The Buds Are Calling

by Coyne Davies, B.

  “Hmm. Yeah, it’s always a battle I think for QA.”

  Ernie didn’t hear the rest of that particular conversation but Caldwell’s name drifted down the hallway a few times. Ernie imagined Percy was spilling the beans on the ad-hoc maneuvers that turned his carefully documented protocols upside down. All in all, Percy’s wooing must have been successful. After half an hour he came strolling out of Lorne’s office looking like a Cheshire cat with a new best friend.

  Next up was Petra. If Percy flailed against the lack of quality culture at CannRose, Petra flailed at the dearth of science comprehension. Like Percy, she had issues with Caldwell. He’d say anything, do anything just to bring in the next thousand dollars. “He just makes shit up and then expects it to fly because he believes it.” And the board and Luther were no better as far as Petra was concerned. “They’re prone to the same delusions, or maybe it’s just easier to believe Caldwell than challenge him.”

  One day Ernie watched Caldwell making a pitch, with Percy and Petra standing right behind the potential investor. “CannRose is growing plants with identical buds, Chad,” Caldwell exclaimed. “And identical concentrations of active pharmaceutical ingredients! That’s the THC and the CBD, Chad. Every ounce of product will have the same dosage.” Percy and Petra were glaring at Caldwell, shaking their heads, but Caldwell kept smiling and talking. “Chad, you may find it hard to believe, but growing techniques make all the difference. We have the most advanced growing techniques in the industry.”

  Petra later said this was lunacy. Not a goddam shred of evidence. In fact science would suggest plants, like humans, are fairly heterogeneous products of genetics and environment. Add to that the predominance of hybrid strains, thanks to years of black-market R and D, and you have a genetic and phenotypic variability that would knock old Mendel’s socks off. Plus there was no way there weren’t differing microclimates in a room that size, nor could anybody in their wildest dreams guarantee the homogeneity of all the organic grow media.

  When the investor was gone they tried to have it out with Caldwell. “If authorities get wind of these claims they might decide to step in.”

  Caldwell dismissed the idea.

  “What about lawsuits or fraud cases if the investors lose their money and learn the truth?” Petra said. “We need real science to make progress. Making crazy statements just puts the company in jeopardy.”

  “We need to get a few of the claims off the website too, by the way,” Percy added. “The DOH might do more than slap our wrists. We’re not exactly popular with them as it is.”

  “This is business!” Caldwell said and slipped away to a meeting in the city.

  So Petra apprised Lorne of the absurdities. There’d been unsubstantiated claims about healings too, and God knows what else. She suggested Lorne might want to keep notes if the false claims ever came to light so he couldn’t be held responsible. That’s what she was doing. Along with saving her emails.

  Cassie and Joe were keeping notes too. But it would be a while before they got around to showing Lorne their special logbook with page headings like “Major Fertigation Fail by Damian, October 15, on Jazmine Kush” or “Idiotic Cloning Fail by Caldwell, November 14” and so on. Instead Ernie noted they did their best to just charm Lorne. They were helpful and informative, knowing full well that Damian, though probably friendly to the new guy, would do his best to keep Lorne in the dark. And it seemed to be working.

  Chapter 33

  Greg noted that Petra’s analytical demeanor changed when Sanjay walked into the office to interview for the technician position. He was the fifth person they’d seen in the last three days. Greg was finding it all tedious because half the time he barely understood all the jargon. Petra had insisted Greg post the job with a web-based company specializing in technical and engineering talent. He was hoping she’d settle on someone soon. So he watched optimistically as she straightened right up in her chair and pulled her glasses down on her nose a little to peer over them. Then she took her glasses right off and put them down on the desk. And she smiled. She hadn’t done that with the other four applicants.

  The truth was Petra was getting a little bored with the process. But she’d taken one long look and decided, consciously or not, that Sanjay had the job even if he could barely hold a wrench or knew what a spreadsheet was. Sanjay was tall and all of about thirty, if his resumé was anything to go by. But holy smokin’ Adonis! The guy was serious candy. Her nostrils flared a little as she took in the faint scent that wafted in with him. While the current jury might be out on the exact nature of human pheromones, Sanjay’s particular mix of androstadienone, or perhaps the odor indirectly generated by his immune system, the histocompatibility complex, or whatever riffraff molecules he exuded, possibly even from his upper lip, all set Petra’s brain aglow. It was a delectable blend and most invigorating. He didn’t just walk into the room. He made an entrance.

  When he took off his jacket as he sat down, the simple snug gray T-shirt revealed more treasures. Muscled, Petra noted, but not overly so, and classically proportioned. Skin a warm, pale bronze that looked to be the texture of fine woven silk. And his eyes were a striking composite of earth tones, the irises a deep amber that blended into a rich brown near the pupils. His hair, jet black, had just the right degree of unkempt nonchalance about it and his smile was completely disarming. Petra couldn’t stop a little gasp. He would add a whole new dimension to the scientific discoveries. And there were going to be lots of scientific discoveries because nobody knew jack shit about marijuana except maybe the Israelis. And even they had only scratched the surface. Anyway that was beside the point.

  “Ah, so, how much experience have you had with organics?” Petra asked, still hanging on to her composure after all the initial introductions, pleasantries and assorted standard questions were out of the way.

  “Well,” Sanjay replied, “as you can see, my degree is in organic chemistry. With the last two years in a hospital lab and two before that at an environmental lab. You name it, I’ve probably done it.”

  “Volatiles, headspace analysis?”

  “Piece of cake, usually,” Sanjay nodded.

  “And HPLC.”

  “I spent a whole year analyzing blood sugars and sweet talking an old Dionex.”

  “Good! And speaking of instruments, how are you with troubleshooting, tinkering, repairs, computer interface, that sort of thing?”

  “I don’t waste my time with the instruments unless they’re over fifty thousand dollars. And I only rip apart the computers when they start to talk back.”

  Petra laughed and Sanjay smiled. He knew he had the job. At least if it was up to Petra.

  “So why are you interested in working with marijuana?” Greg asked suddenly in a very serious tone.

  “Ah, well. Jobs are not so easy to find these days. Especially given most things I can do are on the way down. Science generally, you know. Changes in health care coming. But marijuana looks to be on the way up. So I figure it’s maybe a good place to be now. I’m thinking I might like to go on with some more academics at some point too. Looks like marijuana research is pretty wide open. Lots to do.”

  Petra was nodding.

  Greg was satisfied with this answer but not completely sold. “You know we have drug screening here.”

  “No problem. We had it at the hospital too.”

  “Oh yeah, right,” Greg said, having momentarily forgotten the range of controlled substances available in the world. “So did you see, like, overdoses and stuff?”

  “No. I just worked in the lab. I didn’t see patients.”

  Petra looked down at Sanjay’s resumé again. He wasn’t just a pretty face. Lucky thing she’d finally decided on a research direction or . . . what the hell . . . several possible directions. “So what’s your experience with plant physiology, genetics, molecular techniques or maybe systems biology?”

  “I have to admit, not a lot. I have basic botany. You know, undergrad stuff. Molecular techni
ques? Not so much, but I had a girlfriend I used to help out in the lab with the tissue cultures when she worked late.”

  “At the hospital?”

  “No. At the university. She was doing her master’s. She complained all she did was slaughter Arabidopsis.”

  “So you were working with plant tissue!”

  “Just helping.”

  “Still. That’s great!” Petra remarked rather unconvincingly. It was the only part of the interview that irked somewhere in the remote fields of her consciousness. The “just helping” took her back to her own late nights in Gerald’s lab. God, she’d been an idiot. A hormonally induced stupidity had led her to forfeit her own research! Naiveté and some dumb trust in the nobility of love and self-sacrifice had supported her. Gerald certainly hadn’t. She quickly put it out of her mind.

  Petra asked Sanjay if he’d like to see the lab. He would of course. And then she explained that his first task would be to help set it up if he got the job. If? Who was she kidding? At this point, only Greg. As they walked through the production area to the lab, Petra told Sanjay about the assortment of secondhand instruments and where they’d come from. She was still waiting to have the floor epoxied and two sinks put in. There were two fume hoods in the process of being installed as well. Sanjay laughed when he saw the jumble of instrument parts, crates and boxes lining the benches.

  “Oh my God! All this from the EPA?”

  “Even half the glassware.” And Petra pulled out a couple of drawers, showing him an assortment of beakers, flasks, graduated cylinders and funnels.

  Sanjay shook his head. “Poor EPA. Makes you wonder doesn’t it?”

  Chapter 34

  The three young devotees were in the change room at CannRose preparing for a day of work among the plants. As they threw their street clothes into their lockers and donned their scrubs and work shoes, they discussed their superiors. Personal and emotional hygiene were often uppermost in their minds.

  “Dude, Lorne is hardcore.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Dude, you need a shower.”

  “Yeah, seriously. You have odor.”

  “I don’t smell anything.”

  “That’s the other problem. Your nose.”

  “We’re supposed to shower after work.”

  “You need one now. He’ll say something.”

  “No he won’t.”

  “Dude, if he gets this close he will.”

  “You should just shower every morning.”

  “Yeah. You probably have that sulfur problem. My uncle has it. So you have to shower more often.”

  “Fuck!”

  “Use the soap!”

  The young man picked up a bottle of aloe cleansing gel and took a clean towel from the shelf. He walked naked to the shower, turned on the taps and held his hand in the water stream to gauge the temperature. The other two devotees continued their conversation as the room filled with steam and the sound of running water.

  “Gus shouldn’t have left us.”

  “He left the ladies too.”

  “So basic.”

  “He’s working across state at another place.”

  “Shit. That’s, like, not fair!”

  “Whatever.”

  “Maybe he’d hire us.”

  “What’s wrong with here?”

  “Everything. Why do you think Gus left?”

  “Shook. Pissed at Caldwell. You saw the note.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It could be worse there. The ladies could be more sad.”

  “Damian says all the state places are a mess.”

  “Damian only likes Colorado.”

  “He was showing me that book again.”

  “He likes you, bro. Brobro.”

  “It’s plants talking. That’s all.”

  “Dude. Ladies are silent. Ladies just speak with the smoke. Optimum.”

  “Maybe they talk to Damian.”

  “Sure, brobro. Shippin’ the Damian.”

  “Fuck off! Damian says the book is ancient.”

  “No it’s not. It’s some old hippie dude shit.”

  “Yeah, but maybe the ladies like it. Maybe he reads it to them.”

  “Dude. He doesn’t.”

  “Maybe when we’re not here he does. Because it’s intimate.”

  “Dude, he doesn’t.”

  “No. I mean like really old time. Like with knights and shit. They read poetry to their ladies. Sang it. We could set the words to song.”

  “Dude.”

  “It might make the ladies happy.”

  “Dude. You need to stop right there.”

  “No. Greg even said something about the Knights Hemplar once.”

  “Dude! Greg does bad jokes and Broadway. Fuck!”

  “So! It’d be lit. Get the ladies on stage! That would be fucking fire!”

  “Stop. Your mom’ll get you another six months with Psycho San.”

  “Psycho San’s cool with stuff like that. It’s art. He told me to be an artist.”

  “Psycho San told every kid to be an artist.”

  “So why not?”

  “Why not what?”

  “Be an artist and make the ladies happy.”

  “Dude. Think about it. The ladies would only want the spotlight, not your songs.”

  “They’d have both.”

  “They’d need water and nutrients too.”

  “It’s not about necessity.”

  “Dude, it’s always about necessity.”

  “No, it’s art.”

  “Not for the ladies. They need stuff.”

  “Maybe they need songs too.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You think Caldwell is cool with Lorne?”

  “Lazlo is. Greg thinks he’s the best. Told my mom an’ everything.”

  “Lorne’s extra. Way too extra. The ladies don’t like him. He’s never with them. They can’t form a bond.”

  “Dude. They got him. All over him and they’re pissed. They liked Gus better.”

  “How would you know, if the plants are so silent?”

  “Look at them.”

  “They always look like shit. No change since Lorne.”

  “They looked good a few months ago!”

  “That was way before Lorne.”

  “Wait, Damian was off too. So, if the ladies are talking, he’s not listening.”

  “He says you need to treat them like that for their own good.”

  “Fuckin’ gross. Cringe, bro. That’s abuse! Psycho San told us that at least. All abusers say that. You should watch out.”

  “Jesus.”

  “If your Brobro’s reading that book to the ladies, it’s not givin’ ’em any life. You shouldn’t let him give you that book either.”

  “Dude, now who’s batshit?”

  “You know how old he is?”

  “Who cares?”

  “Dude, he’s older than your dad. You should watch out.”

  “He’s got a girlfriend, a kid and he hooks up with Lydia sometimes. So fuck off.”

  “Lydia?”

  “That’s what Joe said.”

  “She’s older than my grampy!”

  “No, she’s not.”

  “Yeah, she’s had face-lifts. My mom said so.”

  “Does your grampy still have that chair?”

  “What chair?”

  “The one where the back goes down so you can fall asleep in it.”

  “Recliner, yeah.”

  “We should get one. It would be fire.”

  “They cost lots.”

  “Getting baked. Then pizza. We could save. Or maybe your grampy could get a new one and give us his old one.”

  “Maybe. Don’t we need more than one?”

  “You should ask him.”

  “Ask who?”

  “My grampy. Dude, I don’t think that shower was long enough.”

  “Yeah, I think you still smell.”

  “You really have that sulfur proble
m. You should see a doctor. They can recommend shit.”

  “Fuck!”

  Chapter 35

  Luther was not having a good day, again. His wife slammed the refrigerator door. “You’re pissing away your life on this fucking marijuana venture.” She was fed up with his excuses, his need to oversee legal matters, his compulsion to keep Lydia’s old gigolo in line. “Why does it always have to be you, huh? Only you can slay dragons? You work in a firm full of lawyers! It’s not like you even use the stuff. What the fuck, Luther? I didn’t marry you for this. I might as well be a widow.”

  Luther turned his back to her as he poured himself a coffee. “Actually you’d probably be better off. The insurance plan is drop-dead gorgeous, you know.”

  “That’s not funny. Why do you say shit like that?”

  He turned around and leaned nonchalantly against the kitchen counter. “You brought up the widow thing. Not me.”

  “I was trying to illustrate a point. Is it so terrible I want to see you more than twice a year?”

  “You’re wedded to hyperbole. Add me, that’s polygamy if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You’re being impossible.”

  “No, I’m being rational.”

  “Hardly!”

  He blew on his coffee before taking a sip. “I provide. And nicely, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Seriously? You don’t provide a pinhead of emotional support.”

  “I thought you went to your girlfriends and your mother for that.” He smiled.

  “You really are a prick.”

  He stared off in mock thoughtfulness. “Actually, I should revise that point about emotional support.”

  “Oh, here it comes.”

  “You don’t have to work. Don’t even have to lift a finger if you don’t want to.” He took another sip and cocked his head with feigned amazement at a sudden realization. “You can hire help, go on trips, take courses, singing lessons, cooking lessons — though I don’t see that’s ever had any effect — and yoga up the wazoo! And the children go to the best schools, best camps, best therapists.” He smiled again and his eyes narrowed. “Lack of money’s a fat fucking emotional stressor! Maybe you should take a little walk on the other side of town and check out how ‘emotionally fulfilled’ some of those women with two jobs on shift work are. Or better yet, check out the emotional status of most single mothers. I’ve seen the misery, darling. It’s not pretty.” This was barely true. Luther’s law firm was strictly corporate. In fact they only dealt with multimillion-dollar enterprises, and almost nobody he knew did pro-bono work or handled family law. He was as remote from the happenings on the other side of town as he was from his marriage. But he’d read about it. Luther was a prodigious reader.