SOC #6: One Hot Onion

The weekends at that condo in Santa Barbara were mostly wonderful, but there was another incident with a coke-head that wasn't so pleasing. We were having a BBQ on a Saturday, where my older coworker would do most of the cooking. It was, I tell you, the best food I had ever eaten; could be the  marijuana I smoked at the time, but it was great food. After the main courses were done, he heated a whole onion in the grill, and we'd all take layers from it as it slowly cooled on the table. Ghost was there with one of his friends. Ghost was a nice guy, but one you didn't want to be on the bad side of. As I cut a piece of onion for myself, Ghost's friend did a bump of cocaine, and then looked up at me. "Man, hot," I muttered, my fingers hesitantly touching the piece of onion. Ghost's friend was giving me this distrusting look(now, you must understand I was the only white boy there with a bunch of Mexicans. I'm half Mexican, but most people can't tell; people just see one color.) He did another bump of coke as I sat back down in the patio chair. My older coworker, sitting next to me, said, "You like?" I replied, "Oh, yes. I've never had a hot onion before, let alone ate an onion by itself." I heard a sniff. Ghost's friend, still staring at me, the door key he snorted from still at his nose. I took no notice, it still wasn't occurring to me that this guy didn't like me, even though it was the first time I met him, and hadn't spoken to him yet. I rolled a Tamaira(a Tobacco joint laced with weed, what I call it anyway) and talked to my older coworker about how he learned to cook by simply teaching himself. It's crazy how I've always been told growing up that you HAVE to learn to do things from someone else higher than you. An authoritarian worship I think of it as. All of our ancestors from a hundred thousand years ago learned to survive by teaching themselves the ways to continue going on living in this seemingly never ending continuum of --  Ghost's friend stood up, snorting another bump of cocaine. "Hey, man," he said to me, "what's your name?" I told him. There was a pause as he put his little cocaine package in his pocket, his eyes zombified, his mouth agape. "What you do for work?" he asked. I answered, gesturing to my older coworker, "I work with him on the farm." He said, "Oh, and what you do on the farm?" His eyes shifted over to my older coworker, then back at me as I answered. "We grow weed on the farm. Right now we're trimming the buds for the 'patients' of my boss. I call them customer's but everyone in our business call them 'patients.'" My friend was coming back outside, lighting a joint. Ghost's friend shook his head, saying, "Hey, man, I'm DA." He reached behind him and brought out a pistol, pointing it at my head. My friend sat next to my older coworker, noticed the gun, and froze. My older coworker smiled, laughing. Now, I was stoned, and buzzed from a few beers. And all I said was, "It's not DA. It's DEA. A DA is a fucking lawyer." Ghost said, "Put that away, puto." His friend said to my coworkers, "This gringo has a big mouth. How can you guys trust him?" I replied, answering for them, "Dude, I knew you knew what we do for money. What we do is legal under state law. Just because I'm white, doesn't mean I'm stupid. Now, put the gun away, have a seat, relax, and keep snorting your cocaine." Ghost's friend smiled, chuckling, putting the gun back where it was before, and said, "This white boy is cool. Ballsy and funny. Want a bump, amigo?"