begun. And in addition to it being Hemp Liberation Day, it was also clearly the first day of the rest of my life. In a mere two weeks I’d progressed from Stony, a dope smokin’, pleasure lovin’ Vietnam vet who pulled down a decent but ordinary salary as a clerk and part time truck driver for a wholesale fabrics manufacturer, to the world-weary, hardbitten (or so I liked to think) private eye Jake Stone, head of his own agency. Frankly I was amazed. Having nothing else to do on that historic morning, I went down to the Hall of Justice to find out when Hemp would be released and wait for him for as long as necessary. Finally at about two o’clock I spotted him coming down the stairs toward my bench in the lobby. He was dressed in the clothes he must have been wearing the night he was arrested, the typical Hemp urban cowboy look. But there the resemblance to the Hemp I had known ended. His hair was way too short and choppy, though it was beginning to grow out somewhat. Ditto his scraggly mustache which had grown in place of the formerly luxurious one that had been summarily shaved off after his capture. He was even walking differently; his former swagger replaced by a furtive, more tentative gait. But the biggest change was in his face—it seemed thinner, older and more serious. As he recognized me he smiled and called out, “Hey, Stony!”, then came over and gave me a manly hug. But there was no trace of that sardonic banter in his words or his voice, and I suddenly realized that this was probably the first time since he was in basic training, over four years ago, that he had gone two weeks without getting stoned. We walked up to Market Street and got on a J streetcar going toward Noe Valley and home. On the way he thanked me for my loyalty and friendship and all our efforts on his ~
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