Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  “Well, it may be a small step for man, but hey, if everyone gets high? It’ll be a giant leap for mankind.”

  Neil smiled, rolled his eyes. “Everyone grooving on pot, huh?” He seemed a little skeptical. “Can you picture your Uncle Dick stoned?”

  We looked towards the evil despot. Catching his sneer, I waved the joint, offering to change his worldview. Nixon frowned and shook his jowls. Then pointed his finger and ratted me out to some Secret Service guys.

  Finishing the doobie in three quick tokes, I swallowed the evidence.

  “Hey, Mikey,” said Neil, “they want me to say a few words when I land on the moon. You mind if I paraphrase your giant leap comment? Makes a killer sound bite.”

  “Paraphrase? Not a direct quote? Because that’d be a great way to get the good word about weed out. You could unfurl a marijuana leaf flag.”

  Neil chuckled. “Sorry. I’ll probably have to leave out the part about getting high.”

  “What? People are gonna think you meant the giant leap was landing on the moon.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Well, why would you leave out the most important part?”

  He nodded over his shoulder at a dark presence.

  “Oh yeah, Uncle Dick. Right. He’d fire your ass on the spot.”

  “Probably leave me right there on the moon.”

  We cracked up at the thought of Neil stranded on the moon, waving the marijuana leaf flag at the departing moon lander, yelling, “Hey, fellas, wait, aren’t you forgetting something?”

  _ _ _

  Ironically, now that I’d finally busted into the beach bumming racket, my dream job before deciding on the marijuana field, I wanted more out of life. Not a lot more, but definitely somewhere to grow pakalolo. After all, I had a world to change. Like most people who’ve grown da kine successfully, I wanted to do it again and again. There was something special about those plants that fed my energy. Did they emanate incredibly good vibes? You bet they did, and I felt just as happy working with the girls as I did playing in the ocean. Perhaps even happier, because I was doing something so worthy. I couldn’t say the same about growing lettuce.

  Ignoring Dr. Strangelove, ripoffs, and so many other things, there was just one problem. There were these ridiculous laws that punished my brand of philanthropy. They made it tough on devoted humanitarians working to make the world a better place. I faced a dilemma. Should I live the stress-free life of a professional beach bum? Or should I continue my horticultural adventure?

  On a moral level, the decision was clear: Grow the shit out of Hawaii. The world needed excellent pot in mass quantities. And not just for those with good connections. Why shouldn’t everyone be able to smoke da kine? Lots of reasons, starting with the Man, the Establishment, the FBI, and well, almost everyone else. There was no getting around it, in 1971, apart from the rock ‘n’ roll crowd, America was an uptight place.

  Some people told us, “Get it legalized before starting your saintly work.”

  Others said, “Get a haircut, find a real job.”

  Some even said, “You’re under arrest.”

  None of those options worked for me. Sure, I wanted to help legalize pot, but in America’s political climate? With Uncle Dick at the helm? The man who put marijuana on the Schedule 1 list? I could do magic, but I couldn’t pull off miracles. No, what we needed first, were millions upon millions of Americans getting high on connoisseur-quality buds, creating a groundswell of hipness and good vibes. Only then could a change in the laws happen. My fellow philanthropists and I clearly had a lot of work ahead of us. The other two suggestions? They flat-out sucked. Getting a haircut was for squares, and going to jail was, well, a major bummer. Making the heroic choice, I’d continue with my mission. But first, I needed a new plot.

  As Chief Executive Maniac, I’d had the foresight to move some keikis down to Makua, even though I had no plot prepared. Or any foresight. To tell the truth, I just couldn’t bring myself to kill the poor darlings. When it came to pot plants, I championed pro-life. Until they declared male. With no better options, I’d hidden the babies in the kiawe forest behind Happy’s tree house. It would have to be a temporary move. No way they’d go to harvest in that environment. Not enough sun and way too many potheads wandering around. I’d started them in November, a couple of weeks before the Bank of Hawaii’s Mr. Watanabe informed me how lethally the Elite Eviction Team went about their assignments. Even knowing I couldn’t get another harvest at the farm, I’d kept them alive. Why bother? Was it because I was an incurable optimist? A far-sighted mastermind?

  Or, as Rita suggested, “Absolutely nuts?”

  “By nuts, do you mean genius?”

  “No. By nuts, I mean insane.”

  “That’s what they said about the Wright Brothers.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I suppose it’s a very fine line.”

  Rita shook her head. “Not in your case.”

  Genius or not, I had a couple hundred nice-looking babies needing a home. By this time, they were over a foot tall and branching out. Given the short days of winter, it wouldn’t be long before they flowered. I hated the idea of wasting them. Having nothing but free time, I turned to social work. Finding the kids a home became my mission. I put on my thinking cap and loaded my pipe, hoping to come up with a plan. I pictured myself in a television commercial, wheedling like a has-been actress: Please send money to help these poor plants find a home. Not a whiner (more of a complainer), I discarded that plan and loaded another bowl.

  “I dig your hat, Mikey,” said Happy. “You look like Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Quiet please, Dr. Watson, I need to reflect.”

  I took a walk with Mango to cogitate in private. First of all, I needed the right spot. Location was everything. Learned that from a realtor. Then again, so were plenty of sun and water, good soil, good luck, and a whole bunch of other stuff. Lots of things were “everything” once I thought about it. I took the hat off, realizing it made me overthink.

  At the farm, I’d learned to grow under ideal conditions and with a ready infrastructure. Even city water inside the plot. And with a guru showing me what to do, growing buds seemed basic. But only because it was. It’s all the other bullshit (stupid laws, narcs, ripoffs, predators, bad weather, bad soil, acquaintances named Plastic Fucking Donald, cannibals for neighbors. . .) that makes pot growing so difficult. There’s a lot to consider, but even a rookie knows finding the right location is a primary concern. Same with resisting the urge to kill your seeds with colchicine. Too bad I had no skill at finding good locations. I put the thinking cap back on.

  About the time I finished the second inspirational pipeful, a hazy image formed of a potential location. Focusing through the smoke, I realized it was the gigantic valley behind the beach. The same one I happened to be looking at. Coincidence? Fate? Who can say?

  Chapter 37

  Reconnaissance

  Makua Valley, serving as the Army’s main target range on Oahu, had no foot traffic. Probably because of the frequent bombings behind that locked gate. Attached to the gate: a skull and crossbones (real ones). Also, a dozen explicit warnings (written in blood) regarding the imminent likelihood of obliteration. The signs featured vivid pictures of trespassers (native Hawaiian protesters angry at their sacred valley’s desecration). In the first photo, they are shaking their fists at the Army. In the next photo, they are exploding. To prove they were serious, the Army posthumously charged the protesters with criminal trespassing and sent their remains to prison.

  Reading between the lines, I got the general idea: Don’t enter Makua Valley. Especially if you are Hawaiian. Or have any common sense. But did I let the promise of a brutal death mislead or dissuade me? What was I? Hawaiian?

  Mission-oriented, I appreciated the threats. They’d keep the yellow-bellied, life-mongering hippies living on Makua Beach out. Despite all the dire promises on the reinforced gate, no ar
med guards tried to fill me with bullets. Nor were there booby-traps. Mango, trained by Ray and Johnny in military tactics, would have sniffed them out. Naturally, the Army’s inviting laxity gave me ideas. Were they good ideas? I hadn’t a clue, but if the forbidden valley of certain death wasn’t the perfect place to try them out, I wasn’t a seasoned pro. And just like that, Mango and I returned to the beach with Plan C in hand.

  “Hey, Happy, how’d you like to help me grow some pakalolo?”

  “You kidding? Where?”

  I pointed inland, kept it casual so as not to alarm him. “Somewhere up the valley.”

  “Makua Valley?” He seemed excited about the idea. Or else, terrified.

  “That’s the one. Nice and close.”

  “But the Army owns it and wants to kill everything in it.”

  “Exactly. Which is why no one expects us to grow pot there.”

  “No one expects us to grow pot anywhere.”

  “See? Even better. With all the explosions going on, it’s the ideal place to hide a crop. As long as we don’t get caught.”

  “Or blown up.”

  “Come on, Happy, what are the odds of that?”

  “Pretty good?”

  “Excellent, we pot growers love a challenge.”

  “We do?”

  “That’s the spirit. Danger this extreme will keep all but the most insanely brilliant people out. The wily pakalolo grower needs his privacy.”

  “Huh?” agreed Happy, finally getting it.

  “Right on, brah. Let’s take a hike.”

  We paused at the gate, checking out the various warning signs for fun. The most prominent one said: Welcome to Beautiful Makua Valley, Desecrated Property of the United States Army. Enjoy it Best by Keeping the Hell Out. Trespassing Is Strictly Forbidden. Violators Will Be Annihilated! This Means You.

  “What’s that big word mean?” asked Happy.

  I pointed at another sign for the literacy-impaired. It featured a high school drop-out exploding into molecular-sized pieces.

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “Don’t be afraid of big words.”

  “It’s more the graphic pictures. Tell me again why this is a smart move.”

  “Only an idiot would ignore these signs, right?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Means we’ll have no competition.”

  “I guess that makes sense.”

  “So does hiking up there and checking things out. As responsible pot growers, wouldn’t it be silly to start a patch and risk annihilation without a little reconnaissance? Our disintegrated bodies would feel so stupid.”

  “Jeez, Mikey, I didn’t realize what a professional you’d become.”

  “Heh heh. . .neither did I.”

  With my crack team assembled, I felt emboldened by naïveté and an absence of bombing that morning. I’d seen through the Army’s smoke screen. It’s not like they blew up the valley on a daily basis, but then again, they didn’t post notices for our convenience. The likely obliteration of Happy and Mike could happen at any moment—just like the constant threats of nuclear bomb attacks that had scarred my childhood. Lucky for me, at least according to Dr. Strangelove, I spent half my childhood grounded in our front yard. Well, under it, anyway. The dungeon of learning doubled as the prototype for the Platinum Model bomb shelter, the one that could withstand a direct hit from a nuke. Above the shelter, on a hundred-foot pole, waved a fifty-foot wide American flag shrouded with a mushroom-shaped cloud formed by Dad’s dry ice dispenser. Dr. Strangelove’s version of a billboard, and a real eye-catcher for passersby. Also, a source of contention with the Homeowner’s Association.

  “Never miss an opportunity to promote your business,” taught desperate businessman/poor neighbor Dad.

  Anyone old enough might remember the commercials for Good Guys’ Bomb Shelters. They featured two young boys and their parents (all dressed like Uncle Sam) about to descend a ladder. The patriots waved tiny American flags and smiled inanely as a perky family of deluded chipmonks. Guess who? Sales fell flat when the hated pacifist Kennedy beat Uncle Dick and nixed Dad’s attempt to launch nuclear weapons at Cuba.

  Dad blamed me for that. “You’re grounded.”

  “For saving the world?”

  “No excuses, Mister.”

  Beyond the intimidating gate, a narrow road headed uphill into the broad valley. Above the valley were the knife-like ridgetops of the Waianae Range, with Koli Koli Pass now off to our right. The Boy Scout camp Leilani and Peter took care of was up there, too.

  Peter had invited me to join him on a dramatic sunset hike. “From the ridgeline, we can see the leeward side and the North Shore. Bring your camera.”

  Hiking westward from the Boy Scout camp, we stopped just above the infamous Pass. Along the spine of the Waianaes, the trail was only a couple feet wide, with a sheer drop on either side. Between the view and the joint we’d smoked, staying on the trail presented a challenge. As I followed along behind my friend, I thought: One little slip, push, whatever, and Leilani will be single. Showing what a great friend I was, I let Peter live. Lucky for him, Leilani had those flaws. Also, I didn’t want to mess up my good karma with a murder beef. Like Bob Dylan said, “To live outside the law, you must be honest.”

  “This will be a sunset you’ll never forget,” predicted Peter.

  He wasn’t kidding. We watched the blood-red sun sink into the ocean to our left, over by Makaha. At the same time, a blood-red full moon, looking as large as the sun, rose out of the ocean on our right, over by Haleiwa. For a moment, with the entire sky lit up with pastels, they looked like twins. I had never seen anything like it. Enthused by the amazing view, I thanked my buddy with a friendly slap on the back.

  “You’re right, Pete, best sunset ever.”

  He agreed, saying, “Aaaaaa. . .”

  Fortunately, he landed on an outcrop. Thank God. Imagine how awkward I’d have felt breaking the news to Leilani. Especially after they lent me their hooch. Girls were so touchy, and with my luck, she’d probably take the murder of her boyfriend the wrong way.

  _ _ _

  Starting up the road, I reminded Happy, “Stay alert for the sounds of military vehicles.”

  “How will I know they’re military vehicles?”

  “They’ll be shooting at us. Also, keep on your toes for explosions—they may have booby-trapped the valley. Hey, where you going?”

  “I think I’m allergic to bullets and explosions. I better go back, see if I have any Benadryl. Plus, I should ask Rita for permission.”

  “You need permission to get blown up?”

  He shrugged. “I have a feeling she’s against it.”

  “Aw, come on, Happy, I was joking.”

  “About me blowing up?”

  “Just a little annihilation humor.”

  “I guess I’m a little nervous, this being my first big crime and all.”

  “What are you talking about? We’re gonna grow a tasty herb. A tasty herb that’s been legal since the dawn of time. An herb people have used for recreational and medical purposes for thousands of years. An herb. . .”

  I was just getting into my rant when Happy cut me off. “Just our rotten luck to be born the one time in history when it’s not.”

  “I know. What are the odds? I find that ironic. Let me ask you something. Do you feel like a criminal? A bad guy?”

  “Nah, I feel the same way I always do.”

  “So do I.”

  “You feel totally confused?”

  I took no bribes from lobbyists and I’d never send thousands of our boys to their deaths in Vietnam. Nor did my outlaw ways have any victims. Look at my mom. Look at Special Agent Merkin. All right, don’t look at him. He ended up in the ocean, but you can blame Tim Leary for that.

  “Don’t forget, Happy, we’re on a righteous mission. What we’re gonna do is for the good of mankind.”

  “I’m
not sure we’ll have enough pot for all of mankind.”

  “Not with that attitude. Come on, let’s go.”

  After walking about a mile, no one blew us up or even strafed us. Nor had we come across military vehicles, land mines, or anything else. Not even the bomb craters we expected.

  “Guess all the exploding happens up higher,” said Happy, almost sounding disappointed.

  “That’s good.”

  “It is?”

  “Well, yeah, we won’t be going up there.”

  “Why not?”

  I gave him a look.

  “You’re right. It’s a really long walk.”

  “I like what we’re not seeing.”

  “You mean like, uh, bomb craters? And guys in Jeeps with guns?”

  “Right. Also, no foot trails. Mango would have alerted us to signs of other growers working this place.”

  “Why do growers put up signs?”

  “So they don’t get lost.”

  Happy tapped his head. “Smart.” It made a dull thud.

  Mango looked at me and rolled his eyes.

  “Actually, Happy, I meant not-so-sneaky trails. Stuff like cigarette butts, broken branches, trash, footprints, you know, human-type signs like that. We need to think like Indians.”

  “I’ll open a 7-11 and over-charge customers.”

  “Not those Indians.”

  Unless you could levitate, it was tricky getting in and out of your secret patch while still keeping it secret. Carrying in all the supplies and keikis, plus doing the watering and other routine maintenance duties, necessitated fairly frequent trips. Especially in the dryer areas. Thus, eliminating your trails became an art form. Having paranoid Ray as a mentor helped me recognize that from the get-go, but I had no practical experience aside from the short tunnel through the elephant grass. I’d be learning on the job.

  “I think we’ve done enough reconnoitering.”

  “Right. What?”

  “Let’s head back down and find our plot.”

  “How will we know when we find it?”

  “It’s all pretty scientific, while at the same time intuitive. I’ve developed a special formula designed to factor in all the known elements for growing pakalolo. Even some unknown ones, just to be sure.”