Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  “Come on, Curly, lighten up.”

  “I don’t know how,” he admitted with a sigh.

  Damnit, when would those muffins kick in? I suggested, “Perhaps one more tasty muffin will teach you.”

  “Well, it would help with the munchies I’m getting.”

  Ah, there they were. One more would help, all right. Especially when the bonus hits of acid started working.

  A few minutes later, while he crammed down his treat, I asked, “Seriously, Curly, does this farm look like the lair of a self-respecting criminal?”

  “Well, no, I don’t suppose so. I know you’re clean, Mr. Good.”

  “I am?”

  We both chuckled at that one.

  “Relatively speaking. I’m sorry for the intrusion, but I’m trained to be thorough and professional.”

  I managed to keep a straight face. “J. Edgar would be proud of your attention to detail.”

  “Put in a good word for me?”

  “Why not?”

  “Outtasight, brah!”

  “Did you just say, ‘Outtasight, brah?’ ”

  “Far out, man, I did, didn’t I? Wow, that’s heavy,” he laughed, his hives settling down, his twitching under control. “Hey, what’s your sign, Mikey boy?”

  “Peace.”

  “I can dig it,” he said, giving me a mangled peace sign.

  “You gotta use the index finger, too.”

  “But that’s the way everyone gives it to me.”

  Noticing the extraordinary things that happened when he wiggled his fingers in front of his face, he fell into a giggly trance. I watched as the Special Agent broke into a bizarre dance. Either that, or an epileptic fit.

  “You feeling okay, Curly?”

  “I’m feeling like, groovy, man. At least I think so.”

  “Describe the symptoms.”

  “I feel like quitting my job, growing my hair, and playing music.”

  “Then you’re feeling groovy, all right.”

  The turned-on Special Agent began playing air guitar while Clapton did the lead on Crossroads over the loud speakers. Another victory for marijuana. I decided to start compiling a case history of the people I’d helped. First Mom, a dedicated professional paranoid who had mellowed enough to fill her living room with beanbag chairs. Something she felt embarrassed and confused about once de-stoned and interrogated by Dr. D’Mento and my baffled dad. Her new vocabulary, her incessant bongo playing, and her sudden desire to grow a goatee bewildered them all. And now, I’d subverted one of the FBI’s top agents. Next on my hit list: President Nixon.

  I guided the disoriented Special Agent to his mutilated narcmobile and pointed the way out.

  Like with Happy, I kept things simple. “Just keep going until you reach the ocean, and don’t stop for anything along the way.”

  “And then what?”

  “You’re a trained professional, Curly, you’ll figure it out.”

  “Right arm, man,” he said, giving me a black power salute before cruising away.

  His head bobbing to Eric’s blues riffs, Special Agent Marian M. Merkin was getting his groove on. Ten minutes later, my roomies pulled into the driveway. They were laughing their heads off.

  “What’s happening, guys?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” said Johnny. “We saw a battered narcmobile with a pig on the roof drive into the ocean.”

  Chapter 34

  Capitalist Pig

  Trimming up the buds felt more like fun this time—because they were mine.

  Impressed by the density of the tops, Rita teased her boyfriend. “If these flowers were brains, Happy, they’d be yours.”

  “I don’t get it,” he replied, proving her point.

  In his defense, Happy had dropped a lot of acid. Plus, he was preoccupied with trying to roll a doobie. He couldn’t break up the bud into small enough pieces. The hard little chunks kept sticking to his fingertips. When he tried to put the pot into a Zig Zag, the paper stuck to his fingers as well. He ended up welding them together like Chinese handcuffs.

  He gave me a meek look. “Help.”

  I never thought I’d complain, “This pakalolo is too sticky,” but a picky guy can find fault with damn near anything. It was a real challenge to roll doobies, but what a sweet problem to have. I solved it with scissors, Teflon gloves, and WD-40. Then, after clever Chef Jackie suggested it, a spice grinder.

  “I bet this stuff is strong,” said Happy.

  “Let’s see,” said Rita, giving him a friendly test clobber with a big top.

  “Ow,” he yelled, a knot rising on his irregular head, evening things out a bit.

  “Sorry, sweetie,” said playful Rita, “just checking for strength.”

  You can see why I didn’t wanna cross the union boss. Under new management, the union enjoyed cushioned comfort and rock ‘n’ roll in the Sheik Room. We sampled the new crop and between coughing fits declared it da kine da kine.

  Jackie toasted one of Ray’s disturbing boudoir pictures with a grimace. It featured Ray reclining on his side, leaning up on an elbow, giving us a freaky wink. He’d bent one of his boney legs at a provocative angle, offering disgusted viewers something hairy and gross to gag at.

  Johnny cringed, then said, “I wish he’d have airbrushed those.”

  It was freaky how Ray’s eyes followed you around the room as if asking: See anything you like?

  “Why are those even here?” asked Rita. “To freak us out?”

  “He said he wanted to leave a legacy,” I replied. “Freaking us out is just a bonus.”

  “Some bonus,” said Rita, getting up and tearing the bizarre photos down. “No way I can focus with a scrotum staring at me.”

  “Girls don’t find them appealing?”

  “If by appealing, you mean gross and disgusting,” explained Jackie.

  The same way I felt about them. I’d tried to tell Ray, but you couldn’t shake his bizarre theories.

  After a few test tokes, Happy complimented me. “Wow, Mikey, you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

  I felt my head bloating in response. A little voice inside gushed: See how good you are?

  “He has to have done something previously to outdo it now,” said Rita.

  My head resumed its normal Kermit the Frog shape.

  “Big mouth,” I said in reply, but silently to disguise my pettiness.

  “She’s right, Mike,” added Jackie.

  I could understand their aversion to Ray’s photos, but why were these union girls so mean to management?

  “Still,” admitted Rita, “this is even better than Ray’s.”

  The little voice came back. It was dressed in a cheerleader’s outfit and shouted through a megaphone: You hear that? You’re the best!

  I puffed up like a toad. Before I got too full of myself, I took a reality check. While the pot kicked ass, there wasn’t all that much competition on the scene just yet. We’d know about it. Crash and Ray had connections throughout the music and drug industries, and anything worth smoking in Honolulu, whether Thai weed, Afghani primo, or hash oil showed up at the Kaimuki house. I knew from my visit with Lizardo that lots of Big Island hippies grew buds. And from what Ray said, they grew ‘em on Maui, too. No doubt, all the islands had growers, but they didn’t provide enough quantity to create a steady Honolulu market yet. I’d seen plenty of samples, but none had matched this stuff. Brief reality check over, I pulled off the gleaming gold thimble and humbly flourished my trademark green thumb.

  “You should wash that mildew off once in a while,” suggested buzzkiller Rita.

  Ignoring her Mom-like nagging, I smiled. I’d pulled off my dream. All right, a small part of it. Not enough to end war, depose Nixon, and raise world consciousness, but even the greatest of philanthropists had to start somewhere. Besides, I’d never excelled at anything before (if I didn’t count spelling bees, math contests, and pissing people off), and
I loved the strange new feeling. Against the strongly-expressed opinions of my control freak parents, my biased professors, and my bitter guidance counselor, I’d landed my fantasy job in the marijuana field. And kept my hair long.

  I’d learned a valuable skill, and even better, unlike lawyering, growing pot was a worthy cause. People always ask: Isn’t it the worthiest? By people, I mean other growers. Maybe they’re right to insist that it is. Not to sound preachy, but with all its medical and social applications, it has to be right up there. Not much can heal you up, mellow you out, and put a smile on your face better than marijuana. Pot took the place of addicting prescription drugs, with none of the bad side effects and a whole bunch of good ones. Unless you’re trying to lose weight. It makes food taste better, music sound better, and users non-violent. Nixon said: Go to Vietnam, kill a commie for Christ and the American way. Stoners said: Make love, not war. And making love on a good buzz? Yet another great reason to smoke the stuff.

  On a personal level, hearing my friends choking on my healthy herbal remedy—and thanking me for it? I know it sounds corny, but it just felt good to do good. My folks, likewise obsessed do-gooders, would be so proud of me. If only I did something else.

  Labor Boss Rita negotiated like Don Corleone, but after paying the union in pot, I cleared about fifteen pounds of sticky buds. Just a humble start for my mission, but a step in the right direction. I had more than I could smoke, even with a little help from my friends. Enough to share with others—for the right fee. We philanthropists had overhead, after all. Actually, I didn’t, but I figured I could finally afford some. There was just one problem: most people I knew were broke. My stoner buddies in California would have spread the joy in no time. Mom, given the chance, would scarf a bunch, as long as Jackie put it in muffins first. But I lived in Hawaii, way out in the sticks, and I needed an alternative plan.

  Feeling like King Midas, I asked a rhetorical question. “What am I gonna do with all this pakalolo?”

  “Give it to me and Jackie,” suggested Johnny.

  “Sorry, guys, I was thinking more along the lines of selling it.”

  “Capitalist pig,” said Jackie.

  “Huh?”

  “Jackie’s right,” agreed Johnny. “What’s next, Mr. Establishment? A haircut? Brown shoes? Polyester?”

  I defended myself from the dogmatic hippies. “Never.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see.”

  Now I knew why everybody hated hippies. I had about ten g’s saved from Ray’s bonus and the leaf business with Adam and Eve, but with the harvest, I saw a mini-windfall coming my way. Since I had to move anyway, I’d been giving more thought to traveling. As a young gopher, I mean kid, grounded in the learning dungeon, I’d been surrounded by adventure novels. Also, National Geographics and a Word Atlas. Sadly, no Playboys. Longing for excitement, I made a vow: If I ever get out of here, I’m gonna see the world, have a life of adventure—not fall into a rut like so many others. Remembering my vow, I felt kinda torn between finding a new place to grow and taking a long trip. Either option promised fun and excitement. For a haole, living on the leeward coast was an adventure on its own. But Buddy wanted to go to South America, have an adventure and make some money at the same time. Something about importing—or was it exporting? I hadn’t paid much attention because when it came to traveling, I leaned towards Asia.

  Half the hippies I’d met in Hawaii had been to an ashram in Varanasi, had sex with gorgeous dancers in Thailand, or trekked the Himalayas in Nepal. Others had rented a houseboat on Lake Kashmir, surfed in Bali, or smuggled hashish back from Afghanistan. Exotic Asia, with its myriad cultures, excellent combustibles, and scenic vistas, seemed like it’d be more fun than South America, where vacationing Spaniards with a craving for gold and a novel form of peace had decimated populations and destroyed native cultures to make the world safe for Christian marauders. It was nice to have choices. Being a capitalist pig had its benefits.

  Happy was slow getting with the whole capitalist trend. Also, everything else. He had a suggestion. “I bet the Kaimuki guys would trade for food stamps.”

  “I can’t pay for a trip to Nepal with food stamps. Probably not even to Maui.”

  “What about Crash?” asked Rita.

  “Come on, Rita,” I said, “even Crash couldn’t pay for a trip to Nepal with food stamps. Why are you rolling your eyes like that?”

  Then a thought: Maybe Crash couldn’t help with the travel arrangements, but he was just the kind of guy who could find a market for my product. Why didn’t smarty pants Rita think of that? When I asked, she sighed and shook her head, dodging the question.

  Chapter 35

  Philanthropist

  Happy and I paid a visit to the Kaimuki house. We saw Crash in the front yard. Seeing us pull up, he leaped onto the porch. It couldn’t have been easy, given the cast on his leg.

  “What’s happening, guys? You here to finish me off?”

  I pulled out an ounce in a baggie. “Actually, I brought you a get-well-soon present.”

  “Whoa, that looks like da kine.” Opening the bag and getting a full whiff, he smiled like a drug fiend. “Umm. . .smells like it, too.”

  I felt a nice bloat coming on. “Mahalo, brah.”

  “Wait, you grew this?”

  “No way. Actually, a handsome genius friend. . .”

  He laughed. “Don’t give me that shit.”

  “Guilty,” I shrugged. “The modest yet handsome genius is me.”

  “Wow. Nobody would have seen that coming.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “Ya know, I think Ray would be jealous.”

  That did it; my ego went into overdrive. I puffed up like a blowfish. Crash seemed impressed. . .and not just with the pot.

  “You remind me of someone,” he said. It didn’t sound like a compliment.

  Except for the snide remark comparing me to Ray, connoisseur Crash couldn’t have given me higher praise.

  “Got scissors and a rolling bowl anywhere around here?”

  “You’re funny,” he said, handing me the ones right next to him.

  “Taste this,” I said, after rolling up a perfect doobie, poking in the tips with a wooden kitchen match just like my mentor, wanting to present a professional image and wow my potential buyer.

  Crash took a dry toke, then smiled. “Yum! Tastes like mango bubblegum.”

  “Go ahead, fire it up.”

  He did, taking a monster hit, appreciating how delicious the pot tasted and how smooth it went down. He soon regretted appreciating it so much.

  A minute later, catching his breath, he laughed. “Aw, man, this shit almost killed me.”

  I chortled like Charles Manson. “Sorry.” But I really wasn’t. For a grower, the sound of friends choking to death was like applause to a rock star. Still, I asked, “You okay, Crash?”

  “Except for the blown lungs. That stuff expands like the Big Bang.”

  “I would have warned you, but that would’ve taken all the fun out of it.”

  “That’s okay. A makeup gift that groovy is worth a little disability.” He implored like a junkie, “I gotta have more.”

  “I guess we could run you over again,” suggested Happy.

  Crash had another idea. “What if I just buy some?”

  Bingo!

  I nodded my head. “I suppose we can work something out. First, let’s sharpen our wits with the rest of this doobie.”

  With a nice buzz going, Crash was ready to negotiate. “Just tell me how much you want per, uh, whattaya got anyway, a few ounces?”

  “More if you want.”

  He gave me a look. “You got a whole pound of this stuff?”

  “Pfft, oh yeah,” I said, all nonchalant, as if I had harvests all the time. “Plus, a bunch more. . .”

  “A bunch more? No kidding?”

  “Another dozen or so.” Naturally, I’d keep some for stash.

  His shocke
d expression illustrated how small time the homegrown scene was back then.

  “Far out. You sneaky son of a bitch, I didn’t even know you were growing.”

  “No offense, but I had a good reason for that.”

  “Yeah, I guess you did. Look at you, a maniac in sheep’s clothing.”

  “Really? Thanks, man.”

  “Especially since you’re about to be evicted. I mean, that’s crazy.”

  “Well. . .” I spread my arms, far too unassuming to gloat about being nuts.

  “So, how much per pound?”

  I put on my green businessman’s visor, letting him know he was dealing with a pro. With the fall harvest long gone, so was any available homegrown.

  “If I’m not mistaken, right now Elephant Weed is the best stuff in Honolulu.”

  “When you can even get it.”

  “Right. And Elephant Weed costs what? Eight hundred a pound?”

  “Well, it’s fifty an ounce, so eight hundred is retail, not wholesale.”

  “Wholesale, retail, whatever. . .”

  “Whoa, man, are you saying you want eight hundred a pound?”

  “Are you kidding? No way I’m asking that much.”

  “Whew. Good. So, how much do you want?”

  “I want more.”

  We capitalists always did.

  “What? Eight hundred is more than anyone pays.”

  “For Thai weed, Crash. Let’s be honest, this is a whole different ball game.”

  He took another look at the get-well-soon gift. “When you’re right, you’re right. So, what’s fair?”

  “Does a lousy million dollars a pound sound fair?” I loved the way his eyes bugged out. “Just kidding. How about twelve hundred a pound?”

  “Let’s see, that’s, uh. . .seventy-five an ounce. How am I gonna make any money?”

  “Retail it for more?”

  “You know what? I bet I could move it at this weekend’s Santana concert.”

  Ray and Crash were the first people concert promoters and road managers called when they needed pot, and bands needed a lot of pot. As did their fans and their entourage. No matter the price, a pound of da kine would be gone in moments.