These days Lydia frequently went into the cultivation area to see the plants. And each night after she did, she had strange, sometimes slightly disturbing dreams that she could barely recall on waking. Green dreams. Always very green. She began to feel like the plants were trying to make contact. As if they’d something to say, specifically to her. They were creatures, living their lives. And maybe they wanted to let her in on something. This was a new perception for Lydia. Quite startling. Endearing? No. Cooler than that. Compelling. Persuasive. Ah, another agenda. Lydia was surrounded by beings with agendas. That was it.
She wondered if horses liked marijuana and if they saw plants as other creatures too. Would they like their weed fresh or dried? Grass or hay? Both probably. Shasta liked a cookie now and then too. Yes, she did. She’d probably like it carboxylated in a cookie. Maybe all horses would like it in cookies. The medicine of cookies. She’d ask the veterinarian next time she saw her. If weed was good for horses, and Lydia couldn’t see why not, she’d suggest CannRose start putting some effort into veterinary medical marijuana. It could be just as big. Maybe bigger. And she’d know something about it. Wouldn’t have to just sit mute in those meetings while Caldwell talked everybody into a stupor.
Lydia wished she’d brought a fly whisk. Shasta was bothered, tossing her head and swishing her tail. It slapped against Lydia’s boots. She stood up in the stirrups and reached forward with her torso almost lying on top of Shasta’s neck. She gently brushed the flies away from the horse’s eyes. As they got closer to the pond, the old willow came into view. It was practically horizontal and hovered out over the pond a good fifteen feet. Perfect. Lydia smiled at the sight of it.
She dismounted and led Shasta up to the drooping tree. There was a small heron across the way, partially hidden in the bulrushes, one leg up, poised and peering into the water. Lydia wondered if a muskrat would show. Years ago when she and Jordan used to go for walks, they would often see one.
She stood there studying the water, looking for movement. Before Jordan got sick, when everyone told her she was lucky and had the best husband in the world, Lydia often felt lost. He was always so pleasant but busy with his empire. Yet he would insist on her company. She’d shopped in every major city and spent whole days lounging in five-star hotels. He’d called her his oasis. But what had oasis meant to him?
She’d suspected affairs. He wasn’t much to look at but some women would take power and money over beauty any day. She oughta know! And she’d met the women of his heady world. Not that there were many. But one of them in particular, oh she was pretty. Lydia had watched the woman chatting to Jordan, cocktail glass in one hand, the red décolleté Valentino blouse fluttering over the little black skirt. Lydia was sure, wasn’t she? This tiny young woman had a kind of power that might, if armed and pointed in the right direction, totally vaporize an oasis. Couldn’t it? So Lydia had done the only thing she could. She’d made her way over to them in her best runway style, and with all her enthusiasm, she demanded an introduction to the lovely young woman. And then the pretty thing beamed at her, just beamed! So happy that Jordan’s glamorous wife had noticed her, so flattered by Lydia’s attention, so reassured by her Southern charm. She introduced Lydia to her partner, a rather morose young woman with a buzz cut who sported a gray tweed jacket and Doc Martens.
“Ah yes,” Jordan admitted later, “the girlfriend’s a bit odd but an absolute genius with software. Sometimes goes with the territory, my love.” And he’d pulled her close and kissed her on the forehead. All that had made Lydia feel even more lost.
Shasta put her nose down and nudged Lydia, then stepped closer and rubbed her head on Lydia’s back to get rid of a few flies. “You’re so right,” Lydia said, turning and patting Shasta’s cheek. “Get rid of those flies.” Lydia ripped a couple of dangling willow branches off the main trunk and got back on Shasta. She gently swung the branches around Shasta’s forelock then flopped them back and forth either side of her neck.
Lydia smiled. She had a new life. No longer adrift at heart. She’d surely been a fool with Caldwell. And what did that matter? It had come to something good. She was involved. Situated. Helping the community. New interests. New ideas. The veterinary uses of marijuana. Green dreams. Who knew where it might take her? Shasta perked up and broke into a trot.
Chapter 53
Percy was quite relieved the IT guy had determined that Caldwell’s alleged sabotage was a technical glitch after all. You could tell by the slight shift in the shelving units in the background, and if you looked very closely, the bin arrangement on the shelves was different during the five-minute sequence. Besides, Alice and Percy had sent in samples from the offending product lines to two private labs, and Petra had analyzed another set of samples in-house. Needless to say the results were variable but the state lab was the one most out of agreement. With some embarrassment, the state was forced to withdraw the finding and initiate an audit of its own lab.
But Percy was beside himself with Caldwell’s newest antics. Like some prime turkey, all red-wattled and babbling, Caldwell wouldn’t leave Percy alone. The previous month, Caldwell had been on about getting organic certification, and Percy had to explain to him that they actually had to grow plants organically. Using synthetic hormone gels to get clones started put them out of the running from the get-go. They couldn’t certify products anyway, only the processes, because that’s all the state would allow. And the national certifying organizations wouldn’t touch any of it because they still operated under the FDA.
But now Caldwell wanted cGMP — Current Good Manufacturing Practice. Apparently the modest rigor required by the state regarding manufacturing practices wasn’t cutting it. Like some new convert who’d just found Jesus, he was all on about it. “And I mean real certified GMP. Just the way you’d see it in Pfizer or Merck!” CannRose was to partner with some company from Canada that was implementing it and together they were going to change the industry. This was the first step to global operations and would apparently put CannRose ahead of every curveball known to man. Certainly ahead of the FDA. “We’ll be international. These other countries want certified GMP. As the world shifts to acceptance, this is our chance.”
Percy clenched his jaw so hard it made his teeth ache. For the love of Jesus, this was Caldwell’s idea? Or no, a brainy idea from Canada? Well, screw him and screw Canada! Had Caldwell been stone deaf a year ago when Percy had proposed much the same thing? No! He’d been ridiculing, antagonistic, dismissive. And he still undermined Percy at every step. Refused to wear booties, changed protocols on a whim, ignored checklists! And he bitched to the board and the executives about how “all the bureaucratic bullshit” Percy was trying to implement just slowed the whole operation down. Of course the staff all saw this and so they flouted the rules too. Percy would never get CannRose operating even close to a cGMP standard. No one could. And why? Because Caldwell was a clueless, controlling, impulsive, tantrum-prone — and possibly sociopathic — monster!
“That company up in Canada wants to know why we’re not doing all the science that goes with GMP. I want to know about this! Why isn’t this happening? You’ve been telling me we do things GMP here.”
“No, Caldwell, I’ve been telling you we implement it where we can. And we can’t do the science if we don’t do the tests to get the test results.”
“What do you mean? We do tests! There’s test results all over the place. Results from our lab. Results from the state labs. Stoyan was babbling about more testing. We have all sorts of test results here!”
“Not the boring kind. At least you consider them boring.”
“What are you talking about? You think I’m too gauche to appreciate high-quality standards?”
“Remember last year when you said the state regs didn’t require ‘all that crap.’ And you said Petra needed the lab. She’s the research director and I’m just the QA officer?”
“I never said that!” Caldwell raised his voice. “Why would I say that?”
Petra suddenly appeared out of nowhere. “You did say that, Caldwell. We’d have to run the lab 24/7 to get my work and Percy’s done, and now there’s Stoyan’s stuff too. And like you said way back, the state doesn’t require it. They’re only interested in the finished product.”
Percy was positively delighted at how Petra always seemed to show up at the right time. He watched the veins in Caldwell’s forehead bulge. As Caldwell raised his hand to rake it through his hair, Percy noticed the tremors. Hmm. Caldwell was definitely losing it — or he was on something more than marijuana. It could be worth sticking around for the denouement. But if Caldwell was going to be on his case now, it was time to move on. They could hire somebody else to get all the CannRose wankers operating in a disciplined system. Good luck with that! They’d need an army.
That afternoon Percy started composing a resignation letter. He hadn’t gotten very far when Lorne came into his office looking worn out, sat himself down and said, “Why are we expanding into Canada? We barely get product out the door to our own dispensaries. And isn’t that still illegal because of the federal laws?”
Percy smiled. “Pharmaceutical GMP is not required for cannabis processing and sales in Canada as far as I know,” he said. “Caldwell is looking to a vast and global future and you know what this would mean.”
“Not . . . precisely.” The production manager sucked his breath in through his teeth. “Exactly how much more work would this be?”
So Percy described what running the facility under cGMP might look like: additional protocols, documentation, audits, more testing and validations, risk analyses of processes, expiration studies, more record-keeping and inspections by whatever external organization was issuing the certification — certainly not the FDA! About twenty percent more staff. More training. Even eye tests!
After some moments of silence, Lorne got up slowly from the chair. “None,” he said, “none of the other companies are this crazy.” And he drifted out the door.
Percy tried to get back to his resignation letter but there was cloning that day at the facility and he kept being interrupted. He oversaw all the picky paperwork, and the staff had all sorts of picky little questions.
The next morning Percy heard raised voices coming from the production office. It went on for several minutes, then Caldwell came barreling past Percy’s door shouting that Lorne “had all the imagination of doorknob!” It occurred to Percy that just the lack of manners and dignity at CannRose was reason enough to bail. When he’d talked about it the night before, his husband, Gavin, had pointed out that if CannRose had to hire an army to handle the extra quality measures then Percy would be the general. He could outflank the opposition by sheer numbers. But Percy figured one way or another Caldwell would maintain mayhem, so he was still going to finish his letter.
After about an hour, Percy saw Lorne walk by in his street clothes. Then a few minutes later, Percy heard giggling in the hallway, so he got up from his desk to see what was going on. There, scrawled in big bold letters — clearly this was turning into a CannRose tradition — was a sign on the production office door: Go Fuck Your Mother, Caldwell. I QUIT!
PART ELEVEN
Packaging
Oh the brains of little boxes. The bumptious bags. The bottles boasting sterility. Tie it all up. Parcel it and leave us. As if vessels alone ensure containment! Amp up the ampules if you must. Gild the lids. But put this in your sack: We will prevail, we’re already winning in fact, and you never knew what the war was. You imagined the front and forgot your back. You slay yourselves in your own wrapping. Your portion of concern rallied to deny the fleeting days. Trifles and fripperies. Resistance to what, we’d like to know. Entropy’s unavoidable. Try to love the cascade.
from Cannto VI, Cannabidadas
Chapter 54
The anniversary of CannRose’s first sale and Caldwell’s birthday were a day apart and fast approaching. Lydia wanted a big party at Rosefields. It was to be a family-friendly affair. No loose abandon or excess joie de vivre this time. Everybody who worked at CannRose and their families were invited. It would start in the afternoon and end in its own good time. There’d be games for the kids and swimming, and it was reported Lydia was even negotiating a live band for dancing under the stars. Ernie thought it was so sad, just a damn shame Lorne had quit before he got to party at the company’s expense.
Ernie was asked if he’d honor the party with his splendid catering. The thought of feeding a mass of people, sweating or dripping in their bathing suits with kids running around screaming and everybody drinking more than they should, held no appeal for Ernie. Even all the extra money he’d haul in for the effort had no attraction. But he agreed to do it.
“I’m thinking barbecue . . .” Lydia offered.
“Absolutely. People would be disappointed if it wasn’t.” Ernie was visualizing the elaborate outdoor cooking facilities at Rosefields. Carl had given him a tour one day. Along with a variety of grills, there was a smoker, a sixteenth-century Italian-looking gas-fired stone oven and two massive Texan custom-built rotisseries suspended over pits the size of wading pools. Ernie suggested he’d need to check out everything, see what was in working order. According to Carl, only one small grill was currently in use. Apparently the patio kitchen had serviced huge summer parties when Jordan ruled the world but it hadn’t seen much action in the last decade or so.
“Oh, and we should have lots of finger foods too,” Lydia said. “Like you had for the tenth-crop celebration. They were such a hit, Ernie. And Caldwell just loved the little Japanese prawn cakes and meat skewer things.”
Oh there would be prep! Ernie had been hoping he could just get away with roasting a whole pig or barbecuing half a cow with no trouble at all, and then the hordes could just rip the meat off the carcasses in a feeding frenzy. Easy peasy. But he smiled at Lydia. “No problem,” he said.
#
Ernie noticed Caldwell stagger over to one of the chairs by the bar. It was right after the little fireworks show, during which Guido had played an electric violin accompanied by recorded instrumentation. “Vivaldi and Piazzolla,” he’d announced. It had been a spectacular interlude while the Latin band Lydia had hired for the evening was taking a break. They were back up now cranking out mambos and salsas. It was quite an active party, but very civilized, Ernie noted with pleasant surprise. Almost no screaming children, and folks were joyful and not dripping all over his food. But Caldwell had clearly consumed too much booze, or he’d had a puff of Damian’s Thai Po Blush maybe. Ernie had taken just one good inhale of that a few months ago and had barely been able to put one foot in front of the other. He’d also thought his bad eye had developed superpowers under the patch and he was seeing the world like an insect.
Caldwell sat slumped, looking as if he was hanging on for dear life to the arms of the elevated bar chair, so Ernie wandered over to him.
“Happy Birthday, Caldwell. Enjoying the party?”
“Oh . . . Ernie. Hi.”
“Great night for this. You can really see the stars out in the country,” Ernie said.
Caldwell tilted his head way, way back and gazed up. “Yes. Yes the stars are really there. Aren’t they? Oh . . . oh . . . oh yeah, I know what I wanted to say: Great food, Ernie.”
“Thanks,” Ernie said, mystified by this strange new version of Caldwell.
“You know, I don’t usually eat cake. It’s always too sweet. But that was exceptional. I had two pieces.” Caldwell spoke very slowly and was still gazing up at the stars.
“Thanks, Caldwell. Look, can I get you some water or something? You seem a little shaky.”
“Oh. No thanks . . . Ernie. I’m fine. I’m really fine. Very fine.”
Ernie watched as Caldwell lowered his gaze to stare straight ahead, his hands trembling, sweat on his forehead. So Ernie went to search out Damian or Lydia to see if either of them knew anything about Caldwell’s personality transformation or would be worried about it.
“H
e didn’t get anything from me,” Damian said. “Anyway, he can smoke enough to bake an elephant and you’d never know it.” And he wandered over to check out Caldwell while Ernie went to find Lydia.
“Oh dear,” Lydia said. “I wonder if he’s on medication again.” She and Ernie made their way over to Caldwell, who was sitting there smiling at Damian, not saying anything.
“Caldwell, sweetheart, people are worried. Are you okay?”
“Lydia! How lovely. Thank you for this lovely party.” He stared at her briefly and then smiled at all three of them. “I may have had quite a bit of champagne.” He chuckled conspiratorially and smiled even more.
Damian, who’d seen Caldwell drunk on way more than one occasion, looked at the other two and shook his head.
“Caldwell, sweetheart, would you like to lie down for a minute or two?”
“I didn’t think you felt that way about me anymore, Lydia.”
“No Caldwell, we think you’re not quite yourself. We think you might need a little lie-down.”
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