only two reasons to go there: the tuition was low and the standards of admission even lower. If you could spell SAT, you were UTEP material, and if you were good for the tuition, they’d probably spot you the S and the T. It was a fledgling university in a remote outpost just west of the middle of nowhere. Everyone with a high-school diploma was gratefully accepted, Jack Stricklin included.
In the ’60s, all males were required to register for the draft immediately following their eighteenth birthday. A college deferment was the preferred antidote to the national smash-and-grab that was wasting the better part of a generation in Vietnam. Colleges like UTEP were brimming with students like Jack Stricklin, seeking only shelter from the draft and a good party.
While just about every college experience is punctuated by distraction, higher education in El Paso included the gaudy temptation of Cd. Juarez. It was lost on no one that activities deemed illegal on one side of the border could be made legal simply by crossing a bridge. You could drive your car across and leave a few pesos for a local street gang to watch it, or you could park on the U.S. side and walk over. Either way, you immediately found yourself on The Strip, a half-mile midway of cheap trinkets and bawdy seduction, pulsing to the music of sin and the aroma of tacos al carbon.
Street vendors hawked their wares. Urchins ran to stopped cars to clean their windows with dirty rags. Pimps roamed the brightly lit sidewalks offering all manner of sexual congress with their virgin sisters. Criers stood in the doorways, urging you to step inside and sample the prohibited pleasures. It was the improbable harmony of mariachi and rock ‘n roll. And it was irresistible.
At legendary bars like Fred’s and the Kentucky Club, fifty cents would get you a mixed drink, thirty-five cents a draft beer. Food was plentiful, cheap, and tasty. And temptation resided on every block. Friday night was boys’ night, as the bars and strip joints pulsed to the rhythm of raging hormones. Saturday was date night when the more sophisticated clubs and restaurants played host to awkward young couples desperately seeking to paint a picture of enlightened maturity.
To many of the locals, El Paso and Juarez were not so much viewed as sister cities, but as a single wide-open territory called la frontera. Yes, there were bridges and checkpoints. But the inspections were cursory with traffic flowing freely in both directions. And then, of course, there was the river—the mighty Rio Grande, a trickle of mud that did nothing to discourage the free flow of migrants and contraband that had fueled the area economy for more than a hundred years.
Though it had always been available, marijuana was slow to get a foothold among El Paso kids. Like our parents, alcohol was the drug of choice. Underage drinking in Juarez, though certainly not condoned by anyone in authority, was perfectly legal. I may have been a bit on the free-spirited side, but the idea of breaking the law and winding up in prison was something I never would have believed possible. But the war in Vietnam changed all that.
They grew some really good weed over there, a small portion of which managed to find its way back to the States courtesy of the postage-free largesse of Uncle Sam. Vietnamese reefer became a highly coveted commodity and a rare treat for those lucky enough to be on the receiving end. But to the troops on the ground, it was much more than a good high. It was blessed relief from the leech-sucking boredom of continuous crotch-rot, terminal trench foot, and the constant anxiety that any moment could erupt into a lethal firefight.
Vietnam was the last American war fought by conscripts. These were not hardened troops serving in selfless dedication to their country, though many career soldiers fought and died bravely in the effort. Vietnam was a war waged in large part by a diverse collection of unwilling recruits dedicated mainly to their own survival and that of their closest comrades.
Mellow troops might not be happy troops, but as long as the pot flowed freely, the grumbling and dissention were kept to a manageable level. Many of the officers and senior enlisted were willing to look the other way. Some actually encouraged its use. A soldier could function under the influence of pot, some could even excel. A drunken rifleman, however, was good to no one. Of course, Army brass would eventually crack down on cannabis. But that would only lead to a higher incidence of heroin abuse.
The Vietnam War probably did more to kindle the proliferation of marijuana than any other single event. Ironically, marijuana may have played an equally significant role in bringing an end to the war. The first time I ever tasted the divine mellow was with a good buddy who had just returned. “Try it,” he told me. “It’ll take the edge off.” As horrified as I was at the prospects of breaking the law, I was even more terrified of backing down in front of my peers. So I gave it a toke and promptly discovered there was order in the universe after all. It was like a stranger had rented out my brain and rearranged the furniture. All of a sudden, time was no longer bouncing off in random directions, but passing gently in an orderly progression.
“Where has this been? Why have they been telling lies about it? And what the fuck else have they been lying about? You got another one of those?”
To this day, I remember the calm and clarity that came over me in a single deep breath. I can still picture the wallpaper that magically became so interesting. It’s an odd thing about potheads. They can hardly remember to zip their fly, but ask them about the first time they ever smoked pot, and you’ll get a story told in Technicolor.
JACK STRICKLIN
The first time I ever smoked pot I was at Doug Holt’s house in the Upper Valley—down in his basement. I was dating Ruona. Doug was there with his date, and there were two other couples.
Doug had gotten hold of some pot, but we didn’t know how to roll it. So we just emptied out a couple of cigarettes, packed the pot in there and smoked. We each took a hit, and we all were expecting fireworks to start exploding in our heads.
But nothing happened. So we took another hit and nothing happened. By now we’re getting a little upset, so we just start smoking ’em as fast as we can. The next thing you know, one of the guys goes into a literal wide-awake coma. He can’t move. And the more he can’t move, the harder I laugh. Another guy is about ready to shit his pants, he’s laughing so hard. Doug Holt goes upstairs and vomits. And we get out another joint, and we smoke that.
Then Ruona says, “Jack, I want to talk to you.” And she takes me outside. I’m standing there looking down at her, and she looks about two feet tall with tiny little feet. I can hardly stop laughing. And she said, “Now, you know that this leads to bigger things.”
And in my head, I’m saying, “I certainly hope so.”
And she says, “We’ve tried it, it’s over with, we’re done. This won’t happen again.”
Well, I knew the minute it hit me that I was going to do it again. My God—I was high as a Georgia pine, totally tuned in to everything around me, and I wasn’t going to feel like road kill in the morning. I was out trying to score the very next day.
I learned pretty fast that I didn’t have to finance my own habit. I’d buy three lids and sell two. That turned into a half-pound, a pound—whatever I could get, I’d sell to cover the cost, and I’d smoke the rest. The first kilo I ever bought was with a friend just back from the Army. He and I drove down to the south end of Juarez—way out in the boonies. He drove and we ended up in a bar. I remember he was talking to this guy and he came over and said, “Jack, we need $20 to buy this kilo.”
“Well, goodness gracious, we’ve got $50. Are you kidding? Why don’t we buy two?”
So we put it in the trunk of the car and drove to the border. They waved us through and that was our first smuggle. We broke it down and sold it quick—it was really good stuff. When it was gone, I started buying from anybody that had it. It turned out a lot of us were buying from the same people who were buying from us. Everybody knew each other and somebody always had pot to sell.
That’s how I met Mike Halliday. He was selling to a girl I knew—she introduced us at a party, and we started doing a little business—nothing much. It was more about staying high than making money. Mike Halliday was one of the guys I did business with. Dave Blott was another one. Mike and Dave didn’t really know each other, but when I went away to the Navy, they were