Photograph by Matt H. Wade

Last month, secret service agents found a small bag of cocaine in the White House. Specifically, they found it in a cubby where people often leave their cell phones and other electronic devices before embarking on White House tours. Despite the fact that the President of the United States said it was “incredibly important” to find out how the cocaine found its way into his home, the Secret Service closed its investigation a week later without identifying a suspect.

I chuckled when I read the story, and recalled how I myself once “accidentally” carried an ounce of high grade skunk weed through the White House while taking the tour. This was well before the rise of dispensaries and legalization — though of course, possession is still a Federal offense.

My wife and I were touring the East Coast: visiting my sister in Virginia, then stopping in Connecticut to meet some friends we had made at the New Orleans Jazz Fest, then a few days in Manhattan. Because it’s rude to show up to people’s homes without some kind of offering, and because we were on vacation, I had procured some marijuana to show my gratitude to our hosts. I don’t recall the strain, but it was sticky, smelly and of the highest quality.

My sister — not a smoker and unaware of my parcel — suggested we spend the day touring the museums at the Washington DC Mall. Then, when she parked at a metro station a few miles from her house, she instructed us to “take any valuables with you.” My weed definitely counted as a valuable, so I stuffed it in my backpack and headed off for a day of cultural betterment.

We must have arrived earlier than my sister expected, because when we got to D.C., the only open attraction was the White House. Every other museum was closed for another hour or so. I was happy to start at the White House, until I saw that we would have to go through a TSA-like screening process to get inside. This made sense, since it was the White House. It also made sense that a wave of panic washed over me: I’ve got an ounce of crip in my possession, and I’m about to go through X-ray machines and security. I feared I might be arrested, lose my expensive party favor, and/or basically ruin our vacation. I was not sure which of those three outcomes was the worst. 

I excused myself from my family, and stepped away from the screening process. Really, there was only one thing to do. I stuffed the smelly sack into my shorts, and rejoined my family as if nothing was wrong. Miraculously, nothing was wrong: I passed through security with no issues. The other tourists did not seem to notice pungent smell of my contraband. I walked through unscathed, and even enjoyed the tour. That cubby cokehead may have upped the ante, substance-wise, but I’m the one who didn’t ditch my stash just because I was in the White House.