Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  “If it’s so simple, why don’t you just call it flowering?”

  “Don’t you know anything about farming?”

  “What am I? An agronomist? Hell, I’m not even Swedish.”

  We’d finish the afternoon session with plenty of time to go back to the beach with a few happy attack pets for a sunset swim. That first evening set the tone. With the sky ablaze, I swam with a pup named Mango in a glassy ocean turned crimson. A playful group of young manta rays swam with us. And just like that, I was hooked. Literally. A local fisherman had snagged my shorts.

  I protested when he tried to fillet me. “Do I look like a mahi-mahi?”

  He shrugged, unlike me, not concerned with the distinction.

  The sunsets on the westward-facing leeward coast were world-class affairs, the Miss Junes of sunsets. After dinner that night, sharing one last doobie with the guys on our water tank perch, I stared hard at the moonlit mountains, thinking maybe I’d grow some plants there. I started feeling better about Plan B.

  With no television or night life at the farm, we went to bed early. The scents of night-blooming jasmine and mosquito coils perfumed the still-warm air. Wandering cockroaches and centipedes roamed the nocturnal floors, while mosquitoes ruled the skies. With Lynn giving me the cold shoulder, I slept alone, afraid to leave the safety of my mosquito net-enshrouded bed. Even if it was impaling me.

  Note to self: Score a mattress as soon as possible.

  After lunch the next day, I pulled out the last of my hash. “How about a little dessert from Afghanistan?”

  “That sounds delicious,” was the consensus. They were right.

  In turn, Russ rolled up a fatty from a big pickle jar full of sparkling buds. There had to be a pound in there.

  “Wow! Where’d you get those?”

  He shrugged. “Ray gave ‘em to me for doing some stuff with the girls.”

  His answer seemed vague. He was probably embarrassed.

  I sympathized with my gigolo friend. “Tough job for you, Russ, but at least Ray pays well. It must’ve been hard to get it up for Katey.”

  “You mean it’s hard to get it up for Kate,” corrected Lynn.

  “Hey,” said Katey.

  “Either way,” said Russ.

  “But you, Lynn, when you get all mad and your nipples. . .”

  “Fat chance.”

  There they went!

  Russ shook his head. “Not these girls, Mikey. Jeez, give me some credit.”

  “Screw you, Russ,” said Katey. “What’s wrong with us?”

  Everyone not a grouch cracked up. I was about to request clarification when Russ distracted me with the joint. My coughing fit made it impossible to ask anything. Like the hash, the doobie tasted delicious. So did Jackie’s THC-infused pineapple/raisin muffins. Dessert at the farm was da kine, and we stumbled away from the table feeling satisfied. Johnny put on the Beatles. I strummed along to A Day in the Life. My hero John Lennon had just gone upstairs and had a smoke. Then somebody spoke and he fell into a dream. I knew just how he felt.

  A couple albums later, when George finished My Sweet Lord, I put down the guitar. “Man, I love that song.”

  “I used to,” said Russ.

  Uh oh. Sometimes I got carried away. “Was I singing out loud?”

  My fans answered with a hiss of. . .approval? “Yesss.”

  I tested the waters. “Pretty good, huh?”

  “No.”

  Damn, what were the odds? A whole room full of music critics. “Sorry.”

  I went outside to pet dogs and sulk. Feeling low, I wondered: How bad could law school be?

  “Hey, man,” said Russ, joining me with a sly smile, “wanna see the pakalolo? It can be a reward for not singing anymore.”

  I think he meant bribe, but I didn’t quibble. “P-p-pakalolo?”

  “Unh huh.”

  I smacked my thigh. “I knew it.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  I told him that Ray had denied the existence of a plot. Repeatedly, given how often I’d brought the subject up.

  Russ chuckled, then added, “Yeah, well, Ray’s a master bullshitter. Wait till you hear his theories about women.”

  “Thank God. He had me worried he was honest. He won’t get mad?”

  “For thinking he’s honest? Maybe just a little. I wouldn’t bring it up.”

  “I meant about me seeing the plot.”

  “Oh. Well, you live here now, so what the hell? I’m Chief Executive Assistant and in charge when he’s not here. Which is way more often than not. I’ll just say I needed some help.”

  He hadn’t exactly answered the question. “Sooo—you’re sure it’s okay?”

  “No, man, he’s a moody guy. You never know. But you do wanna see the plants, don’t ya?”

  “Well, jeez, if you’re gonna twist my arm. . .”

  We walked past the bedrooms and hung a left at the water tank. Russ led me along the boardwalk, stopped in front of the impenetrable-looking wall of elephant grass.

  “Well?” said Russ.

  “Well, what? I still don’t see them.”

  “You’re not supposed to.”

  “I had a funny feeling about that.”

  With a laugh, he said, “No, I mean they’re camouflaged.”

  “As what? Elephant grass?”

  Elephant grass, as protective as a field of bayonets, made for a great fence.

  “Don’t touch it, you nut,” yelled Russ. . .a moment too late.

  I looked at my bloody fingers, then picked them off the ground. “Man, that stuff is sharp.”

  Russ shook his head. “There’s a better way to do it.”

  “I don’t know, that slices pretty clean.”

  “Not what I meant.”

  He got down on his knees, and using some Kevlar gloves hidden there, parted the bottom of the grass, revealing the entrance to a well-concealed tunnel. It was just big enough to crawl through on our bellies. I followed Russ, all my appendages squirming, emulating my foe the centipede, loving the sneaky entry. Attack pup Mango crawled in right behind, apparently deciding to adopt the friendly new hippie. Russ showed me how to pull the entrance closed again. And just like that, we were invisible. Not from each other, which would have been cool if confusing, but still. . .

  Twelve feet of crawling and we’d entered a secret garden. Instead of elephant grass, a four-foot-wide strip of hydroponic bed appeared. And it was filled with marijuana. Smiling from ear to ear, I felt like shouting Eureka.

  Ray had left the surrounding elephant grass in place to lean this way and that, creating a natural-looking green canopy. It let in plenty of sunlight, but made the plants hard to spot from above. He’d added plywood sidewalls to the low beds and brought in enough compost to make them eighteen inches deep. Ray, in all his deceitful glory, was ingenious.

  “We just yanked out the boys,” said Russ, “so these should all end up females. This one here is already starting to declare.”

  “Really? I don’t hear anything.”

  Russ rolled his eyes. “Look real close. See that little white hair?”

  “Oh yeah. . . So that’s how it all starts.”

  “Yep. Hard to believe there’ll be zillions of those before harvest.”

  “With no males around, there’ll be no seeds on these, right?”

  “Exactly, man. Ray says these buds will get obese.”

  I pictured the flowertops wearing matching polyester muumuus, ordering me to get a job and a haircut. “Like the tourists in Waikiki?”

  Russ trumped me. “Like da bruddahs next door.”

  “Whoa.” I pictured monstrous flowers with overalls and tusks. “Now that I gotta see.”

  The plants were four to five feet tall, and thanks to frequent pruning, just as wide. They looked like squatty green sumo wrestlers. The patch only held a couple dozen plants, not world-changing amounts, but even so, it was the mos
t beautiful garden I’d ever seen. Standing there amazed and surrounded by gorgeous females, I felt like Hugh Hefner. I got a little excited. And then, a little embarrassed.

  Chapter 17

  Chicken Crap Soup

  “Thirsty?” Russ pulled off the top of a hidden barrel of compost tea. “Tastes like chicken crap soup. . .”

  “So, a fowl taste?”

  “Good one. It’s foul in every way imaginable, but it’s high in nitrogen. Turns everything green.”

  “Ah, just like the weather in Volcano.”

  “That’s not your natural color?”

  I questioned his culinary comment. The guy knew the difference between the nasty taste of chicken crap soup and—what? All the other kinds?

  “Well, you drink some and tell me I’m wrong.”

  “I wouldn’t know the subtle nuances of the various flavors.”

  “Subtle nuances?”

  “Subtle, extreme, whatever, I’ll just take your word for it.”

  Using a piece of cheesecloth, he strained a couple gallons of the stuff into a foliar sprayer. It poured out all dark and funky-looking. Also, quite pungent.

  “It reeks,” confided Russ, “but the girls love this shit.”

  “Jesus. . . I thought that was patchouli oil.”

  “No, you maniac, not the grouches. I meant the plants. We call ‘em the girls.”

  “Oh.” That explained a lot. “Hey, Russ, is it okay if I spray ‘em?”

  “The grouches? Be my guest. Believe me, I’ve wanted to spray those grumps myself but Lynn knows all that ninja shit. Plus, they cook our food.”

  “That’d be fun, but I meant the plants.”

  “Oh,” said Russ, sounding let down. “Yeah, sure, go ahead.”

  I gave the plants their funky shower, reveling in my first smelly chance at tending pakalolo in the Islands. Though reeking due to a shift in the wind, I felt hooked—not by a fisherman this time, but by fate. My dream was coming true. My folks would be pleased to know I wasn’t goofing off, wasting time.

  I imagined Dad’s cheerful response to the news. “Are you out of your drug-addled mind?”

  Returning to the house after our gardening session, I filled the living room with repulsive charm, and yet, still received stink-eye from Katey and Lynn. Was there no pleasing them?

  “You girls always this friendly?” I asked, baffled by their constant bad vibes.

  “You smell like chicken crap.”

  “It beats patchouli oil.”

  Offended glares all around. I guess the truth hurt.

  Katey was all attitude. “We watched you sneak Mike into the pot patch, Russ.”

  Russ shrugged. “Sneaky is the only way to get in there.”

  “Not the point.”

  “What is?”

  “That I ratted you out to Ray,” announced Katey, hands on hips, all Mom-style. “Just wait till he gets here tomorrow. You’ll see.”

  “Uh oh, I’m shaking,” said Russ with a yawn of tepid fear.

  “You don’t seem too worried,” I pointed out.

  “Mikey, you’re looking at a Vietnam vet who survived being shot down in a helicopter and escaped from a prisoner of war camp. Not to mention dozens of dangerous encounters with potentially booby-trapped hookers.”

  “Really? Booby-trapped hookers?” I’d heard rumors.

  “You never knew what kinds of dangers might lurk in those girls. Innocent-looking as they might be, there could be razors, grenades. . .”

  “Grenades?”

  Shuddering with nostalgia, he murmured, “Other stuff, too.”

  “Like what?” I pictured bear traps, trip wires, teeth. . .

  “Some things are worse than death or dismemberment. Details aren’t important.”

  “Oh, yes, they are.”

  What could be worse than death or dismemberment, right?

  “The point is, like a horny mailman, I always performed my duty.”

  “And nothing ever happened to you?”

  “Well, not to my dick, but I got some really weird shit on my—aw, forget about it.”

  “You say something like that, Russ, how can I forget about it?”

  “I don’t wanna talk about it. It’s disgusting.”

  “In that case, I bet the grouches would like to hear details.”

  “We don’t,” snapped Lynn.

  “You messed up,” added Katey.

  “Huh?”

  “You rub us the wrong way, Mike,” said Lynn.

  “If that’s even your name,” said Katey.

  “I guess we aren’t gonna be best friends.”

  “Pfft. . .”

  I left the cheery company to take a shower and grumble about girls being hard to understand. Also, obsess on cockroach invasions and wonder what the hell plagued Russ.

  When Ray came back the next day, I expected some static about sneaking into his plot. Over a pre-lunch doobie, Van Morrison’s excellent album Moondance on the stereo, he asked, “So, Mikey, whaddaya think of the girls?”

  Katey and Lynn were sitting right there, so I tempered my answer, tried to say something inoffensive. “For a dirty rat, Katey’s, well, she’s. . .she’s hard to look at.”

  “For a rat, Kate’s hard to look at,” insisted her best pal.

  “Shut up, Lynn,” barked Katey, tired of the back-up insults.

  Everyone else laughed.

  “Actually,” said Ray, “I meant the plants.”

  “Ah. Those girls are outtasight.”

  “Mahalo, brah,” said Ray with a smile.

  “You’re not mad?”

  “Nah, I can’t blame you.”

  Whew. “I gotta hand it to you, Ray, you are one devious son of a bitch.”

  “No shit,” murmured Katey with less enthusiasm.

  A proud Ray smiled ear to ear, eating up the well-deserved flattery as if it was dessert. Katey sneered at how things had worked out. Lynn, of course, followed suit.

  “So, Mikey,” asked Ray, “ready for your first lesson?”

  I took out my little notepad and pen. “Born ready.” I pictured my pointy little head coming out of the womb followed by a hand holding a tiny shovel.

  A few minutes later, I followed Ray through the tunnel. Beaming, he asked, “Pretty nice, huh?”

  “To say the least. I’m amazed how bushy your plants are.”

  He gave me a wink. “Like body hair on an Iraqi woman. Am I right?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Why do you think they make them wear burqas? I could tell you some stories.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “I get it, you pervert, you wanna see the disturbing photos.”

  “Aw, man. . .”

  “Hey, no one’s being judgmental, weirdo.”

  “Maybe we can stick to the pakalolo lesson for now?”

  “All right, work first, depravity later. I like how you think. So, whaddaya wanna know?”

  There were tons of side branches growing off the main stalks. And smaller branchlets growing off of them. All of them were about to sprout tiny white hairs where big flowers would one day be.

  “How’d you get ‘em so bushy?”

  “Watch.” He pinched out the middle part of a branch tip. “Now we’ll get two branches where there was one. Do that on all the tips every couple weeks or so until flowering starts and you end up with a lot of branches.”

  “Ah, I see. They grow exponentially.”

  Still a nerd at heart, I made some notes.

  “Right. The thing is, if I didn’t prune the hell out of these babies, they’d grow right over the top of the elephant grass before harvest.”

  He was right. The elephant grass was ten-feet-tall, but untopped Cannabis sativa could easily surpass that. I’d seen a photo in the L.A. Times in 1968 of a twenty-foot plant growing next to a McDonald’s dumpster in Ventura. It also featured the Mexican burger flipper who’d been
busted by the crack surveillance team sneaking a joint while dumping trash. In the photo, he barely came up to the plant’s knees.

  “That would not be cool, right?”

  “See? You’re a natural born outlaw.”

  Had I found my calling at last? Man, I sure hoped so.

  Chapter 18

  Compost Jimmy

  Finally, my years of daydreaming were paying off. Evidently, Mom, Dad, Mr. Eisenberg, and all my teachers were wrong. I’d dreamed moistly about Miss June, and voila, there she was. She’d made sure I knew she had a boyfriend, but it’s the point that counts. I’d dreamed of being in a marijuana patch in Hawaii, and made it happen. Sure, it belonged to someone else, but I’d taken a step in the right direction.

  I made a note to myself: Make dreams more specific.

  Knowing I was in the right place to learn my craft, I settled into a mellow routine, enjoying the easy pace of country life. Every couple of days, Russ and Johnny drove the refrigerator van into town to make deliveries, pick up supplies, and do some partying. At first, I went along for socializing, but never getting improved scores from the popular Judge Molly became disheartening. Brief sex with a frustrated critic aside, Honolulu had less humiliating entertainment options, and we’d catch a movie, go to an occasional concert, or just hang out with commune buddies.

  But after a few weeks of kicked back country living, I rarely went into town. Always the bookworm, I bored into the library. The farm had a tasteful one, including a bunch of material on organic farming; mostly books and magazines put out by Rodale Press. The articles featured frightening pictures of dour women in mud boots who looked suspiciously like Agonia from Volcano. I thought of the Organic Gardening magazines as the analogue to Playboys. I read them for the articles and avoided the pictures. The writing, though informative, was bland, could have used some seasoning. By allowing photos in their classified section, the Organic Gardening magazines discouraged readers from trying to find a mate amongst the organic farming community. I couldn’t believe the personal ads. Bunch of pathetic losers. Guess who was in there? I mean, besides me. Hint: triplets with really smelly feet. Which is why the organic farming community remains tiny to this day.