Different Circles

“I think I will,” Gahn said, opening the box and looking inside. He took a few sniffs and then pulled one out. He set it down before him. He then looked at the other bandmembers. “Anyone else?”

“I’ve already had mine,” Matt said.

“We’re waiting until after breakfast,” said Austin, who was fighting to suppress a grin of his own.

“Oh, okay,” Greg said.

The waitress came by a minute later and offered Greg some coffee. Though he was a practicing Mormon, he did not adhere to their prohibition against caffeine, probably figuring that after being addicted to cocaine for a good part of his life, Heavenly Father would cut him a little slack on the coffee. He munched down his brownie as he sipped, declaring it to be one of the best brownies he had ever enjoyed.

“There’s an interesting aftertaste to it,” he said after finishing the entire treat. “I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, but it seems kind of familiar.”

“I thought that too,” Matt said. “It must be some special Dutch spice or something that they put into the batter.”

“Perhaps,” Greg said. “Anyway, thanks for sharing.” He seemed genuinely touched by the gesture, which was well outside of Matt’s typical character.

“Have another one if you want,” Matt offered.

“I couldn’t,” Greg said.

“Why not?” Matt asked. “There’s plenty.”

“Well ... in that case...” He opened the box and hooked out another brownie. It was the largest one in the box. He quickly made it disappear as well.

And so that was how Matt and the boys were finally able to prove a theory they had hypothesized for most of the tour: that they really did not need Greg Gahn to run and micromanage each individual show. Greg spent a good part of the day in a Rotterdam hospital emergency room having tests run and being sedated with Haldol and Ativan after suffering from an extreme panic attack that bordered on clinical psychosis. The cause of his ailment was discovered only after all of his tests came back benign except for one: the urine drug screen. It was positive for cannabinoids. The doctor asked him about his drug use and Greg denied using anything other than caffeine. The doctor then revealed the positive test and Greg was finally able to put two and two together.

“They gave me pot brownies!” he told the doctor, incensed.

The doctor listened to his tale and was forced to agree that pot brownies were the most likely suspect. “How many did you eat?” he asked his patient.

“Uh ... well ... two of them down in the cafe,” Greg said. “And then they gave me the box, telling me they were full after breakfast and didn’t want them. I took them back up to my room and ... well ... I ate two more up there.”

“You ate a total of four of them?” the doctor said incredulously. “That is a ridiculous amount of THC to ingest, my friend. The normal starting dose for beginners is half of a brownie.”

“I didn’t know they had pot in them, remember?” he barked.

“Oh yes,” the doctor said, nodding. He still wasn’t sure he believed that part. “If, as you say, your band members gave you these brownies without your knowledge and consent, this might just rise to the level of a criminal offense.”

“Really?” Greg asked.

“Indeed,” the doctor said. “Would you like me to summon the police so they may open an investigation?”

Greg actually thought about this for a bit—how long he was not actually sure because he was still quite cataclysmically stoned—and even considered it seriously. They had really gone too far this time, deliberately poisoning him with hallucinogenic drugs. The thought of the four of them being placed in handcuffs and taken to some Dutch prison was actually quite appealing. But, in the end, he knew he could not do it. They would have to postpone tonight’s show, a scenario that went against everything that Greg held sacred. National would hire the best lawyer in Holland to defend the musicians and they would likely be released before tomorrow night’s show. And he would be sacrificed to keep the tour going. They would fire him, make him pay to get himself home, and Rich Tankle, his second-in-command, would get a field promotion. In his current state of mind, he could picture the entire scenario as clearly as if someone were screening a 3D movie about it.

“That’s okay,” Greg said with a sigh. “I’m sure the boys just thought they were playing a harmless practical joke.”

“I will abide by your wishes,” the doctor told him, hiding his own smile of satisfaction. After all, he had two tickets for tonight’s Matt Tisdale concert, third row center. They had cost him four hundred and fifty guilders apiece. He and the mistress he kept in a little apartment on the south side had been looking forward to this night for a month. And he had two pot brownies—one each for he and his mistress—that he had purchased just for the occasion.