by Mike B. Good
I bent down, ready to yank a wide-bodied eight-foot girl out of the ground. I pulled and nothing happened. I pulled harder. Nothing happened again, except for my brand new double hernia. I bent my knees and pulled on that puppy like a mini-Hulk. It still didn’t budge, but this time my back went out. Breathing heavy, sounding like a pervert, I took a peek at Ray. Despite his powerful ego, he hadn’t been able to pull up his plant either. It would have been easier to lift a Hogg brother.
“You got these cemented in or something?”
“Trade secret. I added some Ready Mix to the compost.”
“Right. What proportion?”
“Don’t write that down, you nerd.”
“I can never tell when you’re joking.”
“Look at the root systems on these babies,” he said, pointing at the ones Lolo had yanked. Each plant sported a jillion roots—no concrete, but every root had a tiny anchor.
“How about that, Ray? We wait all this time to harvest them, and now we can’t. Talk about irony, right?”
Ray, undaunted, unleashed his always-handy Buck knife and cut paternally through his baby’s ankle.
He smiled. “That’s probably better than us getting hernias.”
“Too late.”
“I’ll whack ‘em,” said my sentimental mentor, “and you carry them over to the entrance.”
Bushier than Christmas trees and laden with fat buds, the plants were surprisingly heavy. I only moved two at a time so as not to smoosh the fresh tops. And because I was in serious pain. By the time we were done, I wore a coating of sticky resin. Also, dozens of leaves. I felt like Superglue and looked like a mutant. The bubblegum scent made the buds irresistible. Stricken by munchies, I popped a tasty flower into my mouth. Big mistake. Not digging the scratchy texture, I swallowed my chaw. Bigger mistake. I may as well have eaten minced Velcro. I spent the next hour gagging, trying to spit it out again. Without success.
Ray noticed my amusing hacking sounds. “You didn’t eat a bud, did you?”
“Who me?” He gave me a dubious look. I countered it. “That’d be incredibly stupid.”
“Really?”
“No doubt about it.”
“I meant did you really not eat a bud?”
“Oh.”
“Well?”
Jeez, would the interrogation never stop?
“If I did, Detective McGarrett, it wasn’t my fault.”
“How is that possible?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, perhaps a suicidal flower forced itself into my mouth.”
Another dubious look.
“What? Doesn’t that happen to you?”
“No.”
“I gotta admit, they’re better in muffins.”
The funkiest of the farm shacks squatted furthest from the driveway, right next to the water tank. A windowless eyesore, we used it for tool and spider storage, but at harvest time it doubled as a drying room. We strung tie wire from some eye hooks and hung the harvest, setting up a couple of rotating fans to speed up the drying process. After venting the air out the rear, we couldn’t smell the buds from the driveway or even the living room. But once past the Sheik Room, the sweet-yet-felonious smell of success grabbed one’s attention. The highly-motivated attack pets dared any strangers to get that far.
Crop hung, my guru said, “I gotta go into town, get some things straightened out with Crash. Then I’ve got some business on Maui. I’m leaving you in charge of drying the crop. Make sure no one steals it while I’m gone.”
“Um. . .”
“Don’t worry. There’s plenty of ammo.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility for a pacifist.”
“You are the Chief Executive Assistant, are you not?”
“That I am, but. . .”
“Don’t worry, brah, I’ll take care of you. Now, can I count on you to waste any thieving rat bastards who show up?”
“Uh. . .”
“Ah, I get it, man. You’re negotiating for a raise. You might be a pacifist, but you’re still a capitalist.”
“Huh?”
“I offer a little incentive, and suddenly, you’re happy to blow someone away. Shows a motivated Chief Executive Assistant. How about a nice steak?”
“I’m not gonna blow someone away for a nice steak. I’m a vegetarian.” Besides, Adolph would just steal it.
“Aha! You want a bigger part of the harvest, don’t ya?”
A bigger part? I didn’t know I was getting any.
“Mmm. . .” I mumbled, using confusion as a negotiating ploy.
“Thattaboy, you greedy bastard. I like your style. You’ve got me bent over a barrel with my pants down and you’re taking advantage, sticking it to me. . .”
“Jesus, Ray.”
“Hey, no problem, I respect that. Just make sure you dry the pot perfectly. Not a bit too much, but not a bit too little.”
“Sounds kinda precise for a rookie.”
“You can do that, right? I’ll love you for it.”
I wanted to reassure my mentor, wanting his love. At least a bigger percentage of the crop. Long as I didn’t have to bend him over any barrels.
“Definitely. Well, probably. I’ll sure try, anyway.”
“Don’t worry, it’s easy. Just remember a couple essential things.”
“A couple? I thought you said it’s easy.”
“It’s gotta be dry enough to smoke.”
I jotted the info down. “Got it. Sounds simple enough.” I’d just keep sampling like a fiend until it seemed perfect. “What’s the other thing?”
“It can’t be even a little bit too dry. That would ruin it, and I’ll hate you.”
“Oh boy. You know, I’ve never dried plants before.”
“You’re smart, aren’t ya?”
“Well. . .”
“Jeez, Mr. Ego, take it down a notch. Don’t worry, it’s common sense.”
“Uh oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Common sense and I are not well acquainted.”
“You’re a funny guy.”
“Who’s joking?”
“That’s the right attitude. Always be sure of yourself. I love your overconfidence. You’re the exact man I need to caretake the world’s best pot.”
Ray, still pumped up from the battle, was clearly deluded.
“If you say so.” I took charge. “As Chief Executive Assistant, I delegate responsibility for wasting trespassers to my Sergeant at Arms, Lt. Johnny.”
“Thanks, Mikey,” said Lt. Johnny, with a smart salute.
“You, too, troops,” I said to the pack.
They saluted like good little Nazis. I pulled out my notebook and wrote: “Security.” Then I put a big check mark next to it. Administration seemed to be a piece of cake.
“What about me? Ow.” Happy, trying to pull off a smart salute of his own, had poked himself in the eye.
A good reason to keep Lt. Johnny in charge of weaponry.
“Happy, you are crucial. You are the Chief Executive Assistant’s assistant, and in charge of any bullshit I don’t want to do.”
“Far out.”
“Mikey, you’re really getting the hang of this executive thing, aren’t ya?” praised Ray.
“Tanks, brah.”
“Look at you, speaking pidgin and everything. I remember when you first got here. You were so articulate.”
“Thanks again.”
“That wasn’t a compliment, nerd.
Chapter 26
I Get The Love
The Chief Executive Assistant just couldn’t stay out of the drying room. Not that I was obsessed. All right, I was obsessed, but there was no way I wanted to let Ray down. Or lose my bonus. Plus, I had a business to learn, a world to make happier. Determined to do things right, I hovered over the drying room like a hungry vulture, waiting for the tasty buds to be dead enough to enjoy. After one day of hanging, the plants s
melled more like lawn clippings than mangoes, citrus flowers, or bubble gum. Or even marijuana. By the third day, the strong chlorophyll odor had been replaced by a splendid new scent. I’d give ‘em a light squeeze and the juicy flowers released the perfumes that drove me nuts. The way I imagined Miss June would. The leaves felt dry but the buds and stems still had some moisture to lose. While they did, I sniffed those tops as if they were cocaine. In other words, relentlessly.
The plants dried quickly in the hot Nanakuli weather. On the afternoon of the fourth day, when I began wondering if they might end up too dry, Ray showed up.
“How they doing, Mikey? They should be close.”
“I sure hope so. I’m dying to sample it.”
“Not too dry?”
“I sure hope not.”
“Let’s see.”
Happy, Johnny, and I watched Ray sniff the biggest buds. Not satisfied with sniffing, he rubbed them into his mustache, and like a tiny Hogg Brother, made squeals of ecstasy. Here was a guy who loved his work.
“I almost hated to pick these babies,” said Ray, sounding sincere.
“And yet,” I reminded him, “you whacked them off at the ankles.”
“Heh heh. . .well, I did say almost. By the way, good job on the drying for a rookie. You get the love.”
“Just to be clear, I hope that’s a figurative term.”
“Thought we talked about the big words.”
“Still. . .”
He played with a few buds. “These are just about perfect for trimming.”
“Naturally,” I said, giving Happy and Johnny a look.
They rolled their eyes, no doubt impressed.
Johnny cleared his throat. “I think the Sergeant at Arms deserves some credit for protecting the perimeter.”
“Good job,” said Ray.
“You didn’t even shoot anybody,” griped Happy.
“Neither did you,” countered Johnny.
“No, but I yelled into the bushes. A lot.”
“You do that anyway.”
“Not the point.”
“Take it easy, guys,” said peacemaker Ray. “Everyone did a good job.”
“By the way, Ray,” I asked, “how do you tell when they’re exactly ready?”
“Watch.” He took a branch and bent it. It made a cracking sound, but didn’t snap right off the stalk. “Hear that?”
“If you mean the sound of an exactly-ready branch, ahem, yes, I do.”
More eye rolling from the peanut gallery.
“Here, you do it.”
I bent a branch, expertly making the same cracking sound.
“You feel that?”
“If you mean the feeling of a perfectly. . .”
“Shut up, Mikey,” suggested Johnny.
“Look at you,” said my guru. “You dry one batch, and already you’re an expert.”
It wasn’t often Ray gave compliments and as I took out my notebook, I felt my head swell a bit.
“So, drying is pretty important?”
“That’s right, brah. After growing, it’s the next most important thing.”
“Especially chronologically.”
“You’re really catching on.”
Another compliment!
“Jesus, Mikey, what’s happening with your head?” asked Johnny.
“All right, guys,” said Ray, “let’s twist one up and see if it works.”
Back in the living room, Ray rolled one of his masterpiece doobies. He used a wooden kitchen match to push in any pot poking out the ends, so his perfect joints looked like generic cigarettes. He held the doobie to his mouth, but instead of lighting it, he took a deep dry toke, smacking his lips, making funny little noises with his throat. Like a pretentious wine snob in a safari suit.
“Umm, that’s tasty,” he said, eyes closed, beatific smile on his face. “Okay, Mikey, try it and pass it around. Savor that flavor.”
Mimicking my mentor, I took a dry toke.
“Yum. Tastes like candy.”
Feeling compelled to gobble it down, I opened wide. . .
“Snap out of it, man,” yelled Ray.
Johnny paraphrased a popular song, “Don’t eat that joint my friend. . . Pass it over to me. . .”
While the doobie made the rounds, Ray asked, “That joint taste green at all?”
“Kinda like a lime lollipop,” said Rita.
“Those are green,” pointed out Happy.
“I’m more concerned with the flavor, Happy,” clarified Ray.
“Tastes ready,” declared Happy, who couldn’t taste or smell anything. “And so am I.”
“All right,” agreed Ray, “me, too.”
The Maestro lit it up. Holding in a lungful, he squeaked, “Ladies first,” and passed the joint to Rita.
One snubbed-feeling Chief Executive Assistant watched as Rita took a toke and handed it to Happy. While he toked, Rita exploded into a violent coughing fit. After Happy handed the joint to Jackie, he did, too. By the time the doobie got to me, everyone but Ray was coughing up a storm. I looked at the joint like it carried a virulent strain of TB and took an eager toke. A moment later, I joined the gang, like them, appreciating the way the expanding smoke made me convulse.
“Tell me that’s not da kine da kine,” challenged Ray.
Da kine da kine, the ultimate compliment in pidgin. People in Hawaii love saying things twice.
“Definitely da kine,” agreed everyone else. . .once we could breathe again.
“Smooth,” said Ray, taking a more sensible-sized toke. “No green taste at all.”
“So mild,” I croaked. How could I not admire pot that snuck up and choked me like a serial killer? “I gotta tell ya, Ray, your handsome genius friend has outdone himself.”
“Like I said, he’s the greatest. Now I’ll teach you guys how to trim buds. You can make a little money.”
We got excited. We’d been looking forward to this part of the job. Not that we considered playing with gooey buds work, but if Ray wanted to pay us for it, well. . . The excitement quickly faded. Turns out, doing something over and over until your butt hurts and your back aches feels more like factory work than play. Manicuring weed is a tedious affair, and for any kind of volume, a grower needed a well-trained staff. Ray didn’t have one of those, so he used us instead. I can’t say I loved trimming, but it beat law school, Vietnam, living on the mainland, living in Waikiki, living in Volcano, and a hell of a lot of other things, too.
After cutting and bagging the buds, we cleaned up the now-empty drying room. And by empty, I mean no chairs, no work table, no nothing. Like downsized corporate execs after a hostile takeover, we sat in a circle on the floor under a bare hundred-watt bulb and watched as Ray took a couple of big flowertops from a bag and put them atop a white sheet.
Before he got started, Rita had a question. “How come we’re trimming in here?”
“Because this is the traditional trimming room,” said Ray, rolling his eyes at the ridiculous question.
“Screw tradition. Why can’t we trim in the Sheik Room? You never sleep there anymore.”
Ray explained as to a child. “Because it has windows and ventilation and a stereo and comfortable furniture.” He saw Rita nodding and smiling as if that was the whole point. “Wait a minute, you probably wanna use that stuff, don’t you?”
“Yes, we do,” explained Rita, also as if to a child.
“I knew it,” said Ray, shaking his head at our impertinence.
“Why shouldn’t we be comfortable?” persisted Rita, like a labor union negotiator.
“Because it wouldn’t be safe.”
“Since when is being comfortable bad for our health?”
“I meant safe for my groovy stuff, not for you.”
Rita gave him one of her looks.
“What? You think I want you getting pot all over everything in there? Sheesh. Now I’ll show you how to trim. Do it right, and I�
��ll love you. Mikey, tell ‘em what they get if they do it wrong.”
Using my game show announcer voice, I declared, “We get the hate.”
A pat on the back. “That’s why you’re the Chief Executive Assistant.”
Getting the love, I smiled at my co-workers. Jealous of my smugness, they made fun of my swollen head and gave me the hate.
Chapter 27
Trimming
Ray began the lesson, cutting leaves off a top with a pair of small spring-loaded scissors. He talked as he worked. “You can use scissors or your fingers, but the thing is, you wanna get all the leaves off the buds.”
After a few minutes, his cleaned up flowers looked like sparkly green supermodels.
“You guys got it?” Seeing the blank look on Happy’s face, Ray said, “Maybe I better do another. Watch. . .”
This time he used his fingers like stubby pink scissors. Soon the flower joined its perfect twin in a bowl.
“Looks simple, right, guys?”
“Yeah,” we answered, eager to try it.
“Well, it’s not.”
“It’s not?” I asked, surprised.
“See? Mikey gets it.”
Envious smirks from my colleagues. Smirks, anyway.
“The thing is, do as much as you can as fast as you can, but do a great job and treat the flowers gently.”
“You mean like the gentle way you treated Katey,” asked Rita.
“Whoa, Rita, where’d that come from?” asked Ray. “You didn’t even like Katey.”
“Nobody did, but that’s not the point.”
“Lynn liked Katey,” I pointed out.
“Lynn had a strong stomach,” said Johnny.
“She also had those perky boobs. . .”
Ray cut off my musing. “Let’s stick to work here, okay? Now, you don’t want any stem to show. So wherever you see any wood, you gotta cut the bud off.”
“Like you cut off Katey?” asked Jackie.
“Hey, come on, girls, knock it off.”
“Like you probably knocked off—something—somewhere—sometime.”
Feisty Rita wanted to keep going but she’d run out of examples.
“Let’s knock off some buds, girls, and lighten up on the personal comments. Let me demonstrate. Again.”