Unfortunately I have been involved with drugs since the earliest days of my infancy. I have learned from reliable sources that during the two months after my birth I was regularly pumped with sedatives and tranquilizers to suppress my screaming while lying homeless in a hospital nursery. My dependency on drugs just mushroomed from there.

As a child and into adolescence I was administered a little white pill at bedtime every night. Since I had difficulty swallowing the pill was often crumbled and served with a tablespoon of apricot or prune juice. To this day I abhor those juices. Upon reaching the age of reason (for me, my 12th birthday), I mustered the nerve to ask why I had to take that damn little white drug. I was told alternate facts. One was that it was an anti-convulsion medication which I had to take because I was prone to running high fevers. The other was that it would help my bed-wetting problem. The pill, however, accomplished neither goal (although the prune juice did impact my bowel movements).

I think the drug I experienced most often was penicillin. It seemed like our family doctor considered penicillin as the cure for any ailment. Back in those days penicillin was not offered in tablet form but as a shot in the arm or the rump. Soreness at the site usually ensued for two days. Speaking of the family doctor, a sole practitioner, he kept all kinds of pills in huge jars in his office so it was often not necessary to go to a drug store with a prescription. As identified in a previous chapter, that family doctor was the father of my best friend, Wally Brill. Once a year, and usually on a Sunday after 11:00 Mass, an inventory was taken of Dr. Brill’s pills (I assume for accounting or tax purposes, of which I knew nothing at the time). Wally and his brother (Richie) and his sisters (Marilyn, my first crush, and Bonnie) and I would spend the rest of the day counting pills. It actually was an exercise that paid well (Dr. Brill gave each of us a $20 dollar bill and a packet of 10 pills of our own choosing) and it also prepared me for future contests of guessing how many jelly beans are in the jar.

Over time I recognized I enjoyed the drug scene so much that I should become a pharmacist. There was a neighborhood drug store known as Percy Davis where prescriptions could be filled and several other medical supplies could be purchased, as well as greeting cards and penny candy. That was about it. But it was charming in its simplicity and I decided I wanted to be a pharmacist. After all I was at the top of my class in chemistry and I thought I would look handsome in the smart white pharmacist jacket Percy Davis wore. I could help people with health issues without seeing their blood and insides. So as a senior in high school I applied to the Philadelphia College of Pharmacy and Science and received a scholarship offer. My father and my aunt, however, were against the idea of my being on my own at age 18 and suggested that I go to the local college (the “U”) for two years and then transfer to the Philadelphia College. I know they probably had my best interests at heart, but I also think they knew that if I stayed at home they could be certain that I continue to receive that stupid little white pill every night. So I went to the University of Scranton as a chemistry major and flunked chemistry in the first quarter of my freshman year. My dream of wearing that white jacket and pouring cough medicine and selling penny candy was over and I had to change my major.

I know some readers of this essay will be disappointed that I’ve put a spin on the meaning of drugs in order to respond to this challenging question about my history with drugs. That’s because there’s not much to relate on my experience with recreational drugs. I tried marijuana joints just four times in my life – and actually now that I think about it they occurred in four different decades and in the company of four different women. While I had a long addiction to tobacco and am now threatening that record with an addiction to alcohol, I just did not experience any enjoyment with marijuana. If anything it was unenjoyable because I felt like it was burning my throat. I probably wasn’t smoking it right. The only time it might have had an impact is when I tried it in my last year of law school because that was in a treehouse on Capital Hill. I must have been partially stoned to even go up in a treehouse. In recent years I’ve tried a handful of edibles and gummy bears, which were pleasant enough, but not the same as Jamison or 12 year old Scotch.

So there. I’ve managed to compose five paragraphs on an inapplicable topic. You’re welcome.

The second part of the question is do I have any regrets. On the chance that I’ve missed out on a happier and healthier life I regret not going to Woodstock. I might have become a musical druggie.