by E. R. Brown
She made a small O of her lips and noisily sucked in, then made a chewing motion. I had a quick vision of trying that in front of the grizzled vet in the woods, while he held an assault rifle on me. It was a stretch.
She turned her head and blew the smoke toward the French doors. “Roll it into your cheeks, and flutter your tongue through the smoke. Then expel it.” She poured Perrier in a glass and took a sip. “Now cleanse your palate.”
I did as I was told, but after only one taste I could feel the THC mainlining through my bloodstream.
“This is jerking off,” Randle stood, biting down on an unlit joint. “I’ll be outside.”
She changed the sample and I repeated the technique until she was satisfied. Then she did it again, comparing each of the various buds she’d selected. Could I taste the jasmine in one, the raspberry in the other, while another was like burned toast. Wasn’t it amazing they were all pot? In no time, the room was grey with smoke and my forehead was pulsing. I kept my focus on Maddie’s eyes and lips. I could feel her energy.
“That’s the Cook’s tour of the good and the bad. Now for a more practical lesson. Follow me.” She chose two canisters and led me to the kitchen. “Those samples were all mature, cured weed. But when you’re visiting a grow, the crop will be green. Tasting that is a totally different challenge.”
I could only agree, as I summoned the determination to stand and then walk under my own control, without bumping into a doorway or stumbling into her when she stopped. Beside an enormous Gaggenau range, she lined up a row of small glass bongs and dropped a different leaf in each. With newly acute vision I studied the damp freshness of the leaves and their crusting of brilliant green crystals and intensely detailed veins.
“Fresh product can be so moist it won’t burn, so you may have to dry it first,” she said.
I nodded with appreciation. One of her braids swung as she placed the bongs in the microwave. She gave me a flirty smile as the microwave hummed, and the crow’s feet around her eyes deepened. She was older than I’d thought at first, but she had an air of sexual experience. I breathed deeply to clear my head. I was certain I could feel her body warmth.
“Nuke it until it’s crunchy. Like this, here.”
She handed me a dried brown leaf from the microwave. Its stiff crackle was almost painfully loud. I watched her flick a lighter to life and light the bongs, one by one. Again she demonstrated the non-inhaling technique. I strained to pay attention, nodding seriously as she explained the difference between one and the other. One had been cut early, she said, before the fertilizer had been flushed from its system. This was a bad thing, and I noted it for the future. Her eyes were enormous behind her glasses as she asked, can you feel a burning sensation in your cheeks? That’s the chemicals.
Yes, I agreed, a burning sensation. I didn’t want to disappoint.
I fought back to wakefulness, as the dentist-drill whine of little powerboats racing around the lake penetrated my dream. One of the Menzy brothers had a knee on my chest. I was a hostage in a cave or a cell, and he was holding me down on a steel bed while his brother swung a sledgehammer at my shin. Motorcycles circled ominously outside. The brothers were apologetic, they only wanted a minor injury, one that would keep me from chasing them. As my leg shattered under the blow, a beam of light burst from the wound, which became sunlight, flashing off the lake to the bedroom ceiling as the drapes riffled in the breeze.
I forced my eyes open. The bedroom was large and white, with an angled ceiling and a wall of windows. I was shuddering slightly and a string of drool hung from my cheek. I was still in Randle’s house. The bed was low, a pillow-soft futon on a slate platform. My clothes were neatly stacked on top of a matching dresser.
I tried to push the dream away. The injury had been necessary, the Menzys had insisted, because the Devils were after them, and they had to leave me behind. They were merely cracking the shinbone—a clean break, it wouldn’t leave me with a limp — because, after all, I had protection.
My breath was foul and my face puffy from sleep. I had spotty memories of Maddie and Randle lecturing me on indicas and sativas, of the superiority of indoor soil growing to hydroponics. I shivered. I never slept naked. And I’d never folded clothes in my life, and the stack was arranged with what I imagined was feminine care. The thought of Maddie stripping me and pulling the covers over my body was embarrassing, but exciting. I wished I had a memory of it.
Still wobbly, I squatted on the low bed and dressed. It was late afternoon, judging from the angle of the sun. The bedroom had its own ensuite, and I rinsed my mouth with tap water, splashed my face and ran damp fingers through my hair before venturing out.
The hallway was silent save for the clear but distant drone of watercraft. Passing a larger bedroom with a rumpled bed, I peeked inside. The door to a walk-in closet had been left open, and I recognized Randle’s bamboo-pattern shirt. Laughter trickled up from somewhere far below. I padded downstairs, one hand on the banister for support. I traced the sounds down one level, then another, through the living room and beyond, to a room with a semicircle of leather chairs facing a wall-sized video screen. The voices came from behind sliding glass doors that opened onto a sundeck with a hot tub and a row of lounge chairs.
Randle turned at my approach. “And here’s the man.”
Maddie laughed, “I was going to go up there and pinch your cheek.”
“Fill a glass and quaff some sangria.” He held up a wineglass with something pinkish in it.
The idea brought acid to the back of my throat. I swallowed and blinked, hoping they’d think it was the sudden sunlight. Randle’s Japanese kimono lay slung over the back of his lounge chair, and he lay in the sun, completely naked. Despite a wattled neck and white chest hair, he was slim and muscled, with a runner’s body. His legs were spread casually, almost proudly, and I didn’t know where to look. I kept my gaze on Randle’s face and definitely away from Maddie. Her evenly tanned breasts and brown nipples were already imprinted on my memory.
“Here you go.” She said, extending a glass in my direction, and I had to work at holding my eyes on her face. Still I glimpsed a dark, curly armpit and a couple of moles. Real nakedness was so different from what you saw online.
“Make yourself comfortable.” Randle said.
“Get some sun on those buns.” She restrained a giggle. “I’m so bad.”
Sweat flushed from my pores. She was laughing at me, at my shyness, my inexperience. I stood there with a drink in my hand and no idea what to do.
“Is there, uh, some more work that I should do? ’Cause I ought to be going. If that’s all.”
Randle’s brow tightened. “Relax. There’s still a controller to install but the budders won’t be out of there for another hour. Lay back, catch some rays, jump in the tub. There aren’t enough days like this in the year.”
I nodded stiffly and perched on the hot tub, which helped my wobbly knees. The drink was more fruity than alcoholic, and it cleared the last of the stoned fog from my brain. I knew that they were watching my every move as I pulled my shirt over my head and placed it beside me on the lip of the tub.
“The sun is nice. You’re right.”
I gazed out at the lake. I wasn’t going to go past the shirt. I just wasn’t into this nudist thing, whether Maddie had seen my skinny body or not.
Maddie’s voice seemed to come from a distance. “He’s so white.”
“For Christ’s sake, look here.” Randle said, still smiling. “Over here. You know the lake, you’ve seen it a million times. Use the eyes that God gave you. Not me — look right in front of you. There’s a beautiful woman offering herself to your gaze. Is there something wrong with that? Something repellent? What are you afraid of? Look at her! If she didn’t want you to look, she’d cover herself, cross her legs. Wouldn’t you, Maddie?”
I had to force my gaze to Maddie, who waited calmly, looking directly into my eyes. Her expression was thoughtful and guarded. Pink flecks duste
d her cheeks. I lowered my gaze to her breasts and the gentle curve of her belly that led to the curls below. A little scar under her ribs. What was I supposed to do? Make a comment? Was it rude if I didn’t, or worse if I did?
Randle’s voice was flat. “Was that difficult? Was it work? When a flower is placed before you, and everything screams for you to lean in and savour its essence, why is it such a problem? Be in the moment. Learn to take what is offered to you, with gratitude and delight.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say or do.
He tsked with disgust. “You need more sleep, or more something. Go on back to your room, I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.”
“You still look pretty green. Weed make you sick?” Randle drove my mould-green pickup like it was his Speedster, revving until the engine screamed, and cursing the chunky shifter as he punched it into gear. He was doing double the speed limit when I checked, so I kept the seat belt buckled and my eyes off the gauges.
“No, it put me to sleep.”
I should have strapped the controller down in the back. I was certain I could feel it sliding in the bed as the truck slopped from lane to lane, its springs too soft for Randle’s handling.
“Some of that shit, it’ll rip your head off. Horse tranks in it, for all I know. She scores it down on skid row — turn signals, asshole! — to show you the dark side, how bad weed can be. And it can be brutal.”
Randle’s head twitched as we passed a Save-On Gas station fronting a clean, modern-looking farm. I’d thought that was our destination, but we kept moving. Skip had described it to me and I wanted to see inside Randle’s largest grow, thousands of plants in a network of underground rooms beneath the farmhouse and barn. The lights and heaters used so much energy there was no way they could hide their electrical consumption, so Kaya Property Management had bought the corner gas station. The grow op was now powered on generators.
He took the speed down a notch as we entered town and traffic built up. We approached the centre of Wallace, the sawmill district, and he swung abruptly down a side street and pulled to a stop at R K Welding and Machine Shop. The front of the building was square, but it was a facade, hiding the arched roof behind. Quonsets, Pop had called them, corrugated steel prefabs built right after the war. There were dozens of them along the waterfront.
I wanted to get out for a closer look. I liked what I saw. By now, I knew what to look for in a grow op, and this had it all. A welding shop was perfect: it would be wired for plenty of power and had an excuse to use it. It was out of the way and a little shabby, and there was privacy down near the docks, especially on evenings and weekends. The road was wide enough for trucks, there was easy access to the highway, and who knew, there might even be a wharf in the rear, where a boat could load up and head downriver. This was the kind of place I’d choose for my grow.
Randle slammed an open palm on the steering wheel, and I jumped. He gestured at an enormous Hummer H1 parked in front of us. I knew it, it had nearly run me off the road once, and there couldn’t be two of those monsters in Wallace.
“What have they been doing, fucking the dog? They were supposed to be out of here an hour ago.” He sat, impatient, sucking his teeth, and checked his watch. He turned to me, his face dark.
“You’re with me? Long-term?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t true, but what else could I say?
He nodded, and his eyes lit up, suddenly conspiratorial. “Let’s walk in and watch them freak out. Get the controller and follow me.”
Randle waited until I was right behind him, then shoved the door open with both arms and strode through. It swung back on me, and with both hands full of controller, I had to slew a hip to catch its force and bump it aside to protect the equipment.
Behind the false front, the metal shop was a long, narrow structure with the arched Quonset roof, rusted and showing every one of its sixty-some years.
“We’re doubling our grow capacity here,” he said. “The next building came up for rent, so we’re hooking our systems up and expanding into there.”
Just inside the door, a reception area hid the workspace from prying eyes. Its ancient oak desk, black telephone and cashbox looked like they dated back to the original occupants. Access to the rear was controlled by a curtain of vinyl strips that opened to allow people or equipment to pass, while preventing any view and containing the scent. From the smell, I knew that some of these plants were ready.
I gaped. This was no basement operation. Fans and lights hung from the sheet-steel ceiling. Industrial shelving fitted with scabby metal plumbing was bolted to the floor.
When we’d pushed through the curtain into the growing floor, the place had been teeming with activity — a dozen or more budders working side by side, talking and laughing as they went about their business. Now, a frightened stillness reigned.
Randle boomed, “As you were, troops.” Then, to me, he said, “What did I tell you? They thought we were cops. Skip’ll be next door, you wait here until we clear a place to hook you up.”
My arms were about to give out from carrying the heavy controller, and I shuffled awkwardly into the grow floor looking for a solid surface where I could deposit the thing. I smiled and gave a friendly nod to the workers to show them I was harmless. We didn’t look much like cops, I didn’t think, a seventeen-year-old and a ponytailed old guy in a linen jacket and handmade shoes. I saw an empty trolley, the kind that the workers used to roll their tools and clipped buds around on, and let the weight down with a relieved sigh.
Most of the women — they were all women — had returned to their tasks. They stripped and clipped the plants — six-foot high sinsemillas, unpollinated females, loaded with THC. Their bottom leaves were dropping, the buds were dry, almost burned-looking. They sorted the leaves into stacks, snipped and separated the gummy buds and hung the stalks on a rolling cart. When a cart was loaded with leaves and branches of bud, it was wheeled to the drying room, where someone else took over.
It looked like fun, in a way, like a quilting bee, a community at work. Since I’d been promoted away from Skip, I worked alone, visiting near-empty grow ops and warehouses, swapping money for dope in silent transactions. These women were a skilled, coordinated team. I bet they looked forward to a day on the job. They were probably pretty well-paid too. But I was pretty sure they didn’t crack the two or three thousand a week I was making.
Then I saw her. It was like a bad special effect: the room lost focus except for one budder, halfway to the back of the building, who stood frozen, pruning shears in one gloved hand. The rest of the room dimmed and she stood in sharp contrast, highlighted, her body square to me, her feet planted on the ground. I had to grasp the trolley for balance. I knew Beth’s thin frame, her yellow-white hair. This was her greenhouse job, the one that paid cash. Her face was drawn and bloodless, her eyes steady, unblinking, and locked on mine.
What do you say to your mother at a time like this? What does she say to you?
Beth ducked her head and pivoted. Turning her back to me, she bent over, pulled a machete from her cart and swung it at a thick-stalked plant with heavy, pendulous colas. She hacked and hacked, the leaves shuddering until the stalk was severed.
“Tate!” Randle called, waving me to the back, where he waited with Skip.
I pushed my trolley toward them. My route took me right past Beth, whose focus was locked on her task. I kept my eyes on my hands, on the controller that was balanced on the trolley, and the path before my feet. As I approached, she lifted the sheared stalk and swung it upside down, readying it to hang on her cart. It couldn’t have been heavy, but it was ungainly and she was frail. She stepped back for balance as she angled the stalk for the cart, and put herself right in the path of my trolley. The steel corner of the controller struck her above the hip and she grunted in pain, but didn’t turn or look. I spoke a quiet, polite sorry, and pushed past.
Chapter 15
Supper was finished. Bree was washing up, I was drying, and the
kettle was on for tea. It was another heart-warming family moment, except that Bree was plugged into her iPod and our only interactions were the wet plates that we exchanged and the thwack of a hollow-sounding Jack Johnson snare drum leaking from her earbuds. Not a bad tune, but a bit girly for my taste.
The meal had been takeout chicken and potato salad from the Safeway at the new mall, with some steamed veggies on the side. I’d bought it, warmed it up, and cut the brown bits off the beans from the back of the fridge. Bree had come to the table after two or three promptings and chewed her food in silence.
Beth was a no-show. The budders had been long gone by the time I’d finished setting up the controller and left the welding shop. She was probably driving around somewhere, planning the upcoming confrontation. Beth was not one for spontaneity. She preferred to plot out her strategies like a chess player, two or three accusations in advance, and I hoped I was up to it. This afternoon’s weed tasting had left me dragged-out and foggy, even though I’d done my best not to inhale. How could Randle chain-smoke that stuff? He must have built up an amazing immunity.
AK-47, Maddie had called the last of the good samples. A bomb-ass variety of Chronic from Humboldt County, a primo source for seeds. I rubbed my temples. Another one to avoid.
Randle couldn’t possibly know that Beth was my mom. Beth was a subcontractor through her friend Georgina. Randle would know Georgina, of course, maybe Skip would too, but they wouldn’t know or care about the lower level staff, the people that Georgina hired. According to Randle, nobody was supposed to know more than three or four others. Beth was only one budder among dozens, probably.
Randle loved playing with intrigue, running the organization in little cells of anonymity like it was the Weather Underground or the Red Brigades, so if anyone was caught, they wouldn’t know enough to bring the organization down. It was a total crock, of course, because it wasn’t a socialist collective out to overthrow the establishment, it was a highly profitable, completely capitalist marijuana business. And basically a one-man show. Perhaps nobody within the organization knew more than a few others, but everybody knew the only guy in Wallace who drove a yellow Porsche, who wore silk shirts and linen jackets and smelled like a doobie.