There we were, driving down the side-streets of N. Hollywood in some beat up old car, heading back to Tim’s apartment. I could still smell the “mota” (or marijuana) in the air, although at the time, I still didn’t know what exactly it was. I do remember hearing the word “mota” a few more times before the old beat up Buick we were driving in pulled up behind the apartment building where Tim and his family lived.
Once we got there, I can remember going into the bedroom to hang out and smoke a cigarette. We both had recently started smoking Marlboro Reds, and at the time they were $1.25 a pack. Hell, you could scrape up enough for a pack of smokes back then, just by digging around the couch cushions for a couple minutes. Anyway, we were in the Tim’s bedroom, playing with a Zippo and smoking a cigarette, when I heard Tim’s dad holler, “come here Timmy…”
We went into the living room of the small, 2-bedroom, second floor apartment, and there was Tim Sr., sitting on the couch, again with a soda can – crushed on the side, holes poked in it, and turned into a make-shift pipe of some sort.
“You want some of this mota Timmy?”, he asked.
I watched as Tim took the can, which was turned on it’s side with a small pile of “mota” smoldering on it, and put it up to his mouth. He held his lips over the hole you would normally drink out of, and puffed. I could see the pile of “mota” glowing red-hot as he puffed on it, and then he removed his thumb from another little hole on the side and emptied all the smoke out of the can. One big inhale and he handed the can back to his dad, who put some more “mota” on it. It looked like he was getting it ready for another round.
I watched as Tim held the smoke in, determined not to let any out. His face turned red. He even coughed a time or two, but still held the smoke in for a pretty good amount of time – way longer than anyone would hold in a cigarette.
“What about your friend?” I heard Tim Sr. ask.
Tim looked at me and asked, “Well, you wanna try it?”