June 10-16, 2004

loose canon

Pot Squad Sessions

by Bruce Schimmel

EVERGREEN, Ala. — I consider offering $20 to a big guy for his dirty, vile, idiotic T-shirt. In my flying adventure through the Deep South to sample its politics, I'd seen a lot of dopey things, but nothing so wasteful of life and treasure as what this shirt promotes.

"Alabama Marijuana Eradication" is printed across the chest; on the back is a giant cannabis leaf, over which hovers a little helicopter. The scene is framed by a circle with a slash, the universal symbol of NO!

We're in a two-room airport shack. Me, plus five members of the Alabama State Police Pot Squad, all waiting out a storm, which offers me a chance to chat with soldiers on the front line of our war on drugs.

Welcome to Evergreen, Ala., population about 4,000. Other than cutting pulp wood, most jobs are in low-wage sweatshops. And those are the better ones. Evergreen is nearly abandoned; its retail center is dead, squeezed by surrounding chains. Yet despite its imminent demise, Evergreen, like most rural Southern towns, will likely support Bush, again. I don't understand why.

To confuse matters, everyone here is so kind to me. With no car rentals, no taxis, there's no way to get around. So for five days waiting out the storm, a dozen people take turns driving me, dining with me and talking to me — despite my wayward Yankee ways. Such is the enigma of Southern hospitality. Still, most of my time is spent waiting with the Pot Squad. So we talk.

They ask me about my hi-tech motorglider. I get them to talk about hunting for dopers.

A single helicopter pilot, brushing treetops, can spot a plant as small as 4 inches. They bring in more than 60,000 a year. A good bust, they say, will result in putting a grower away for 10 years. And the state gets his goods, vehicles, house, everything.

For them, pot growers rank just below foreign terrorists and just above domestic slackers — parasites who'd rather live off the state than get real jobs. And there, I stop them: A real job? We all know that factory jobs here don't pay enough to live on. And without a viable middle class, democracy is doomed.

I want to say that they, too, draw a check from the state, and — guess what — the growers they bust help put bread on their tables. But they've got guns, so I hold my tongue.

The sun soon peeks through the clouds, ending our conversation. The copter's turbine begins to whine. The Pot Squad gears up. There's a job to be done and a war to be won.