The “Fent” Cart

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy a good edible every once in a while. After all, according to the weed wizard Snoop Dogg himself, “It’s actually growing from the ground straight to you, so it’s just like eating a vegetable.” But despite my best efforts to always have a safe sesh, I have inevitably had some horrifying trips—this was probably the worst.

Who said nerds couldn’t have fun? Conferences were always something to look forward to in high school. Hotel rooms, skipping school, and a few days with little supervision. Naturally, my friends decided to spice up the weekend by christening a brand new cart.

I refrained from indulging the first night. But my friend (let’s call her “Em”) took a hit—and a relatively small one, might I add. The cart, however, took her out. She threw up in the suite sink (ew), and the entire room smelled like chips and vomit (double ew). At least my other friend (say, “Bee”) had a Victoria’s Secret body spray to mask the stench. Em proceeded to shower for at least two hours.

This piqued Bee’s and my concerns, which only mounted when we were awoken at 3:30 a.m. to a call from the front desk, informing us there was a huge water leak in the room below. They thought we left the water running. I assured them I didn’t know anything and went to bed—let’s ignore Em’s extensive shower. Not a great start to the weekend.

One would think that I, now a Harvard undergraduate, would have the foresight not to hit the cart after seeing what it did to my friend. I wish that were true.

The next night, Bee and I decided it was our turn to get high. She tested it first, but noticed no vapor coming from the cart. After repeatedly testing it, we almost called it quits. But upon further inspection, she realized that the mouthpiece was simply dislodged. After snapping it back into place, we were well on our way to a hazy heaven.

She took a hit … maybe for half a second—nowhere near a blinker. I did the same. 

What happened next I can only describe as the worst roller coaster ride of my entire life—one that I wished to jump out of, but was forcefully strapped in as the weed surged through my system. Throughout the night, everything oscillated between slight normalcy and insanity.

The high began slowly, and I initially reached a great place. Everything was funny; with my close friends beside me, random impressions and half-assed jokes became the most hilarious thing in the world.

But then things took a turn. My friend “Kay” started freaking out, saying that Bee and I were acting really weird. Bee was pretty used to getting high; while it was only my second or third time, it was unusual for it to hit her this fast. Then, Kay’s face contorted into a melting, disfigured version of the Greek comedy and tragedy masks. Startled by the creepy vision, I woozily flopped down on the hotel bed. But the high rushed over me, and I started to get the munchies. Ravenous, my hands scoured for the nearest available food option: a bag of Cape Cod sea salt potato chips. Despite the worst of that night, I can confidently say that’s the best any food has ever tasted.

At some point—minutes or maybe hours later—our hotel room somehow ended up as the communal gathering place. Surrounded by unfamiliar faces from other schools while climbing “higher” on the cannabinoid coaster, the hallucinations started. I turned to my friend, desperately trying to convince her that my experiences were real.

“Dude. THE FLOOR IS WET. You HAVE to come feel it.” 

My pleadings were accompanied by me crouching on the floor (practically on all fours), and pressing my palms against the worn wool. She was unpersuaded. In my defense, the cold hotel carpet creeping through my socks likely would have felt this way regardless of the marijuana.

To make matters worse, the girls from the other school caught on to our antics and decided they would prank us. They came up to Bee and me, and told us that the room below us could “smell it,” insisting that the vapor from the cart was permeating through air vents and disturbing the other hotel guests—hopefully not the same ones we drowned earlier. Someone of sound mind would have understood these statements to be untrue. But let’s be honest, there was no way I thought anything that night was straightforward. The Victoria’s Secret body spray had returned.

Before I could confirm with the others that the smell had dissipated, suddenly our room was empty, albeit just Bee and me. Without Kay, I started losing my grip on time. Bee was out of commission (no wonder trip sitters are a thing). Panicking, I called Kay. Poor guy—he couldn’t escape us. 

I don’t know how long I stayed on the phone with him, but I distinctly remember him assuring me that time was moving the right way. “It’s 10:52 p.m., and that makes sense because it was 10:51 p.m. a minute ago, and a minute ago was 60 seconds ago, and it feels like sixty seconds have passed, so it makes sense that it’s 10:52 p.m. now.” I felt slightly better and hung up the phone.

Exhaling, I turned and nudged Bee; it was definitely time to get ready for bed. All of a sudden, the hotel door swung open. Em and our other roommate burst into the room.

“We just got caught.”

For a second, the “we” really scared me. But it was my roommates who were on the chopping block for sneaking into a guy’s room. A teacher from the other school spotted them sneaking out and took it upon herself to call our teacher. Snitch. Regardless, our teacher was coming to our hotel room to talk to my roommates while I was high out of my fucking mind. Two of us were already in trouble, and we were on our way to making it four.

I locked in and turned to Bee. “We need to go to sleep NOW,” I said. We quickly changed into our pajamas, brushed our teeth, washed our faces, and went to lie down in the bed. Thank GOD for the Embassy Suites with a door that closes between the living room and bedroom.

As I heard echoes of our teacher reprimanding Em and my other roommate, I was still going through it—though the tense conversation provided an oddly soothing lullaby. I honestly felt like I was about to die: lying down caused my body to feel like it was endlessly falling into a black hole. On top of that, I was overcome by the weed shakes. My entire body vibrated, almost like I was having a seizure. Bee, sleeping in the same bed, started to worry if I was really okay. Neither of us were in a state to get help. I weakly reassured her and hoped that succumbing to sleep would put an end to my misery.

I woke up in a haze and was definitely still high. However, as any true high-achieving teenager would do, I hauled ass out of bed and packed my things, preparing for our presentation that morning.

After such a treacherous experience, we decided Bee’s cart was laced. The “fent cart” claimed three victims that weekend. It would claim another at a party that night, even after endlessly telling our friend that it was not for the weak (nor the strong). The universe ultimately intervened, and like an apparition, it disappeared after that party. We’ve never been able to find the cart since.

I’ve since learned from my mistakes and have come a long way since my high school antics. While I still partake, I’ll always remember my humble weed-using roots and hope a fent cart doesn’t come back to haunt me in the future.

M.J. Sparks repressed this story from memory and had to scroll through old texts to piece it together.