Scott shook his head, 'no,' so Chris opened one of the bags in- stead of the candy bar.
"You American?" A voice came from one of the tables. Scott looked around. "Here," the voice said. "Me too." The man got up and approached Scott. "Listen, they got two types of ganja here. Debilitating and Coma. I've made the mistake."
"Ya, we have two kinds," Chris agreed laughing. "This will only get you a little high," he said holding up a bag. "This one," he held up another, "will get you stoned."
"Bullshit," the American said. "Their idea of a little high is catatonic for us. Take my word for it. The Mexican shit we smoke? They'd give it to the dogs."
"You sold me," Scott said holding his hands up in surrender. "Just a little high is fine by me. Two grams, please," he said to Chris pointing at the less potent bag. "Thanks for the warn- ing," he said to the American. "Where you from?" Scott asked.
"Oh, around. I guess you could call Washington my home."
"D.C.?"
"Yeah," the American nodded. "And you?" He leaned over the back of his chair to face Scott.
"Big Apple. The 'burbs."
"What brings you here?"