

Actually, my mind on what I had been writing, forgetting for a moment, “Stuff?”

“Yeah, that cookie,” she said.

Remembering – the remembrance bringing about – feeling a bit fuzzy, “Cookie?” I jokingly asked.


Knowing I was still in a world of pain, stopping and looking at my face, “Those cookies that Alan brought over. Remember?” Seeing, I’m rather sure, a blank look on my face, “Maybe,” she said, “you should eat the other half.”

Giggling, “No,” wheeling my office chair towards the dining-room, “I don’t think I’ll do that.” I began to laugh. Now mind you, I laughed not a gentle laugh, but a deep, very deep belly laugh.

When I laugh – really laugh — as when I drink, my face becomes bright red. I have green eyes and when I drink more than one or two drinks or when I laugh, a lot, as I was laughing then; while rolling my chair and dragging my leg with Bonnie hanging onto me, having kind of a round face, the ridiculous – “stoned”? – thought came to mind that I must have looked like a Christmas tree ornament, and this caused me to laugh even harder.

I have, so I’ve been told, a very contagious laugh and Bonnie, – because why else would she be laughing – Bonnie also began to laugh, uncontrollably… and we couldn’t stop.

The trip from one room, diagonally across the living-room to the dining area, normally taking a matter of seconds, now taking much longer as Bonnie, hanging onto me and me hanging onto my chair, stood laughing.

Though my knee still hurt lightning bolts – okay, so maybe I am being just a bit dramatic here – those lightning bolts of pain still shooting through my leg, I almost didn’t care as, tears streaming from my eyes, “What in the hell was that stuff Alan gave me?” I stuttered between eruptions of laughter.

“It was just a cookie,” Bonnie gasped.

“ ‘Half a cookie’.” I corrected.

Seated, finally seated, Bonnie served dinner of a salad, mashed potatoes with gravy, and liver and onions – I really like Bonnie’s liver and onions cooked along with strips of thick cut bacon – Forcing myself to stop laughing, I attempted to eat, as, now seated with my right leg stretched forward and outward, forcing our laughter down, concentrating… trying to concentrate on what we were putting into our mouths, Bonnie and I tried not to look at each other because, when we did…

So I’ve said: a “contact high” is when one is smoking marijuana and one other is doing nothing more than breathing the smoke and fume, the other can feel the effect of the pot. However I wasn’t smoking pot or anything else for that matter, and other than the lingering scent of frying bacon, which, to my knowledge, has never been known to make anyone high, Bonnie was most definitely suffering — if you can call uncountable laughter suffering – the effects of a classic “contact high”.

Contact High 5

Somehow getting through the meal without choking I, very painfully, pulled myself from the table and, fighting the urge to sneak back to the computer – and occur the wrath of Bonnie – rather, plopping onto the recliner with the heating pad wrapped about my knee I remotely turned the television on.

Bonnie’s laughter through, my laughter through, the “down” period approaching, I suddenly sensed a  fluttering in my stomach… the kind of fluttering I remembered from the last time, many, many years ago when I’d had more than enough to drink when nausea set in, along with the sensation of the room spinning, or was it my stomach that was spinning?

Still “crocked” but certainly no longer high, still feeling the intense pain in my knee, now fighting nausea, I sat with my eyes closed until sometime – seemed like a long time – I, thankfully, fell asleep.


Somehow getting through the next forty-two days — without taking another bite of Alan’s remaining four and a half cookies that remained in their baggie at the far end of the second shelf of our refrigerator — surgery was performed at the Kaiser Permanente Hospital in Woodland Hills, California on February fourteen, which kind of saved me from having to take Bonnie to an expensive Valentine’s Day dinner.

Strange thing: I remember lying on a gurney in the surgery waiting area with Bonnie sitting alongside when a nurse came in and, “This will help you relax.” put a needle into my IV tube. The next thing I remember is asking Bonnie, “Wonder when they’re going to take me in?”

“Oh,” Bonnie said, “you’re back.”


“It’s all over. You’re in ‘Recovery’.”

“It’s over?” I said disbelievingly, “No shit!”

“Yeah. No shit!”

Using a cane for four or five days, then giving the cane up, though limping, I was just about fully mobile in a week and back to riding my bicycle – though slowly and not too far – within three weeks.


Through the balance of February; through all of March and April right into the first week of May, although I remembered that the baggie of marijuana laced cookies remained at the far end of the second shelf of our refrigerator, I had not the slightest inclination to have another bite. Matter of fact, the thought kind of made my stomach turn. Also, I rather imagined that just sitting in a plastic bag all of this time surely must have diminished the cookies potency.

On Tuesday, the first of May, not feeling like making dinner that evening, Bonnie suggested that we go out for dinner and, “What have you a taste for?” she asked.

“I don’t know. How’s ‘bout you? What have you a taste for?”

Hesitating… “Chinese?” she suggested.

“Fine with me.”

About forty minutes before heading over to “Lakeview Gardens, Chinese Restaurant”, curiosity about the cookies remaining potency getting the better of me, I moved the number of items that, over the past four months, had accumulated before the baggie lying to the rear of the second shelf of our refrigerator containing the four and a half marijuana laced cookies.

Bonnie in our office/second bedroom, I broke off a half of the half, hesitated a long moment, then popped the quarter cookie into my mouth, chewed and swallowed and washed it down with… You’ll never guess.


The next forty minutes at home went by with absolutely no effect.


In the door of, “Lakeview Gardens, Chinese Restaurant”, for some reason Bonnie and I were seated in the very last booth at the rear of the restaurant. Not overly crowded at this time, I don’t know why the hostess seated us in the very last booth at the rear of the restaurant, but, nonetheless there we were with no one seated in the booth in front of us and an elderly man and women seated kind of kitty corner across from us.

Reading the menu we ordered from the “C Dinner”.

Tea and noodles and sweet sauce and hot mustard sitting before us, taking a drink of tea, I said… Don’t remember what I said, but I do remember what Bonnie said:

“Why are you talking so funny?” Bonnie said.

“M e? T a l k i n g  f u n n y?” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “Why are you talking so… slowly?”

“M e? I ’m  n o t  t a l k i n g  s l o w l y.” Dawning, remembering that quarter of that old, marijuana laced cookie that had, so I had assumed, lost its potency.

Asking again, “How come you’re talking so funny?” Then, leaning forward, looking at my face, “And why’s your face so red?”

“O o p p s.” I said.

Dawning on her, “Did you have some of Alan’s cookie?”

“W e l l,” I said, holding my thumb and forefinger about a half inch apart, “I t  w a s  a  t e e n s e y -w e e n s e y,  i d d y-b i d d i e  p i e c e.”

With that, Bonnie started to laugh.

With that I started to laugh.

We laughed so hard and, though we tried to hold it down, we laughed so hard.

So here we are, in public, me, a near seventy-eight year old man and Bonnie, though I still think it best not to reveal her age, although to give you a hint, Bonnie is just exactly ten years younger than me, but here we sat, laughing hysterically as though both under the influence of…? They didn’t know, but you know.

Only thing is, in order to have a “contact high”, one must be smoking “Pot”, “Mary Jane”, “Weed”, “Reefer”, “Marijuana”, whatever one wants to call it, while the other, the innocent party, the non-smoking party is doing nothing more than merely breathing, yet…  

I didn’t smoke a thing and Bonnie sure as hell didn’t inhale any “contact High” causing smoke, but here we were, both of us senior type citizens laughing uncontrollably.

As it turned out, possibly Bonnie and I were not laughing as loudly or as uncontrollably as we thought because no one threw us out of the, “Lakeview Gardens, Chinese Restaurant”,  where we, somehow finished, – all of it, every grain of rice and noodle of  our – C Dinner.

And now, the baggie containing four and a quarter marijuana laced cookies still remain at the far end of the second shelf of our refrigerator, that I do not have the slightest inclination to have.

But they’re still there. Uh, you know, just in case.




©May 14, 2012 / Mark M. Lichterman

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Reviewed by Donna Chandler 5/23/2012
LOL - loved it! (A little cookie never hurt anybody - at least if it did, I don't remember. :) )

Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado 5/16/2012
Very good story, Mark; please keep 'em coming! Well done!

(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Texas, Karen Lynn. :D

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