Take a Hit

That first hit made my brain tingle. And so, a few days later, I found myself reaching again for the can of enriched oxygen—just a few huffs before heading to the gym. Normally, those initial minutes of exercise are somewhat skull-rattling. On this occasion, however, I bounced along the cushioned surface of a gentle high, as if my heavy head had somehow emptied, as if I’d resumed that habit from junior high: sucking sweet, buoying helium whenever I got the chance.

Contributing to this giddiness was the fact that Oxygen Plus, a new line of locally produced, concentrated oxygen-in-a-can, is so fashionably packaged. The O+Mini aerosol, a highly portable four-inch can that comes in metallic blue (peppermint-scented) and metallic pink (grapefruit) varieties, resembles a tiny can of Aqua Net. Then there’s the O+Stick: This foot-long refillable dispenser (made of recyclable aluminum) has a smooth, white surface and curved edges, and sort of resembles a vibrator. So long as these cutesy covetables were packed in the purse, I found, the party would go wherever I did.

But the market isn’t always kind to such far-out products, and so, over the next three weeks, I shared Oxygen Plus with a variety of subjects in hopes of finding fellow enthusiasts (thus ensuring the stability of my supply from the manufacturer, Oxygen Plus, Inc., which is based in Mahtomedi). My first guinea pig was a close friend, a classically trained singer in her mid-thirties eager to try the stuff: “I breathe for a living” is how Andrea put it over a recent lunch. “It says three to five hits,” she said, examining the dosage instructions on a pink O+Mini. After an initial squirt, administered as one would a blast of Binaca, she observed: “Boy, it really does smell like grapefruit.” Two sprays and fifteen seconds later, she remarked: “I’m waiting for something to happen.” Five minutes later she reported that, in fact, she had felt nothing.

The marketed benefits of huffing Oxygen Plus are not unlike those purported by Oxynate, the recreational oxygen bar at the Mall of America: relaxation, increased energy and alertness, relief from headaches and sinus problems, and improved performance for athletes. But time and time again, and much to this devotee’s chagrin, test subjects, including friends, family, and random passersby, were resistant to the oxygen’s charms. Subsequent trials on office mates, in the foyer of my apartment building, and even at the finish line of the Monster Dash half-marathon were equally discouraging. “But it can’t be a bad thing,” offered one of the random subjects, a thirty-nine-year-old businessman encountered at Uptown’s Green Mill Restaurant and Bar on a Saturday night. “I mean, you can’t get too much oxygen.”

One of Oxygen Plus’s claims—that it’s an effective tonic after a night of heavy drinking— went untested. But one thing is certain: Oxygen Plus provides a healthy, or at least harmless, way to indulge illicit fantasies; when used in public places, it was observed that decent, law-abiding citizens can get nostalgic for youthful delinquency by stealing a puff. Indeed, several subjects made the association with magic herbs, even if they didn’t say so expressly. When a thirty-eight-year-old IT guy was offered Oxygen Plus at a party one evening, he took his hit as if he were, in fact, toking a spliff. He inhaled very deeply, then held the peppermint-scented, enriched oxygen in his lungs for several seconds before finally letting it go in a long, slow exhale. Did that make a difference? Nope, he said, he never got his high.