Written by Bob Maschi   

It was the summer of ’74. I was 16, newly licensed, and found myself on Cape Cod for a sunny day. It was the place to go for a young, Massachusetts man. The place to swim the Atlantic, walk the beaches and try, usually without luck, to pick up Cape Cod girls because Cape Cod girls were so really, really, well, you know… tanned.

I spent the day avoiding tourists and then found a private spot behind a sand dune where I could suck down a 16-ounce can of Narragansett. That’s when I saw this kid, a couple years younger than I was, walking toward me. He was Black with a short afro, sleepy eyes and mean lips. He was obviously going for the Huey Newton look but could just as easily pass as Rudy from the Fat Albert cartoons.

It was nothing real unusual. Lots of Kenyans spent their summers relaxing on the Cape. I was just hoping he didn’t want any of my beer. I only had four left and it was a long ride home.

“Hey,” I nodded when he got close.

“Asalamu alaikum.” He said with a slight bow.

“Huh?”

“My name’s Barack. Barry for short.” He sat beside me.

“Bob.” We slapped palms.

“Smoke some weed, Bob?”

“Sure, Barry.” I tried not to act too excited but the truth was that I loved to smoke weed. I just couldn’t usually afford it with gas prices at nearly 70 cents a gallon.

Barack, or Barry for short, reached into the crotch of his jeans and pulled out a full ounce of pot in a plastic baggie. Like 20 bucks worth! Fuck. This guy was cool.

“Got any papers, Bob?”

I tapped every one of my pockets, twice. Even though I knew I didn’t have any Zig Zags on me. I shrugged my shoulders. Barack tapped each one of his pockets too. But all he came up with was a heavily folded sheet of paper. He showed it to me.

“I guess I could use this. It’s my original birth certificate.”

I agreed with a few nods. Who needs that? So Barack tore off a piece of his birth certificate and rolled up a spliff. Cool coincidence—he used a part of the certificate with the word ‘Hawaii’ on it and that’s where the weed was from too! Soon we were enjoying that harsh joint. It didn’t bother me, much, that Barack took two tokes to every one of mine. I mean, it was his weed he was bogarting.

Eventually I was good and stoned and leaned back onto the dune. Staring up at the meandering clouds, I wondered how many people died in Vietnam (and Cambodia, and Laos) that day. I only had a couple years before I was of draft age. So the ‘Nam, surely the longest conflict America would ever be in, was usually in the front of my mind. Especially when I was feeling paranoid.

“Watcha thinking?” Barry asked as he lit up a cigarette and inhaled.

“About Vietnam. If I’ll ever have to go.”

Barack leaned back and shared my clouds. “Not me.” He claimed as he gulped out a few perfectly shaped smoke rings. “I’ll just tell them I’m gay. That’ll always work.”

I nodded again. It was a better idea than mine, which was getting a ‘Fuck Imperialism’ tattoo on my forehead. This guy sure was smart. He was going places.

“So, Barry, what do you wanna do? You know, when you get older.”

“You mean when I grow up?” His back sunk deeper into the sand as stars lit up his eyes and a slight smile spilled across his lips. “I think… I think I want to be… Secretary of State.”

“Whoa…” I said. “Cool.”