BRAZIL

It was on my to-do list forever:  

GO TO SMOKESHOP 

Right in between feeding my children, meditating for world peace, washing loads of laundry and working as an unpaid taxi driver. A trip to the smokeshop is not the kind of errand you can run with the kids after preschool.  

Then one day I found time.* 

*NOTE: All references to time represent a nonlinear cyclical understanding of time and space. In this case the word time is used as a lost object. On this particular day I found time in a box of old photographs.  

I discovered Brazil less than a mile down Sunset. I researched and read reviews — a rave written by a relative — one review warned,  “check receipts for overcharging” another mentioned “seedy-looking porn.” One review offered this piece of advice:

“Don’t pay full price – everything here is negotiable.”

I went upstairs to change into nondescript clothes – black shirt, black pants, dark sunglasses — I drove the station wagon with the carseats on my usual route down Sunset. Before the hill, I turned into a tiny parking lot in front of Brazil. One parking space was open. It was a sign, I thought. 

Another sign hanging over the door said:

BRAZIL SMOKE SHOP

CIGARETTES

CIGARS

HOOKAHS, PIPES, GIFTS

NOVELTIES AND MUCH MORE

The sign depicted the flag of Brazil (also known as verde e amarela) – green background, yellow diamond and a blue disc with constellations of stars — a motto that reads:

ORDEM E PROGRESSO 

The storefront had three neon signs: 

OPEN

PIPES

CIGARS

I noticed posters in the window – Bob Marley in red, yellow and green, and a day-glo jaguar that looked ready to pounce. I walked into Brazil with my sunglasses on.

Brazil is a smoker’s paradise – everything you could want to inhale. A wall that ran the length of the store displayed cigarette boxes in a variety of colors, cartons, pouches, papers and tins. There was a glass case in front of the cigarettes filled with smoking paraphernalia – blown-glass pipes, bongs with removable stems, small ceramic pipes disguised to look like cigarettes. 

The back wall was devoted to all things that pair well with smoking according to TK — psychedelic art, rock bands, sexy women, hookahs, cigars and magazines with covers that read: 

XXX

I noted a display of green and yellow sports memorabilia – signed jerseys and a fútbol — from the Brazil national team and a poster of fluorescent green cannabis leaves spiraling back to a vanishing point. Under the kaleidoscopic vision, I saw what I came for – a magic box – with an orange price tag sticker that read: 

$$$

A heavyset man with square shoulders who was holding court behind the bongs made his way across Brazil in my direction.

“Olá bom dia,” he switched to English, “what can I do for you today?”

I pointed to the box, “How much for the magic flight?

He read the sticker and added tax.

“What’s your best price?” I met his eyes despite the sunglasses. I conjured a background in martial arts. All negotiations are with the self.

He appeared deep in thought which felt like theater. He muttered something in Portuguese and said a number in English. 

I countered with the offer:

“One hundred and eight.”*

* In the yoga tradition, the number 108 symbolizes the spiritual path of awakening. A mala of lotus seeds is composed of 108 beads. We practice pranayama in cycles of 108.

The shopkeeper nodded and added definitely, “cash only no card or check.”

The shopkeeper from Brazil returned to his post behind an illuminated case of bowls. I fished through my bag for a one hundred dollar bill and nine ones. He started to speak in Portuguese with another man behind the counter. They were not in a rush. I practiced patience even though I was running late. This was my only chance to visit Brazil.

They broke out in laughter about a joke I did not understand. The shopkeeper held my hundred-dollar bill to the light to check if it was real. He tucked the bill into the register under the tray and handed me a striped plastic bag with handles. 

“I don’t need a bag.” I picked up the box.

I left Brazil and took Sunset to Echo Park.

by Lea Lion