And the Hullbrooke Environment and Land Use manager appeared one day and declared that the existing septic bed would need to be relocated because it posed a groundwater hazard. He couldn’t imagine why it had ever been put there in the first place. He also stated rather huffily that the revised CannRose plan for proper and safe waste disposal of regulated plant material was still owing and should have been a priority. Ernie watched Lazlo turn his back on the man at the earliest opportunity, close his eyes and mutter curses under his breath.
#
As the place got into some kind of shape, the vetting of future CannRose employees was thrown in Lazlo’s lap as well. After all he was the vice president and Lydia couldn’t possibly do it. Besides he’d run his own company for years and had employed lots of people. He was a pro! Of course Caldwell couldn’t resist muscling his way into the hiring process, but only for the people he thought were important, like the managers. Or the master grower, who Caldwell insisted be imported from Colorado. He had someone in mind already — in actual fact he’d promised the guy the job as soon as he found out CannRose had made the application cut. Damian was a marijuana genius, according to Caldwell, and the company would be extremely fortunate to have him. Most importantly they would need to pay big bucks to keep him. Lazlo rolled his eyes at this and Luther nearly had a fit when he saw the proposed salary. Lydia had no strong opinion but offered lodgings at Rosefields — the fully furnished apartment over her five-car garage. Free rent could be used to reduce the dollar amount.
Lazlo’s hiring practices were not sophisticated. Being pressed for time he resorted to just putting the word out. He pretty much hired anybody who was interested. Mostly his and Caldwell’s relatives and their friends. At least half a dozen hires quit before they’d worked a month. They weren’t expecting this type of work. Their notions of commercial marijuana production clearly did not match the reality. Many had envisioned a relaxed, possibly even hazy atmosphere, with the camaraderie and congeniality of a music festival. Lazlo’s first production manager, a relative of Lydia’s, lasted only a month and a half, so Caldwell’s beloved godson took over the position. In fact friends and relatives came and went with such remarkable speed, sometimes they didn’t hang around long enough for their security clearances to be finalized.
Everybody, even Ernie, had to go through a state-mandated background check. Greg, the big burly ex-cop and onetime FBI agent in charge of CannRose security, was responsible for it. He’d been on site periodically since construction started too, making sure the security measures he’d specified in the application were all put in place. Ernie found him affable enough but a little intimidating on first sight. Greg looked like he could stop trains with one hand. He’d probably played college football or been a hockey enforcer, something demanding brute force and possibly barbaric tendencies. Although his curly red hair and beard softened the look a little, as did his easy smile and frequent laugh.
Along with a background check, all workers had to be registered with the DOH. Ernie sadly coughed up his social security number. No more cash agreements. He’d even have to set up a new bank account, but he waited until he’d gotten through the background check. He was a little surprised when he did because in addition to spending a night in a cell for vagrancy a year before, he’d been in a bar fight in his twenties and was sure he’d been charged with something. Ah, Ernie thought, the advantages of being white in America. His eye patch was always a help too.
As the revolving staff became more than Lazlo could manage or tolerate, it was clear CannRose needed a proper HR department. So Luther, Caldwell, Lazlo and Lydia got together and did the only logical thing. They combined HR with security and handed it over to Greg. He was already doing more than half the work. Background checks were time-consuming and provided the most thorough vetting of employees anyway. It was a no brainer! In fact they all looked at each other in disbelief that they hadn’t thought of it before. Greg for his part shrugged, smiled and said, “Sure, why not.”
Ernie noticed that after Greg took over HR, he seemed to be even more cheery and have more of a bounce to his step. He could frequently be heard whistling. Ernie found the tunes familiar and after a while he realized they were all from Broadway musicals.
Right about the time Greg took over HR, the DOH scheduled its first inspection. This was nothing to whistle about. The inspector, Ms. Ligner, looked awfully young, though Ernie estimated she had to be over thirty by the way she talked. Her subtly swinging hips and prominent pout reminded him a little of Lenore. But he had to hand it to her, she was right up front. No surprise attack. No subterfuge. No wasted time. Her machete was sharpened and raised from the start. And Ms. Ligner wasn’t impressed with anything. She spent two hours in the cultivation rooms running her finger along surfaces. She pointed out sanitation problems, which involved Ernie to a great degree, though when you carry a broom or a pail and a mop, people just know you’re not the guy they need to speak to.
“We’re still in the middle of construction here,” Lazlo pointed out.
“That’s not my problem,” Ms. Ligner replied. “You’ve started cultivating. What if drywall dust gets into the finished product?”
“We’re a ways from finished product,” Lazlo exclaimed.
Caldwell’s godson, the production manager, was standing next to him, rubbing his face. “Crap, yeah,” he mumbled, and Ernie wondered what he’d taken that morning.
Damian, the master grower, was rolling his shoulders. He was tall, though not as tall as Ernie, and pale enough to be mistaken for an albino, with blond dreadlocks halfway down his back. “Hey, we just barely got the mother plants started,” he said.
The inspector looked Damian up and down and frowned. She asked him where the cleaning procedures were for the drying chambers and the packaging rooms.
“The packaging rooms aren’t finished yet . . . Like I said, we just got started with the mothers.” Damian looked baffled.
She sighed. “You should have submitted the procedures with the application. Samples at least.” And she ferociously scribbled something in her notes. She looked up and with a sweep of her eyes took in the potting room and brought her gaze back to Lazlo. “You’ve got mice traps set everywhere and bugs climbing your walls. If vermin and pests are a problem you need to fix it.” She didn’t wait for an answer but turned around and stalked down the hallway, heels clicking, clipboard in hand.
Her next victim was Greg. Ernie could see the big man through the glass walls, scurrying around, pointing out CannRose’s stringent security measures. He kept smiling for as long as he could. After she’d gone, he told Ernie that she was nitpicking bonkers about the video records and their storage. Nothing was adequate. And she didn’t like the people who’d been hired either. “Where are their qualifications?” Greg had been relieved to see her go.
In fact everybody was happy to see her go. Now they could get back to work. As if it wasn’t difficult enough to get the whole place up and running, and they were just barely running. Sometimes only hanging on by their badly bitten fingernails.
Chapter 13
“Brobes, this exam’s gonna annihilate us.”
“No it’s not. This stuff’s easy!”
“You’re batshit cray-cray.”
The college dorm room was cramped but the three young devotees made do. The desk lamps were blazing, Styrofoam takeout containers littered the floor, and the beds were covered by open notebooks and laundry. The smell of sweat, dirty sneakers, tacos and fried chicken permeated the air. Large cans of energy drinks were lined up on the adjoining desks. A Boston cream donut sat on a chocolate-smeared paper towel. The young men rubbed their tired eyes, leaned back in their chairs and discussed their current situation.
“Just chill.”
“Yeah. You’ll do better.”
“I’m getting baked.”
“Bro, that’s not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“You need to concentrate.”
“I co
ncentrate better when I’m baked.”
“Me too!”
“I don’t.”
“It sucks. Why did we pick the accelerated program?”
“Because we’re genius!”
“Gives us life, bro!”
“We’re never gonna use this shit.”
“Who cares? We’re almost done the first semester. With the co-op we’re like, half through already.”
“Yeah. We can do this!”
“What’s PEP?”
“Fuck! You made cards?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Let me see . . . he’s never gonna ask about PEP.”
“I’m tired AF.”
“Two hours more.”
“We’ll Gucci this, bro.”
“Just like we did the last one!”
“I was baked for the last one.”
“Whatever.”
“Okay. I get to ask the questions.”
“Dude.”
“Explain the different plant metabolisms: C3, C4 and CAM. Be descriptive and use examples. Then state why they exist.”
“This is dumb.”
“No it’s not. It’s just the type of shit he asks.”
“I got this. So with C4, the plant fixes a four-carbon acid that gets transported outta the mesophyll cell to the bundle sheath cell.”
“Why don’t you start with C3?”
“Dude! He’s answering the question.”
“Goes through the Calvin cycle in the bundle sheath cell. Process uses more ATP.”
“What’s ATP?”
“He’s not gonna ask about that.”
“So why mention it?”
“Just let him finish.”
“Weed’s a C3 plant you know. I’m gonna use that as an example.”
“Don’t put weed down, bro. He’ll take marks off.”
“He can’t do that.”
“He’ll take marks off somewhere. He hates us.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“Needs to get baked.”
“Brobes, we need to focus. You’re supposed to be answering the question.”
“What was the question again?”
“Explain the metabolisms. How are they different? Why are they—”
“I’m going to bed.”
“It’s all about plants having choice!”
“No it’s not. Just answer the question.”
“Brobes, he’s not gonna ask anything like this. It’s mostly gonna be multiple choice anyway. Are those your shoes on my bed?”
“They’re yours. Your mom just sent them, remember!”
“When’s she doing her next harvest?”
“I don’t know. . . coupla weeks probably.”
“Can we help?”
“Maybe.”
“I hope she makes more squares again from the old stuff.”
“Yeah, they’re fire, bro. Getting baked on Christmas yummies!”
“Fucking awesome . . .”
“Dudes. For fuck’s sake. Photorespiration is wasteful!”
“What?”
“That’s the answer to the second part.”
“What second part?”
“Of the question. Why are there different metabolisms?”
“Oh yeah. I knew that.”
“Yeah, I knew that.”
Chapter 14
Lydia was excited to have her own office. She puttered about in it. She hung pictures, bought stationary supplies and a small lightweight laptop. And she brought in a large engraved crystal egg to put on the windowsill. It had been a present years ago from Jordan and it was supposed to bring health, prosperity and safety. Lydia couldn’t think of anything more appropriate for medical marijuana production.
A few days before, she’d mustered her courage and asked Cyrus, head of the CannRose-Medi board, if she mightn’t be something more than just a silent president. Wasn’t there something she could do? CannRose seemed to be shorthanded and behind schedule. Just a few days before she’d heard Caldwell ranting he had to paint trim in the administration section because it still hadn’t been finished properly. Cyrus told her if she wanted to start painting and wallpapering that was her business but it wasn’t anything he’d be caught dead doing. This glib response caused Lydia to stare at him with big disapproving blue eyes. So he cleared his throat and suggested she might consider public relations and maybe she could start putting together a company newsletter to spruce up internal relations too.
Lydia jumped at this. Why, it was perfect! She liked people. She liked talking. She could learn new things about communication and business relations, and she could sign up for seminars. She could travel to conferences. A new wind was under her sails. She had a feeling she was about to embark on the best time of her life. “Oh my gracious,” she said to herself with a little smile.
Luther had rolled his eyes when he heard about this development. He didn’t dislike the woman, it was more he considered her irreparably vapid. Cyrus had shrugged and laughed. “It’s a weed company for Chrissake. She might turn out to be one of the intelligent ones.” Luther almost smiled but reminded Cyrus that as the CEO of a weed company he didn’t appreciate the aspersion. Cyrus strolled back to his office chuckling.
Caldwell was ambivalent about Lydia’s increased capacity at CannRose. He wasn’t convinced it would be in the company’s best interests. But then he realized the state put the kibosh on advertising anyway, and once the whole business went recreational, he’d persuade Lydia to hire a top-notch marketing firm. The two of them had been on and off with their relationship over the last year. Caldwell thought if they were going to be working out of the same building, maybe it was time to cut the cord. When he approached Lydia with this notion, he half expected tears. He himself was close to crying.
“I see your point, Caldwell,” Lydia said softly. She looked at her crystal egg and the rainbow it made on the windowsill. “You know what I think?” Caldwell was too moved to speak — she sounded so loving and calm. “I think it’s very wise.”
#
It was unclear at first how Caldwell got a copy of the DOH inspection report when nobody else at the CannRose grow facility, including Lazlo, appeared to have received one. Caldwell was in a foul mood over it, storming through the administration section. He dropped in on Lydia first.
“Have you seen this shit from the DOH?”
“What shit would that be, Caldwell?” Lydia was on her laptop registering for a communications conference in San Antonio, her old hometown. Absolutely nothing could dampen her high spirits.
“This inspection report. It’s outrageous. Unfair. We’re just getting started. I don’t think that inspector had a clue.”
“Her job must be difficult.”
“What?”
“Inspections can’t be very pleasant. Besides we’re doing splendidly. Just a little slow. We’ll catch up.”
Caldwell lurched away and was growling and mumbling as he walked into Lazlo’s office. Lazlo was buried in the plans for the waste-management facility. He was actually feeling encouraged that he might be able to get the county environment manger off his back soon.
“Have you seen this goddamn report?”
“What report?”
Caldwell held the papers up to Lazlo’s nose.
“Oh Jesus. Wondered if something like that might show up. Why does everything have to be so official?”
The question distracted Caldwell only for a second or two. “What is with the damn pest control? Why do we have goddamn traps everywhere in plain sight?” he sputtered, looking at the report again. “Get those morons to do their job!” The morons were Lyle and Archie Cordoff, remarkably hairy brothers and the proprietors of Hullbrooke’s own Pest Nixers — Skuttlin’ or crawlin’, we do ’em all in.
Still perusing the waste facility plans, Lazlo explained that the brothers, who’d done a fine job ridding the establishment of wasp nests and bat colonies, had advised against using bromine. They said it might keep the mice and
rats more out of sight but they’d crawl to water once the poison took, and there “sure are a lotta vats around they could end up floatin’ in.” They were referring to the fertigation solutions. Caldwell groaned with frustration, but the brothers had a point.
He turned around and stalked the length of the admin section to Greg, who was on a ladder dusting the camera near the entrance. Caldwell came to a halt a couple of feet in front of him. He peered up at Greg and cleared his throat. “We need to hire somebody with at least a goddamn certificate or something, you know.”
“Sure,” said Greg, somewhat distracted. “No problem. How you doin’ today, Caldwell?”
As Greg finished his dusting and clambered down the ladder, Caldwell noted the man had let his hair and beard grow even longer. Much more and he’d be casting material for a Lord of the Rings movie. That was all CannRose needed, hair in its products. He looked at Greg sharply. “Have you ever been clean shaven? It’s got to be hot under that rug.”
“Funny you should ask, Caldwell. Actually no, never. Can’t shave. Look like a walkin’ weepin’ lesion if I did.”
Caldwell winced at the image.
“So that’s the inspection report there? Not exactly stellar I take it?” Greg sounded sympathetic.
Caldwell sighed. Then he told Greg how the report had been sent to Luther because Luther’s name had been listed as the contact on the application a year ago. “A whole fucking year ago and more! We’ve come miles since then. We’re a world away.”
“He’s still the CEO, isn’t he?” Greg asked, genuinely not sure if there were changes in the executive he hadn’t been apprised of yet.
“Yes,” Caldwell muttered, annoyed at the reminder. It turned out Luther had been not only surprised when he received the report but also alarmed and dismayed by its contents. He’d immediately contacted Caldwell. Insults were exchanged, and Caldwell was damned if he was going to let Luther dump all the blame on him. Greg diffused Caldwell’s pique somewhat by offering his impression of the disagreeable inspector. But then he added they might as well try to comply because it couldn’t hurt.
The Buds Are Calling Page 8
