Pop N Fresh

Discovering a Maine Island's Drug Pipeline

The people in The Village — Eliza, Bo, Summer, and the gang — have elevated the art of partying to permanent rolling status. Just like there are poker games that have been going on for decades, with the participants joining in for a few hours or a few days and then departing to go to work or vacation in Miami or get married or die or something, only to be replaced at the table by someone else who keeps the game alive, the party at The Village has been actively under way since the first hippies occupied the first shack back in the early ’60s. Sometimes the party expands like a brush fire, enveloping everyone on the south end of GSI in the frenetic energy of its blaze. Other times, the party dwindles down like abandoned embers, glowing softly among just a small handful of people equipped with guitars and bongos and grass. It will shimmer like this for days sometimes and then flare up again when the right combination of people, energy, booze, music, and drugs intersect on the beach.

After watching this pulsing party do its waxing and waning thing a few times, going brown dwarf around a few joints and then supernova around an influx of coke or acid, but never quite disappearing altogether, it began to dawn on me that this end of the island must require an impressive supply of illegal but decidedly widespread drugs.

Now, I don’t do much in the way of drugs. I’ve been known to dabble a little, but mostly I think drugs are for people who want to escape from life — and I want to live life fully, with all its pain and elation. Still, every time I’ve headed southward to see what The Village people were doing, the drugs have always been plentiful and cheap.

So finally I asked Bo about it. The outrigger canoe doesn’t head to the mainland all that often, and the Villagers would generally rather join a Glee Club than be caught crossing on the Bourgeois ferry, so where do all these drugs come from? It seemed like a wonderfully journalistic thing to ask. Journalism is, after all, the art of asking nosy questions.

Bo, who isn’t terribly talkative in his finest moods, looked up from his bongos, scowled, and said “Floyd.”

At first, I thought he’d said “flood,” and I had visions of bales of weed and Zip-locks of coke washing up onto the beach alongside the desiccated crabshells and the frayed strands of polypropylene rope. But then I remembered hearing something about a guy on the island named Floyd. Floyd Houlton.

Reasonably Clever - #1152 – Pop-n-Fresh

Guys, he said it was gonna be up early Tuesday, so it’s gonna be up early tuesday!

*waits, looks around.*

And remember, he’s a busy Legenius (Lego+Genius), so he can’t come at our beck and call.

*Refreshes page.*

Like I said, he just got back from a busy expo, give him some time.

*refreshes page 18 times.*

GET IN HERE, DOYLE!!!! GET. A. NEW. COMIC. OUT. NOW!!!

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