Let’s face it. I have little left to lose. After I’d joined the collective, it was the other women who gave me the strength to see myself as part of the change. And, after all, it is women, not men, for the most part who are seekin’ out alternative medicines and not just for themselves, but for their partners, their parents and other family members. The best part of bein’ in an alliance, for me at least, is learnin’ how to best ease a person’s pain by bouncin’ ideas off and brainstormin’ with the other women in the business I’ve gotten to know.
I’m payin’ it back now, see, sharin’ my own newfound know-how with those who need it most. If I play my cards right, I’m bankin’ on my carefully made concoctions bein’ my future, bridgin’ the gap that has grown between me and my sister and most importantly, my kid. I need to show her I can run a business, legit like, support myself, an’ her if she’ll allow me to help her in some motherly way.
We pulled up outside of the collective and Bobby switched off the ignition. I watched him as he lumbered around to retrieve my basket of goodies from the back seat and haul it up the stairs to the dispensary door. “Take your time, Bridg,” he said, touchin’ my arm as he headed back to the car. I saw him crank back the passenger seat, tip his head back and close his eyes. Bobby had no interest in comin’ in and makin’ small talk, it was vendor day and that means a whole boatload of motivated women and banter to match. This was his habit on delivery days, in all honesty he was happy to make the most of a rare half hour of shuteye while I took care of business.
The first giveaway that A Bloom of One’s Own is a dispensary and not a goddamn florist shop is a set of sturdy metal bars fitted on the windows of the women’s collective, a converted Victorian bungalow. The dispensary is the childhood home of Helena, one of the co-owners. When she inherited the property after her mother passed, Helena and her business partner, Nancy, a real smart retired nurse made a plan and started off by paintin’ the old place all bright and invitin’ with a wrap-around mural in the form of a field of wild flowers. Aside from the metal bars, though they’ve been painted white to soften the look, the buildin’ has a welcoming vibe, inside and out that makes me smile each time I walk up those stairs.
A canary-yellow painted porch swing hangs to the side at the top of a short, wide staircase that leads to the front door. Clusters of painted terracotta pots spill out onto the porch filled with all manner of strangely shaped succulent plantin’s that dig this misty climate.
I used my bony ol’ hip to push open the door to the right side of the swing and walked on into what was the property’s original hallway, a small size waitin’ room with a glass paneled, bulletproof security window inset into the wall. I buzzed the lovely Luna — dispensary receptionist and our collective’s go-to girl for vendor cheerleadin’ and customer concerns. To say that Luna is a tried and tested true friend is an understatement. She’s the most compassionate person I know without ever once feelin’ the need to be goin’ over the top and gettin’ too gushy. That would never work for me.
It was Luna and Bobby who’d taken it in turns drivin’ me to chemo, hangin’ with me, real patient the both of ‘em, hour after hour while I sat there with poison being pumped into my body. I’ve asked a whole lot of her and trust me when I say that she’s been there through the worst of it with me.
Luna’s knockout smile spread across her face showcasin’ a dazzlin’ set of large, perfectly even, pearly white teeth. “Hi there Bridget. Good to see you. How you doin’ today, sugar?” she asked, her genuine warmth of spirit shinin’ through. “Come on in, you know why? Today is an exceptional day for doin’ business,” she laughed, in a spontaneous burst, as is her way. This girl is always laughin’, always positive, no matter what amount of shit is thrown her way. She deals with some challengin’ individuals at times. I’ve never seen her handle the real difficult and demandin’ ones with any less grace than she greets those who make our dispensary work so rewardin’.
She is younger than me by more years than I care to count. I have never asked Luna what her exact age is. She’s a hard one to gauge, natural, through and through — soft and round, barefaced and beautiful with tan, freckled skin and thick lashed, deep brown eyes the color of the earth after the rains. Luna wears her felt-like dreadlocks in a long braid and I followed in the wake of its chunky swing as she walked me through the inner door. We bear-hugged. “What’s new, Bridg’?”
“Well . . . my sister showed up, big surprise — helped me out in the kitchen today, would you believe?”
“Better late than never.” I’d never heard Luna say so much as one bad word about anyone, except for her ex who deserved it and worse, havin’ been one mean motherfucker from what she’d told me. Maggie’s Andres was an angel in comparison.
“Well, good for her and good for you,” she said, taking a hold of the heavy basket. “That’s quite a load you’ve put together the two of you, Bridget. There’s gonna be plenty happy customers today.”
We went through the routine formalities required by the dispensary, the usual checkin’ of my medical marijuana card and ID and various other necessary papers. Luna knew I was up to date with my permits and all. Still, she followed the usual protocol and I was happy to go through the motions. I was doin’ things the right way for once in my life what with the paperwork. Security cameras followed our every move so there was no cuttin’ of corners even if I wanted to.
Luna is also the go-to girl for settin’ me and all the other local cannabis product vendors on the right path to enter the industry legally. She runs the day-to-day details of the dispensary’s business trainin’ program for women entrepreneurs, organizin’ weekly workshops and networkin’ events with other vendors, that sort of thing.
It’s not that guys aren’t welcome to the dispensary to purchase whatever it may be they need in the medical weed department — they just can’t sell it. That’s the whole point of this women-owned collective, see and it’s not hard to figure this out the second you walk through the door. The way I look at it, this is my new and improved method of waitin’ on tables all those years, my life work is takin’ care of folk one way or another. Not that I did much of a good job with Mia these past few years.
Helena and Nancy set out from the start to make the dispensary an intentional healin’ space, nothin’ like the dingy, stereotypical stoner central of the old-school dispensaries that are as grim on the outside as they’re unappealin’ on the inside.
The main room is softly lit with crystal chandeliers in an open, airy space converted from the old home’s front and back parlor. Lucky that Helena’s husband, Pete is a contractor. He did all the renovation work himself. Pete salvaged the original hardwood floors and refinished them like new.
Luna likes to joke that she’s the “lonely only sister” in our outlandish community. To say she’s in the minority is an understatement. I’d never thought about it bein’ mostly all white and Latino in these parts, ‘til I met Luna. She was the one who opened my eyes, when she said to me, “look around Bridget.”
I’ve never known anythin’ other than this with my bein’ born and raised here where the McCleerys and their tough-ass neighbors, the all-white Europeans were the only nonnatives who’d braved the brutal combo of this geographic isolation and damn blisterin’ hard work. They were on their own in their determination to make a go of it — come hell or high water, hard as it was — as it still is.
Only the devil knows how crazy determined folk must be to make it here, no matter where it is they’re from or the color of their skin. This ain’t about to change anytime soon, not one iota.
The first settlers, they figured out soon enough the raisin’ of cattle. They planted their potatoes and tended the land through those wicked first winters, all the while shelterin’ their brood in little more than the wooden shacks they cobbled together with a bunch of bartered lumber. Wet winters and heavy fog would’ve disconnected the wagon trails for months on end. Day-to-day life was a matter of survival of the fittest,
plain and simple, those who were out-and-out the most resourceful. Still is. I’ve watched as countless folk have come and gone over the years, romanced by the lure and the wild beauty of the coast. Dismal reality never fails to hit home soon enough, generally straight after even the shortest of rainy seasons. Mostly, nowadays, it’s the hardworkin’ souls from south of the border that prove tough enough to take it on and stick it out.
Life out west is no sorta game for the feeble. In my book it’s mind and body and spirit workin’ together, a goddamn trifecta — all or nothin’. Bein’ stubborn helps. And I keep on askin’ myself are we gonna be tough enough to keep on weatherin’ it, me and mine? It’d break my heart to throw in the towel at this point. We McCleerys, we’re hellbent, we’re gonna prevail, somehow, I hope to God. As for Luna, well, she’s for sure gone and proved herself willin’ to infiltrate our tough coastal clans. As she says, she is her own kind of crazy. And Luna had better reason than most to go against the tide in settlin’ here.
Helena and Nancy were busy hangin’ several large canvas paintin’s on the wall behind a series of glass counters that looked to have been jewelry cases in another life. “Hello Bridget,” — Aiko, a small, slim and smiley Japanese-American artist-chick in her sixties stepped over and took my hand. Aiko supplies the dispensary with a rotatin’ display of original art made by local folk. “What do you think?” she asked, as she motioned to a groupin’ of wild lookin’, multi-colored abstracts painted by the regular students in her popular puff-n-paint community class.
“Neat,” I said, though I had no idea what to make of any of ‘em except to say they were cheerful enough. “You sure have unleashed the creative genius.” Aiko and us go back years. She taught Mia art a few years back in elementary school when she was a volunteer art docent on account of her grandbaby bein’ in the same class. She wrote me once, urgin’ me to nurture Mia’s creative side. I had no time for artsy-fartsy when I was workin’ all the hours to make ends meet. I shoulda paid more attention, listened more.
I took a good long look around this energetic scene. It was a ‘specially busy day in the dispensary. Aside from me there were several other women vendors in the buildin’, enthusiastic and hopeful all of ‘em, patiently waitin’ to talk with Nancy or Helena to showcase their products. In addition to the usual granola-eatin’, peace lovin’ west county core members of the biz, legalization and our collective’s stellar community outreach is bringing a whole new wave of seniors, veterans and disabled patients through the doors. Everyday folk. Heck, practically everyone’s comin’ out as a cannabis fan now it’s been given a thumbs up on both the state and local level. The Feds can go fuck themselves.
“I guess the handheld joint is a thing of the past?” an older, wrinkle-faced hippie chick with hair to her hips asked in a crackly voice. She was seated in a wheelchair, smilin’ and shakin’ hands with Helena, whom she, like most of us, was previously acquainted with from Helena’s former guise as a bank teller.
“We’re pushing way past smoke, Lou-Lou, as you know,” Helena replied. “What’ll it be today? Are you ready for a fresh supply of your tincture? Do take a look at our new lozenges and teas before you head home.”
Nancy advocates to seniors ‘specially. “A lot of them have held on to their misconceptions for far too long,” she’d informed durin’ one of her weekly rally calls for all of us to work on better educatin’ people. “There’s something for every ailment,” she said. And she’s right, there’s a balm for every issue. Transdermal patches, for instance, beat the pants off inflammation and they reckon that if you smoke a little pot a day, it fends off the brain from agin’ too fast.
These women have an almost encyclopedic knowledge on the subject of top-drawer medical cannabis products, tonics for the future, I say.
Helena nodded her head as the wheelchair woman described at length how she was doin’ with her aches and pains since havin’ been prescribed a tincture—goin’ into graphic detail about droppin’ it under her tongue and all. “I’m glad to hear it’s fast and effective, Lou,” Helena replied, “on account of the tincture absorbing directly into your sublingual artery in a matter of minutes.”
The enlightened Lou-Lou remarked on the added wonder of her prescription bein’ somethin’ she was okay takin’ when away from home, given the “odorless, discreet, undetectable high.”
An equally spirited group of women were patiently waitin’ for me to set out my range of freshly baked goods. I have my regulars and boy, am I thankful these girls are always primed to shop.
It’s perfectly clean and spotless inside of the dispensary. Though I, for one, dig the dense, musky smell of marijuana, they’ve somehow managed to keep it from bein’ too much in your face when you walk in. That afternoon, chatter was gettin’ louder by the minute. Dispensary assistants busied themselves selectin’ various strains and takin’ pains to identify them for customers perusin’ the long, glass display cases stocked with glass petri dishes filled with various buds. Jars of Indica lined up on the left, Sativa on the right, hybrids in the middle, all organized and efficient.
After makin’ my sales, I looked over the day’s range of orange tinged, yellow and purple-hued buds with mysterious and equally colorful names dreamed up by the creative cannabis breeders themselves. Each strain in the dispensary is outlined with an information card indicatin’ its main psychoactive ingredient, its specific primary intoxicant, THC percentage, as well as the content of its naturally occurrin’ nonintoxicatin’ medical benefit compound, CBD and its effects. One of the most in demand varietals in our dispensary if you care to know, is the strangely named Sour Diesel, a pungent and grassy strain of the Sativa plant. It’s mostly grown outdoors and sought after for its reputation as havin’ a pleasin’, energizin’, yet dreamily cerebral effect. In my experience, Sour Diesel grows real tall and lanky and stretches out while flowerin’, makin’ it way too hard for me to grow.
I was hopin’ to get my hands on another strain I’d been wantin’ to try, this one more enticin’ly named Little Lamb’s Bread and said to emit a comfortin’ sage and pine needle aroma with properties that help keep depression at bay. I figured if any two people were in need of some sort of soul soother, it was my sister and me.
I glanced up and made unintended eye contact with a tall, willowy woman whose extra long, slim limbs were layered in muted, earth colored, tie-dye. A row of hammered silver hoop earrings dangled from ears that appeared too small for her head. A mini version of the same hoop earring pierced her left nostril. She wore her gunmetal gray hair cropped close to her head and I wondered if she used an electric hair trimmer on herself like the one Bobby had me buzz the unruly hairs that grew in swirls on the back of his neck.
“Hi,” she said, thrustin’ a firm, yet sinewy hand with short, neat nails into my reluctant grasp. She read the name badge I wear when I’m at the dispensary. “I’m Serena, Serena Joy, medical cannabis massage therapist. Nice to meet you, Bridget. Care for a demo — how about a quick foot massage?”
I found I had little chance to resist Serena Joy as she swiftly levered me into a seated position on her portable massage chair, peelin’ my boots and socks clear off my feet before I could summon the words to say no. I looked down at my bare, white feet as they were being submerged into a round copper bowl filled with a bunch of fresh herbs that were floatin’ around in the comforting warm water. I flinched. I am naturally suspicious of bein’ touched by a stranger, no matter the pamperin’ environment. I’m not accustomed to such self-indulgent activities.
Dang, if I’d even so much as entertained the decadence of a spa day, I have never once had that much spare cash floatin’ around. Mia and me, we’d taken a double manipedi date into town for her birthday several times after she hit her teens, but that’s about the extent of a health and beauty cosmetic regimen in my books. I cut my own hair, when I still had hair that is and Mia’s and Bobby’s too. Since Serena Joy, assumin’ that’s her given name and not one she’s made up for business purpose
s, was offerin’ me a massage for free and as there appeared to be no arguin’ with the woman, I decided to give in, lean back and close my eyes. I surprised myself with how easy it was to submit to the scent of the warm eucalyptus oil she’d made such a fuss of droppin’ into the water.
“Don’t worry, you’re not going to get stoned from one of my topical treatments,” Serena reassured. I paid attention to her tellin’ me how she makes her own massage lotion with arnica, juniper and peppermint, coconut oil, beeswax and Aloe Vera, lacin’ her lotions with relaxin’ selections of the Indica cannabis strain. “And wouldn’t you know,” Serena added, “it’s your lucky day, my dear.” She described how she’d prepared her lotion with a small batch of organic Blackberry Kush that very same mornin’. “What we have here is a fantastic, fresh, anti-inflammatory blend that works as an antioxidant, without ever penetrating the bloodstream.”
I felt the strange sensation of my muscles workin’ double-time in an attempt to relax despite the physical intrusion of Serena’s probin’ deep into the soles of my feet with her powerful fingers and thumbs.
Maggie’s showin’ up had me riled to the extent that the foot massage, though undeniably good, was still no way close to makin’ much of an inroad into my muddled mind. Aside from the Mia situation, my sister and the mess she’d gotten into with quittin’ her marriage, her job, her home and all, well, my own worries and mainly of Mia were way more than Serena’s strong hands could erase.
My mind raced around and around in ever-widenin’ circles, unleashed and free for a few minutes to roam and explore in every goddamn direction possible. Maggie had fallen for Andres hard. It was a blessin’ in a way that the old man was gone by the time they’d wed. I hate to admit this, but he would have been nothin’ but nasty about it. By then, I’d been the only one left of what Maggie considered our old-guard, patriarchal family to show my face at the weddin’, if you’d call it that, a fast and furious ceremony by any standards, at City Hall, in San Francisco. It wasn’t like the old man had been aware of the fact he was prejudiced, the ignoramus that he was. In his whole life he had never known anythin’ other than the faces of the same ol’ traditional white European stock we’d been stuck with, for better or worse. He passed on before Mia came into the world, my own multicultural contribution to our community, born out of wedlock to add to his turnin’ a couple more times in his grave. Maybe a good thing Maggie and Andres never had kids, given their split, though I always did think to myself they would have made real pretty babies the pair of ‘em, her light skin, his dark, the both of ‘em blessed with the sort of looks that make folk stop in their tracks.
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