Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  “There might be another explanation.”

  “Nah, chicks just naturally prefer arguing.”

  “Really?” I had so much to learn. “So I shouldn’t take it personally?”

  “In your case, perhaps. But think about it, why do you think they have periods?”

  “Well, it’s a biological function,” I answered, all Mr. Science.

  “What?”

  “It’s not like they have a choice about it.”

  “There’s always a choice.”

  “Yeah, I suppose—but doesn’t a hysterectomy at puberty seem a little harsh?”

  “Not as harsh as PMS. I’ve done the research and every chick that dumps me starts out as a sweet toddler. I’ve seen the evidence in photos. And every single moody one of them hits puberty. It all goes south from there.”

  “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  With his eight extra years of bad relationships, Ray knew a lot more than I did about angering women.

  “You’re lucky to have a mentor of my caliber.”

  “No kidding. My ex-girlfriends had me half believing their moods were my fault.”

  While I made notes in my little book, my deluded mentor said, “Let me show you the rest of the place.”

  Accompanied by attack pets, we walked around the planting beds, all of them remnants from the original hydroponic farm. The beds were laid out in a large grid of four sections. Each area held eighteen concrete beds running parallel to the shacks. Sitting atop the soil, the beds had six-inch-high sidewalls and ran a hundred feet long. They were four-feet wide and set four feet apart. Across a narrow wooden boardwalk there was an identical set of beds. All together, there were seventy-two of them, half on the ocean side of the shacks, the other half out back. At the center of the operation, where the row of tool sheds ended, stood a 10,000-gallon redwood water tank and a pump capable of sending water to the beds through pipes under the boardwalk. Not your typical farm.

  “Jeez, this was quite an elaborate setup.”

  “That’s right. This place was considered a state of the art hydroponics farm when first built. As well as the first few weeks of operation. Not quite long enough to harvest anything, but still, a good start.”

  “What happened?”

  Ray explained that a heavy rain had swollen the red soil the farm sat upon and cracked the concrete beds. The cracks let infectious organisms invade the system.

  “Those nasty buggas recirculated via the pumps and before you could say ‘Oh, shit,’ they infected whole place, wiped the crops out.”

  I looked at the label on one of the cracked beds. It said IKEA. “I think I see the problem.”

  “After that, the agronomist lost heart, moved back to Sweden, and drank himself to death.”

  The evil Bank of Hawaii had repossessed the farm and offered it for lease or sale to anyone who wanted it. After a quick glance at the IKEA shacks and bothersome cement beds, no one did. Years later, Ray stumbled onto the place and got the lease.

  “With the help of some unemployed carpenter friends zoned on acid, I made the farm into the palace it is today.”

  “More of your subtle humor?”

  “You’re not a snob, are ya?”

  “No, but. . .”

  “I’m just screwing with ya, man. So, you dig the garden or what?”

  How could I? There was no marijuana in it.

  “Your lettuce is not only abundant, but also green and leafy.” That was about the best I could do.

  “Thanks, brah. Hey, feel free to help yourself. We’ve got plenty.”

  No kidding. There were thousands of heads of lettuce in various stages of maturity.

  “Who buys all this lettuce?”

  “We sell to all the health food stores, the Times Supermarket chain, and a bunch of restaurants.”

  “Why so much lettuce and not many other things?”

  “Because of the bugs.”

  “What kinds of bugs we talking about?” I hoped it wasn’t centipedes.

  “Centipedes.”

  “Damnit. I thought those were carnivorous.””

  “They are.” He pointed. “Probably why that one is heading for your leg.”

  Taking action, I set a new world record for the standing broad jump. When I settled back down, I asked, “So, what eats the veggies?”

  “Damn near everything else. Hell, even the fruit flies are brutal in Hawaii.”

  “They’re tiny. I could probably take one if I had to.”

  He pointed at a fast-dodging chihuahua-sized cockroach near his busy flip flops. After three hard kung-fu stomps, Ray relented to check out the gooey damage. The unblemished cockroach sauntered away, giggling with scorn.

  “Jesus. . .”

  “Think you could take one of those, Mikey?”

  “Not without golf shoes and a three wood.”

  “Da buggas are tough, but at least they don’t eat the lettuce.”

  “What do they eat?”

  “Everything else.”

  “Uh oh. . .”

  “Trust me, Mikey, you don’t wanna obsess on the bad side of cockroach invasions.”

  “No, I sure don’t.” And yet, now I knew I would. “Wait a second, is there a good side?”

  “What are you, crazy?”

  “It’s your phrasing that keeps throwing me off.”

  “The best thing about Manoa lettuce? It grows so fast you harvest before anything can screw it up. Plus, nothing likes eating it.”

  “If it tastes so bad, how do you get anyone to buy it?”

  He gave me another of his funny looks. “I was talking about the bugs.”

  Ray seemed hung up on bugs instead of better-tasting lettuce. Or lots and lots of pakalolo.

  “I’m new at this whole organic farming thing, but I think I see a flawed business model here.” All the tomatoes were inside baggies, like round red ounces of weed. “What’s with the bags?”

  “That’s for the fruit flies. They’re such a pain that we only grow a small amount.”

  Why would he even want to?

  “Fruit flies are hard to grow?”

  “I meant the tomatoes, you nut.”

  “Is it my fault you’re so vague?”

  “You wanna know a secret?”

  “About your pakalolo?”

  “No. Stick to cherry tomatoes. They finish so quickly the bugs never get a chance to eat ‘em.”

  “Wow, great secret. Who knew veggies were so fascinating?”

  Without any pot plants to trip out on, the exciting veggie tour and the gripping lecture on cherry tomatoes crushed my spirits. Things weren’t looking great for me. For the world, either. I pictured myself studying law texts and cringed.

  I asked a leading question. “So, what other mind-blowing things grow around here?”

  The tricky Ray sidestepped it by pointing at the field bordering us on the east side. “Obviously, corn.”

  Acres of sweet corn grew there. “Well played,” I said. “Not that corn is all that mind-blowing.”

  “Wait’ll you taste it.”

  He was right. We stole some and had it for lunch. It was the best corn I ever had. Still, it didn’t get me high.

  “Come on, Ray, that’s all you grow out here?”

  “Well, we grow some broccoli, zucchinis, onions, and a bunch of other stuff, but not commercially. Those are just for the commune’s consumption. Happy now?”

  “Not yet, but I gotta say, you’re pretty slick.”

  Ray patted himself on the back. “I have to admit, growing lettuce is pretty clever.”

  “Not what I meant.”

  “What’s wrong with growing lettuce?”

  “How much is it worth?”

  “As much as a quarter a pound.”

  Thai pot, the most expensive stuff on the market at the time, went for fifty dollars an ounce. To gross fifty dollars, it took thirty-two hundr
ed ounces of lettuce, and a lot of what passed for work. That’s what was wrong with growing lettuce.

  “That’s your biggest breadwinner?”

  “There’s a lot of it, it adds up. You’d be surprised.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “We’ll skip the back half because those beds aren’t planted.”

  We finished the tour atop the covered water tank.

  The panoramic view, with trees blocking the pig farm and the rest of Makimaki Road, seemed postcard-worthy. As long as I ignored the tool sheds. Only ten feet off the ground and I could see for miles and miles and miles. I felt like The Who. After checking out the ocean and the nearby mountain range, I returned my desperate gaze with purpose to the farm. Where did Ray hide the pot?

  “Not that I’m suspicious, but how come the rear beds aren’t cultivated?”

  “Get real, Mikey, there’s only so much demand for lettuce on an island.”

  Or was there another reason? I stared hard at the back acreage, seeing only low-growing weeds in the fallow beds. There wasn’t anywhere to hide pot that I couldn’t see from the water tank. Unless way out back in the big field of elephant grass. Tons of it grew along the property line, invading from a neighbor’s untended field. Ten feet high and a fast spreader, it grew in a fifty-foot wide strip perhaps a hundred yards long, covering the entire rear perimeter. It had already enveloped the last few beds. Not that I could see them, but skilled at counting up to eighteen, I could tell there were fewer than in front. I scoped out the grass, looking for signs of a plot, but if it held any pakalolo, I sure couldn’t tell. Dense as it was, Ray could have hidden the Viet Cong Army in there. Beyond that wall of greenery were several more acres of sweet corn, a couple of deserted war-era Quonset huts, and a bit of undeveloped scrub land at the foot of the mountains. I looked away in defeat. My dreams of changing the world fell to the ground where the attack pets pissed all over them.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay if I couldn’t pursue my dream. Then again, the commune took care of its members’ food and shelter needs. Important factors I hadn’t considered before hopping on a plane to the Islands. Homeless and near-broke, I blamed my lack of foresight on the down-letter Lizardo. Also, Buddha. If this tenuous Plan B didn’t work out, my trip to Hawaii might seem a sketchy decision. A gloating Mom and Dad would say so. No way I could let them enjoy that moment. With the mopey Lizardo still in Volcano, girls that didn’t like me in Waikiki, and no other connections, the farm appeared less hideous, more palace-like. A tropical island to a castaway. It had to be better than law school.

  “So, whaddaya think, Mikey? Can you stand the excitement of growing lettuce? Or you wanna ride back to town with me? You could probably stay in Kaimuki if you like Honolulu.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure. Molly seemed crazy about you.”

  “Funny.”

  I couldn’t appreciate his sympathy or humor, cruel though they might be. I felt let down. Perhaps I’d given him more credit for shadiness than he deserved. Then I realized something. Of course the pakalolo wouldn’t be visible. No way a grower as openly sneaky as the wily Ray would let a snoop spot his illegal plants. Also, I felt sure no one on the entire planet had a friend as handsome, as intelligent, and as skilled a grower as Ray did. My spirits rose again. Not seeing any signs of marijuana proved my wild suspicions correct. This had all been a test of my dedication. That’s how good my mentor was. Maybe.

  I made my decision. Somewhere around there, terrific buds grew. And if not, damnit, they soon would. And this time, I wouldn’t kill my seeds with colchicine. So when Ray headed back to Honolulu that afternoon, I stayed. The commune seemed a humble start for a guy with glorious dreams, but it beat straightening up and flying right. Out there at the end of the most dangerous road in Hawaii, with only a couple of farms and miles of mountains as neighbors, I’d find somewhere to grow pot or my name wasn’t Mark. I mean Mike. Whatever.

  After all, fortune favors the brave. And though not brave, I did lack common sense. Plus, I owed it to the world to give it a shot. I vowed I would never give up—unless lettuce was the only thing I grew when the fall semester started.

  Chapter 16

  A Dream Come True

  After a lunch of veggie burgers, Ray said, “Show Mikey the routine around here, Russ. Have him do, well, whatever the hell Louie the Flake did.”

  “Should be easy,” said Russ, “Louie didn’t do much.”

  That seemed reasonable to the novice farmer. “Sounds good, won’t take me long to learn.”

  “Fast learner, huh?” complained Katey.

  “Mike’s sort of a nerd,” explained Ray, apologizing for me. “Reads books and stuff. Not because he has to, but for fun.”

  “Seriously?” scoffed a sneering Katey.

  I confessed. “It’s true.”

  “Jesus Christ. . .” snorted Lynn, voicing her disdain for literacy.

  “You going back to town again, Ray?” asked Russ. “Already?”

  “Can you blame me with ol’ Katey so hostile?”

  While Katey scowled, Lynn snarled, “Damnit, it’s Kate.”

  Russ had a suggestion. “Maybe Katey needs some time in town.”

  “A lot of it,” seconded Johnny.

  “What? And ruin things for me?”

  “Hey,” said Katey.

  “Nice try, you selfish bastards,” said Ray before driving off.

  Russ took me through the farm routine. “Mostly, Mikey, we water lettuce. I’ll do one section, Johnny and Jackie do another, the grouches do—well, you get the idea, right?”

  “Let’s see. . .I water lettuce?”

  “Thattaboy,” said Russ, giving me a pat on the back.

  Katey seemed displeased. Also, easily impressed. “Shit. He really is an intellectual.”

  “Yeck,” said Lynn.

  Man, I’d really have to dumb it down if I wanted a shot at the sexy ninja. And yet, what could be less academic than watering plants with a hose?

  Russ walked over to the stereo, and like a disc jockey with good taste, said, “Up next: Surrealistic Pillow, American Beauty, and Abbey Road.”

  “Wait, is that it?”

  “Got room for more. Pick a couple of your favorites.”

  I picked out Steely Dan’s Countdown to Ecstasy and the Stones Sticky Fingers, then said, “Actually, I meant with the gardening.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much it, except for when we plant it or transplant it.”

  “I thought it sounded too easy.”

  “It gets worse. We also harvest it, box it, and drive it into town for sale in the refrigerator van.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not except for partying before we come back,” explained Johnny. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

  “I think I already did.”

  “That’s right, you’re a college boy, aren’t ya?”

  I shrugged with guilt.

  “Figures,” said Katey, shaking her head.

  Lynn’s growl of disgust told me I’d blown it.

  “Like an education will help around here,” chided Russ.

  My folks would also have some questions about my demanding new career. “Don’t you want to change the world anymore?”

  It would be hard to keep a straight face saying, “I am changing the world, one head of organic Manoa lettuce at a time.”

  Russ continued his lesson, giving me insider tips on growing lettuce. “After loading your favorite albums, turn the speakers so they face outside.”

  Ray had gotten ahold of some monster speakers from a concert promoter pal, and to put it mildly, da buggas rocked. A perfect match for his souped-up Kenwood amp.

  “Next, crank the volume to ear-splitting, and blast away.”

  We’d rock out to the Stones, the Beatles, the Who, Neil Young, Steely Dan, the Dead, the Airplane, Buffalo Springfield, B.B. King, Hendrix, Traffic, Dylan, Bob Marley, Zeppelin, Clapton, and,
well, you name it. With hundreds of albums, we listened to all the best music of the day. So did everybody else living on Makimaki Road. Depending on the wind, you could hear electric guitars soon after you turned up from the beach. No one complained. Evidently, the neighbors appreciated something loud enough to drown out the sounds of domestic battles, gunfire, and the squeals pigs make while having their nuts whacked off.

  _ _ _

  Since the work wasn’t as hard as it sounded, I fell right into the farm routine. With some killer music on the stereo, Johnny, Russ, and I would religiously start our days before the sun popped over the horizon. Not with prayers, for Christ’s sake, but with a traditional sunrise doobie atop the water tower. There we dug the far out pastels in the dawn clouds and the soft golden promise of the sunny day that would soon roast us. A papaya, some muffins, and a smoothie for breakfast, and we’d be out between the beds watering the lettuce.

  Standing there, hose in hand, Subterranean Homesick Blues on the stereo, I paraphrased Dylan’s lyrics: Sixteen years of schooling and they put me on the day shift. Oddly, I was enjoying myself, and yet, back home wicked taskmaster Dad couldn’t get me to mow his lawn without threatening a visit to the evil-breathed Dr. Kim Chee, the CIA’s notorious dentist/motivation specialist. Life was funny.

  We’d finish our morning work session by nine or ten, then hop into the farm’s pickup and head to the beach for surfing or snorkeling. The truck had four-wheel drive, and when we wanted a change of pace, we’d take it up Jeep trails into the mountains where we’d hike along streams until we hit a waterfall pool. Back from our break, the girls would whip up some lunch. Feeling lazy in the heat of the day, we’d take a well-earned siesta before watering again in the afternoon. Why a second watering? Because it was hot out there.

  Or as Russ explained, “To keep them from bolting.”

  Bolting? I pictured heads of lettuce scratching their confused chins with stringy green arms, staring at an unfathomable diagram, wondering why nothing from IKEA ever worked.

  “Why does lettuce need to bolt stuff? How do they hold the tools? And what stuff do they bolt?”

  After calling me corny, Lynn explained it meant flowering too soon. “Simple.”