My neighbor May Bell and I made the plan months ago. We waited for a day when the kids were in school and we were free from work (a short eternity passed by) and then on Friday, February 7 the plan went into action – but where to go? A quick search revealed the Nirvana two miles down Sunset.

Nirvana clinic was located in a two-story building next door to a thrift store called Vintage Vortex. The building was painted forest green and there were rainbow-colored eyes like polka dots on the Sunset facade. The building was watching.

May and I entered the clinic through a door on the diagonal, which opened into a square room decorated with posters for cannabis. Across the waiting room the receptionist sat behind glass in an interior office. She asked “can I help you?” in a Russian accent.

May explained that we came for a script.

“Here is paperwork — sign in on the sheet.”

May and I both printed our names and signed our signatures. We took the clipboards of paperwork and sat down in the office chairs lined up facing in. An accordion shade drooped across the storefront window blocking out the blaze of mid-day sun.

A sample of posters on the walls:

EDIBLE SAFETY

QUIZ YOUR BUDTENDER

CONSUME WITH A FRIEND

There were posters about the therapeutic uses of marijuana and how to choose the right strain. The walls were painted a suggestive lime green. On the wall was a psychedelic triptych, which depicted surreal Mickey Mouse and the magic castle dripping with eyeballs.

May and I filled out paperwork, answering questions about our medical histories and current states of health and the question: What is the reason for your visit?

May said insomnia.

I wrote ghost of a hip pain. 

The Russian woman called my name. 

May said, “good luck.” 

I followed the receptionist down a hall to the doctor’s office. She knocked once and opened the door into a room without windows. There was a desk, two chairs and a bookshelf with books about Buddhism, meditation and yoga. I noticed a half-dead jade plant in a pot. 

“Welcome to Nirvana.” 

Dr. XXX was a young Asian man who wore a stethoscope around his neck. He invited me to sit down and answer some questions. The receptionist closed the door. 

“What brings you in today?”

I mentioned the ghost pain in my hip.

He took notes on a yellow legal pad.

“How is your sleep? What do you eat?

I answered his questions and told him that I drink green tea.” 

He nodded his head in agreement, “I always tell my patients: water and green tea.” 

 I smiled in agreement but the questions seemed unnecessary given the reason, which both he and I knew: to get a prescription for cannabis. It was the only reason anyone went to the Nirvana clinic. Then Dr. XXX asked, “Can I listen to your heartbeat?” 

Dr. XXX placed the cool disc of the stethoscope on my skin over my heart. 

He listened to my heartbeat for an infinite minute, which I realized suddenly was like letting a perfect stranger hear the secrets of my soul. 

I broke the silence. “Can any doctor in California write a prescription for marijuana?” 

He moved the scope, “Yes, but it’s tricky,” he recommended a sativa strain for daytime use and scrawled an illegible signature on a paper certificate. I thanked him for the script. 

As I walked back to the waiting room I thought about friends who went to jail for the same business. 

The receptionist called, “Bell!” 

May followed the Russian woman down the hall. A man with tattoos, black socks pulled up, walked in and signed the clipboard.

“This is my first trip of the day,” he announced to no one in particular. 

Fifteen minutes. Still no May. I read the poster for THC in capsule form: 

DISCREET FOR THE NON-SMOKER 

May was gone for half an hour. I should have warned her about the doctor listening to your heartbeat. After 45 minutes, May appeared — prescription in hand — we walked out of Nirvana. 

“Was everything okay? You were gone forever.” 

“Yeah the doctor and I had a long conversation about our dads who both have demetia.” 

“Did he listen to your heartbeat?” 

May looked at me puzzled. 

We drove to the closest dispensary near West Kingston Street. There had once been a dispensary at the bottom of the Hill, our neighborhood in Echo Park, but it closed after a robbery-turned-murder a few years before. 

The dispensary in Silverlake was camouflaged behind tinted windows on the second story of a strip mall. There was a security area with bars like a cell – inside was a doorbell – an inner door buzzed and we entered a small office with a dreadlocked receptionist who sat at a desk under a photo of Bob Marley. She made copies of our prescriptions and drivers’ licenses and buzzed us into an inner room where three women behind the counter answered questions about strain and potency. “Sativa for daytime creativity, indica for insomnia and dreams.”

We said, “we’ll take both” and they threw in a couple of joints and a hand-blown glass pipe for free.

We drove back to West Kingston Road. It was almost time to pickup the kids, but first, I suggested, “let’s smoke a joint,”

“You gotta light?”

Of course nobody did. 

We got stoned and laughed about our trip to Nirvana. We talked about Dr. XXX. We thought our outing was a secret – until I got to school – and another parent said, “so how was Nirvana?” 

“How did you know?” 

“I read your name on the sign-in sheet.” 

We laughed at the coincidence. I thought about the paper trail. 

“The dawning of the age of legal weed.” 

“Grown from seed by mother earth.”

* Some of the names in this story have been changed.

by Lea Lion