by Mike B. Good
He cut a dense foot-long top off a branch, trimmed it, and then moved to the next buds down, each its own separate top several inches long. A bit more snipping and they joined their big sister in a pile. When he finished, a couple more ounces of perfectly-groomed pot glistened in the bowl next to him. All green, red, and shiny, they looked like stony Christmas ornaments.
“Got it yet?”
Bored with the endless demonstrations, we nodded.
“You think we’re idiots or something?” asked Rita.
“Let’s find out. Do a sample branch each. That way we’ll be sure.”.
With his finished buds as a template, Ray thought it’d be simple for the five of us to copy his work. We’d show him.
Ten minutes later, he critiqued the work. “Mikey, your pile looks pretty good.”
“Only pretty good?” My buds were immaculate beyond description. I felt insulted, so I handed him my jeweler’s loupe. “Check it out. There’s not a speck of leaf on it. It’s even cleaner than yours, ahem. Not that I’m conceited, or like we’re competing.”
“I know, you maniac. It’s too clean.”
“So, you admit I win.”
“No.”
“Ah, I get it, poor loser, huh?”
“Don’t be so anal. You could have done a good enough job in half the time.”
I vowed to do a crummier job but warned it would still be excellent.
Ray moved on. “Happy and Rita, you guys need to trim them some more.”
“Like this?” asked Happy, after a bit more work.
“I meant the buds, not your toenails.”
Happy scratched his empty head. “If only I’d known from the start. This is really tricky.”
“No, it’s not. It’s simple.”
“If it’s so simple, how come we can’t do it right?” asked Rita.
“Because we’re sitting on a hard floor, that’s why,” answered Jackie.
“My point exactly,” said Rita.
Pleased with our progress and happy to discuss working conditions, Ray said, “Errrrr. . .”
“How are my buds?” asked Jackie.
“Jackie, your batch is good.”
“All right,” she said, preening, not quite as hostile to Ray as before.
Jealous, we all gave her dirty looks.
Then Ray added, “For making muffins, but not for selling. You cut the buds way too small. If there’s no wood showing, don’t cut them off the stem.”
Back then, like with porn stars, the longer buds had more status and growers left them intact for bragging rights.
“Should I tie them back on?”
“No. That would just waste more time.”
“There’s no reason to take that tone with me.”
“What is wrong with you mor—I mean, you people?”
“You people? You mean women?” demanded Rita.
“What? No. Take it easy, Rita, I meant morons.”
Despite the kind words, she still looked pissed off.
“Hell, the guys aren’t doing any better,” said Ray, managing to piss off a few more trimmers.
One of them protested. “You said I was doing too good.”
Our comments inspired Ray to perform a righteous impersonation of Curly Joe. We watched in awe as he speed-slapped his head. Motivated, we morons tried to make him do it some more. Unfortunately, our laughter made him realize the smacking was counter-productive. Trimming wasn’t nearly as hard as we made it seem, but everyone enjoyed messing with our arrogant leader.
A pain in the ass or not, trimming was important. No one wanted leaves or stems in their tasty pakalolo, especially when they were paying top dollar. Picky buyers would demand a discount or select someone else’s product if the trimmers did a poor job. Ray’s pot wouldn’t have any competition, but it wouldn’t be long before there’d be a lot of it. In our defense, the weed was really strong, and it took a while before our work looked as if we hadn’t fallen off the small bus. But practice makes perfect, and within a day, we were veterans. And if not fast trimmers, we were enthusiastic samplers.
For the next week, the five of us spent big chunks of our days churning out the pounds. Between the other farm chores, siestas, and deliveries, we guys might average a pound each on a good day. The girls easily doubled that. Helpful Ray did his share by coming out each afternoon to check the work. He’d weigh and bag anything ready. The pile of to-do bags slowly diminished.
Like an unskilled motivational speaker, he’d say, “Trimming looks, um, passable.”
Encouraged by the pep talk, the staff would grumble, “Gee, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Sensing the need to boost our morale, he’d ask, “Is this all you’ve got?”
As our bowls filled up with clean buds, we’d put them into white kitchen bags for curing before sale. Every time I added buds, I’d stick my head in the bag and take a deep sniff.
“What’s it smell like, Mikey?” asked Happy.
“Heavenly.”
“Really?”
“I’m only guessing, but definitely.”
“You should grow a mustache so you can rub the oils in like Ray.”
“I am growing a mustache.”
“Since when?”
“Since birth. It just hasn’t burst through yet.”
“What is the deal with the pot smell anyway?”
“It’s not like cocaine, but it is fantastic.”
“In what way?”
“In every way. If you inhaled like this from a pound of blow, it would snap your jaws tight as a bear trap, bug out your eyes like a Boston terrier, and burst your heart like an overweight jogger. Pot does not do that.”
“Bummer.”
“Even so, that new bud smell is compelling, almost addicting.” To prove it, I opened a bag and inhaled like a glue sniffer.
Despite numerous breaks for munchie abatement and sampling, the work went slowly and the week of trimming seemed to take forever.
Project done at last, Ray praised his staff. “Finally? Jeez, I thought you slackers would take forever.”
“How do you think we felt?” asked Rita.
Showing some empathy, Ray joked, “I don’t know. What do slackers feel like?”
“On strike, shut it down,” yelled Rita, reaching her breaking point.
“Male chauvinist pig,” shouted Jackie.
“But girls, you’re already done,” grunted the pig in our midst.
“It’s the point that counts,” insisted Rita.
Caught off balance by the attitude, Ray said, “Oh, I get it. You chicks are on the. . .”
Rita’s fierce look stopped him from going any further. He cleaned up his faux pas. “I meant to say, uh, great timing, guys. I got a buyer from the mainland coming in for the whole crop this weekend.”
The bulky plants averaged two pounds each, so Ray had a lot of pot. Who had that kind of cash? One of Ray’s old military academy pals who spent his time teaching philosophy and doing mob hits for the Gambinos. That’s who.
“He’ll unload it to his students at Columbia.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah, he can get a lot more for it back East. Those Ivy League kids have plenty of bread.”
“Actually, I meant working for the Gambinos.”
“It’s a family thing.”
“Ah. What about Plastic Donald’s share?”
“I decided to burn him and Lolo.”
“Not literally, I hope.”
“Heh heh, no. Even for me, that’s a little harsh.”
“You draw the line at dog mauling?”
“Seemed more humane; know what I mean?”
“Mmm. . .”
“As for Crash? His big mouth almost cost me the whole crop. Why should he get rewarded?”
“Isn’t he your partner?”
“He was, but not in the growing. Well, not anymore, anyway.”
&n
bsp; “No profit-sharing with the commune?”
“No way, brah. I’ve become a full-on capitalist.”
Like with professional sports, for the full-on capitalist, there was no room for loyalty and sentiment.
“Anyway, that plot is your baby now.”
“Yes! I am so ready.”
“For what it’s worth.”
Potentially, it was worth a lot. At least from the perspective of a poverty-stricken Chief Executive Assistant. So why did he put a negative spin on it?
“Whaddaya mean?”
“I just got a letter from the Bank of Hawaii. They’ve finally found a buyer for this place. Can you imagine?”
“What? No way.”
“I know. Who’s that insane? But don’t worry, you guys can stay till the lease runs out.”
Don’t worry? When I finally got my chance to change the world? Was he nuts? The timing seemed ironic yet cruel. Almost as if a malevolent force didn’t want the world changed. I looked to the sky and shook my fist.
“Aw, man,” I groaned, “what lousy timing.”
“Not for me,” gloated my empathetic mentor.
With a big sigh, I asked, “When does the lease run out?”
“The end of the year, so three more months.”
Chapter 28
The Turd
My enthusiasm took a blow to the chin, but with a crop in the ground, I vowed not to go down without a fight. Not for three months anyway. I pictured a boxing ring. In the red corner, stood the mighty Bank of Hawaii. In the blue corner, cringed the people’s hero. Talk about your underdogs.
Ray paid the trimming team a hundred bucks a pound, which we split evenly. By evenly, I mean the girls got the lion’s share. Apparently, Rita had been keeping track of everyone’s daily production. For my role as Chief Executive Assistant, I got twenty percent of the crop in cash, a bonus pound of stash, and all the shake. I sold the shake to Adam and Eve and split the proceeds with the roomies—now collectively known as Da Union. Ray’s management style had left the lady trimmers with a surly attitude. Flush with cash and moving into management, I wanted to smooth the waters with the belligerent union reps for when my own crop came in. If it did. Except for the looming eviction, I was all set. With plenty of stash and a fat wallet, I stood on the outer fringes of capitalism.
Mentor Ray taught me, “Having some bucks will help you appear more intelligent and act better-looking.”
So I had that going for me, too.
Ray, who already had a truck, decided to send the farm’s pickup to Maui instead of giving it to the Chief Executive Assistant. Or selling it to him cheap. With the refrigerated van our only remaining ride, I decided to score some wheels with my windfall. Specifically, a four-wheel drive pickup that’d take me into the rainforests, where (except for anyone else with a four-wheel drive) only I could get to. Then I’d grow so much pakalolo.
Happy, who’d spent both his high school years in shop classes, knew a bit about mechanics. I spent my high school years grounded in a bomb shelter, buried in books. Thus, he knew about cars and I knew, well, how to read.
“How about I shop around in town tomorrow when Johnny and I do deliveries?” suggested Happy.
“That’s a good idea.”
I gave him a thousand of my new dollars. A grand went a lot further in ’71. New Ford pickups were less than three g’s.
“Do the best you can. I don’t care about looks as much as reliability.”
“You can count on me. I’ll find a beat up little car that runs good.”
“Happy, we’re looking for a four-wheel drive pickup, not a little car. And it doesn’t have to be beat up.”
“Well, make up your mind.”
“Here, I’ll just write down the word truck.”
“Be sure it’s phone a tick.”
“Huh?”
“You know, where the crazy spelling sounds like the word I can’t read.”
“Tough to do with a word like truck. I’ll draw a picture.”
A minute later, Happy asked, “What’s that supposed to be?”
“All right, Picasso, you draw one.”
He did. It had two headlights on one side of a weird-looking hood.
Johnny came to the rescue. “Don’t worry, Mikey, I can remember what you want.”
“Whew.”
“You want that smashed car with two doors or four?”
Late that afternoon, I got a call from Happy. “I’m right down the street at Compost Jimmy’s.”
“Do you need directions home again?”
“Nah, I’m with Johnny. Plus, I still have the map you gave me.”
“What are you guys doing there?”
“We looked around in town, but the best deal is right here.”
“It is?”
Happy seemed surprised. “You already know about it?”
“I do?”
“Then why’d you ask me to look in town?”
I sighed. “Remind me about the best deal part.”
“Jimmy’s got a ‘67 four-wheel drive Ford pickup for sale. Cheap. Says he’ll take the thousand dollars cash.”
“Sounds good. I think.” I figured I should ask some important automotive-related questions. I didn’t wanna seem like a dummy. “Did you, uh, kick the tires?”
“No. What’s that supposed to prove?”
I had no idea. I thought of a more pertinent question. “How’s it run?”
“Runs great. Low mileage. It’s only four years old.”
“Then how come it’s so cheap? Also, is that cheap?”
“It sure is. Then again, maybe not.”
“Well, that’s good. . . I hope.”
Between us, we experts were tough customers. “The thing is, he’s eager to dump the Turd, even if he has to over-charge. Says he needs a stakebed.”
“Wait. Did you say the Turd?”
“That’s what he calls it.”
With Compost Jimmy as salesman, I was suspicious of everything—even a high price and a classy name like the Turd.
“Hmm, I wonder if that has any significance.”
“I checked all over and couldn’t find any. Just some small dents.”
“There must be a reason he calls it the Turd.”
“Well, it is a dull brown color.”
“Ah, good.” I could live with that. A dull brown color would help camouflage Miss Turd when I took her up in the mountains to my new plots.
“She’s no calendar girl, but the Turd is a real workhorse.”
“So you think I should buy it?”
“You already did.”
Ten minutes later, Happy followed Johnny into the driveway. So did a terrible stench and a horror flick’s worth of Compost Jimmy’s resident flies.
Happy climbed out and spread his arms like a showman. “May I introduce the Turd?”
I’d seen the lovely Lady Turd before, filled with fresh, reeking chicken manure destined for the compost piles, but Jimmy had never introduced us. My new truck made me retch.
“Why are you holding your nose?”
“The Turd smells as if a sewer took a dump.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Besides that one small problem, how do ya like it?”
Compost Jimmy looked surprised to see the return of the Turd. (Return of the Turd—great name for a low-budget horror flick. I pictured reviews: “A real stinker.”)
“You bring da Turd back for a load of chicken crap? For old times sake?”
“I’m returning a few million of your flies. Also, your truck.”
“No returns, brah.”
“Huh?”
“Check da contract.”
“There’s a contract?”
“Happy signed it. By the way, I need da udda grand by New Years.”
“What other grand?”
“Check da fine print.”
“Bu
t. . .it’s in Japanese.”
“We friends, brah, don’t make me repossess.”
Defeated by the fine print, I drove the Turd home with a handkerchief over my face. I looked like an outlaw with the blues.
“You’re flying high now,” said carefree Happy.
“I am?”
“Sure, man. You’ve got some killer stash, a bunch of money, cool wheels for picking up hot tourist chicks. . .”
I interrupted his insanity with a stern look.
“Oops, forgot—you suck with hot tourist chicks. No offense.”
What could I say? He was right.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“The point is, you got some cool wheels. Well, wheels, anyway. And really, so what if your sex life stinks as much as your truck?”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Well, yeah, I’m getting laid all the time.”
“You’re not exactly cheering me up.”
“Dig it, Mikey, we’re living the good life. For free, man. And we’re having a blast every day. Admit it, things are pretty groovy, aren’t they?”
A philosophy lesson from Happy. Must be great to be empty-headed, have no sense of smell, and not dwell on things—things like sitting in a poop-permeated vehicle that I stilled owed another grand on. Meanwhile, I felt like a bottom-dwelling capitalist might feel if he drove a turd that ran nice.
“They’d be even groovier if our lease wasn’t running out and you hadn’t bought the Turd.”
“Don’t you mean you hadn’t bought the Turd?”
Just for fun, I gave a primal scream.
Dr. Happy advised, “Think positive.”
“I’m positive you screwed up buying this stinker.”
“See? And just this morning you didn’t think I could do a worse job than you.”
“Good point. You constantly amaze me.”
“Thanks.”
I gave him a look.
“You’ll feel less grouchy once you invest in a first-class respirator.”
Back at the farm, we set to ridding the Turd of the four years worth of accumulated chicken crap that clung like a stinky shell to every surface. Eventually, with hammers and chisels, industrial sanders, and a lot of elbow grease, we got it all off. As it turned out, the much slimmer-looking Miss Turd was the same dull Army brown underneath the crud.
Happy looked at the result and smacked his head. It made a hollow sound. “I’ll be damned. We didn’t need to wash it, after all.”