Betty's (Little Basement) Garden

by Laurel Dewey

  Betty peered at him through orbs that now pounded. “I know your name’s Peyton! You said, ‘different.’ It’s ‘differently!’” Betty believed the only people who should be allowed to bastardize the English language were those who actually knew how to speak it. Everyone else shouldn’t flaunt his or her ignorance. “You don’t want to sound like a cretin, do you?”

  “Depends if the cretin is worth knowin’, I guess.”

  Betty was functioning on fumes. “Peyton, it’s late. Is there something else I can do for you before I bid you goodnight?”

  He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Your box of chocolates was the perfect delivery system. Aunt Peggy loved your candies, so I knew she’d eat one.”

  “What do you mean, ‘delivery system?’”

  “I melted one of your chocolates and added two good teaspoons of my cannabutter to it. After I hardened it up in the freezer I gave it to her, and she was none the wiser.”

  Betty wasn’t sure if it was her pounding head or the lingering effects of the damned muscle relaxant tablet, but she wasn’t following anything Peyton said. “You melted one of my chocolates and added canna…what?”

  “Cannabutter. It’s butter that’s been steeped and cooked with cannabis buds. You know? Marijuana?”

  Betty’s jaw dropped. For a moment, she sat speechless. Then the realization of what he had done hit her like a square punch to the gut. “How dare you!” she yelled, and then quickly grabbed her head in pain. Gathering her scattered thoughts, she spoke with more modulation but rife with anger. “You defiled my chocolates with a drug?”

  “It’s a plant, Betty. And I take exception to the word, ‘defile.’ I enhanced them.”

  “It’s an illegal drug!”

  “It’s not illegal for me. I got a medical marijuana card. And I got five patients I grow for. My paperwork is up to date and I’d be happy to show it to you –”

  “Oh my God!” She gingerly got up from the table and made it to the credenza before she had to stop, due to the room spinning.

  “Listen, this is a beautiful thing, Betty. Because of your chocolates and my cannabis addition, Aunt Peggy and I were finally able to connect for the last nine hours of her life. I’m eternally grateful to you for giving me that gift.”

  A horrifying thought crept up. “How do you know it wasn’t the marijuana that killed her? Do you have any idea the kind of trouble you could put me in?”

  “Are you serious, dude? You’re, like, channeling a crazed character from Reefer Madness.” He stood up, moving closer to her. “Betty, Google is your friend. Please use it and get educated. You’re repeating gossip and hysteria and belief systems that are false. I’ve read the stats. Nearly eight thousand people die every year from aspirin. One hundred die from peanut allergies. Nobody has ever died from cannabis, which makes cannabis safer than peanuts. Ha! Put that on a bumper sticker!”

  “Listen, kid, I don’t need to hear your propaganda about how marijuana is legal and safe –”

  “First off, the word marijuana should not be used. It’s a Mexican slang term given to the cannabis plant by the U.S. government in the early 1920’s to marginalize it. And if you want to talk about propaganda, it’s not coming from me! The propaganda is coming from our own government, that – and here’s some bold irony – currently holds at least one patent for the Cannabinoids in the cannabis plant which work as antioxidants and actually generate new brain cells. Makes you kinda wonder why they tell the public it’s dangerous, addictive and has zero medical value on one side and then they tell their god, Big Pharma, that it’s potentially life saving. Gee, follow the money trail and let’s see where it leads!”

  She held her head in pain. “I can’t effectively argue with you at this moment –”

  “Good! Because there’s nothin’ to argue about. I can’t make up this shit, Betty. You gotta wake up and see where the propaganda is really coming from, hear the lies and taste the truth. Oh, and Colorado has an amendment to our state constitution that allows for legal use of medical grade cannabis. And yeah, cannabis is safe when you use the right strain at the right dose. It’s a whole lot safer than that little cocktail of pills and booze that are still percolating through your bloodstream right now!”

  Betty felt as if she were hanging on by her teeth. “Those pills and that bottle of bourbon are legal.”

  “Geez, Betty, are you not hearing me? So is the medical cannabis! It’s just not culturally accepted by some individuals, so there’s that damn stigma. But once people start researching it and stop buying into the bullshit lies, eventually it will be accepted. And, heads up, just because the almighty Feds have deemed pills and booze legal, doesn’t make them safe! It just makes them available to anyone because the government says so and they can make a shitpot of profit from them.”

  “I’m not listening to this!” She attempted to move a few steps but her legs felt like rubber.

  “But you have to listen!” He moved around to face her. “Don’t you want to know the truth? I’ve memorized lots of stats for occasions just like this. Like more people died in 2008 from prescription painkillers than all the deaths that year from heroin and cocaine combined. And check this out, twelve million people admit to taking those painkillers just for the high.” He paused momentarily to gather his thoughts. “Betty, you saw Aunt Peggy today. She was riding the wave when you visited with her. Did that look terrible to you? Or did that look peaceful and introspective?”

  Another surge of realization sunk in. “Good God! You tainted my gourmet chocolates, and then you lured me there so I could sit with your aunt while she was stoned on them? Is this really happening? Wake me up from this nightmare!”

  “Betty, Betty, Betty. Save the drama for the important stuff.” He looked quizzical. “I don’t get it. I’m pretty good at reading people. When I was watching you with Aunt Peggy, I didn’t see the person I’m seeing right now. I saw your…” He stopped.

  “Saw my what?”

  “Your true essence. You know? In here?” He pointed to his heart. “And I’m tellin’ you, it was not this hysterical, uptight woman I’m seeing right now.”

  “You obviously made a mistake in your assessment.”

  He looked at her for what seemed like an eternity. “No. My heart never lies to me. Maybe this essence I’m seeing is buried so deeply in you that –”

  “For God’s sake, Peyton. You’re just making this up as you go along –”

  He moved closer to her. “Why are you fighting your true nature? Why does it scare you so much? You’ve got a lot of power, Betty. Why are you suffocating it?”

  Her head swam. That familiar tension began building in her neck. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.” The minute she said those words, they sounded like a lie. “You’re trying to manipulate me, and it’s not going to work.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not manipulating you. I’m speaking to you from my heart to yours. Open your mind to the possibility that cannabis is not the evil monster you’ve been told to be afraid of. Hey, how about this? Henry Ford saw the value in the hemp plant. He even built an entire car out of it.”

  “Is that so? When he put the key in the ignition, did he have a hard time firing it up due to the car’s lack of motivation?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Again, you’re just parroting what you’ve heard. Look, an Indica strain will mellow you out, but a buzzy Sativa will get you so motivated you’ll clean the house, mow the lawn and do five loads of laundry before sundown.”

  Betty looked at him aghast. “I cannot believe I am participating in this conversation right now.”

  Peyton walked over to the “Rx” bag and dumped the orange prescription bottles on the dining room table.

  “What in the hell are you doing?”

  “Let’s see, you got your muscle relaxant….oh, a little anti-anxiety drug…and Valium. Guess what? Certain strains of cannabis are antispasmodic, reduce anxiety and help you sleep. One strain can fit all three of these!” He held u
p the bottles. “And if you use it in the right way at the right time, it won’t fuck you up like you are right now.”

  Betty’s back went up. “And you know this how?”

  “Because I’ve been using cannabis for almost nine years, every single day. I wake and vape, Betty. I am one with the THC and CBD and they are one with me.”

  “Oh, Christ. You’re high right now?”

  “’High’ is such a subjective word. It’s in my system at this moment, yeah. But I’m able to function. I’m not into getting toasted. And I’m not out there ripping off car stereos. Don’t be harshin’ my mellow and call me a stoner, Betty. They exist, but I ain’t one of them and I never will be. There’s a huge difference between the typical stoner dude and the person who’s using this herb strictly for medical reasons. A stoner dude blazes as much weed as he can until he hits the Sky Box, totally blotto, goonin’, bent and stuck on stupid. But a medical cannabis dude takes the smallest amount possible to kill his pain and still be able to function. Can you tell which of those dudes I am?” He moved closer to her. “And here’s another pet peeve. I actually hate it when medical cannabis patients call the herb ‘medicine’ or say they’re gonna go ‘medicate.’ Cannabis is a plant. Terms like ‘medicine’ and ‘medicating’ makes it sound like it’s just another Big Pharma drug. I prefer to say, ‘I’m going to take my herb’ because it reminds me that this is still a plant and not a pill.” He put a reassuring hand on her arm. “Betty, cannabis can help a lot of people. Really help them. Pain, anxiety, insomnia, just to name three.” He pulled out a dining room chair and sat down. “Here’s what I’m thinking, Betty. Pay attention. I’ll teach you how to grow the plant and how to add it to your chocolates. I can set you up with some patients – people I know that would love to have someone like you growing for them and making them quality edibles.”

  Betty’s jaw dropped for the second time that night. “You really are stoned right now if you believe that’s going to happen. Why in God’s good name would you think I would ever be open to such an enterprise?”

  “Simple. Out of the gate, you’re a prize-winning gardener and an incredible cook. Right there, you have the talent needed in spades. But you’ve also got something else. You’ve got heart. You’re a natural caregiver. I saw it when you were talking to my aunt today. You really care. There’s no faking that. And I think helping people makes you feel…” He searched for the right word. “Useful.”

  Betty looked at him, stunned. How in the hell could some kid who used marijuana every day have this kind of insight into the way she operated?

  “And when you don’t feel useful,” Peyton continued, “you lose your purpose in life. And that’s a dangerous place for any of us to go.”

  Through the haze of the pills and bourbon, Betty found herself in agreement with Peyton. But the second she felt the concurrence, she stiffened. “No. This goes against everything I’ve ever –”

  “You can also use a little extra cash,” he quickly added.

  Betty tossed him a snobbish glare. “I beg your pardon. Does this look like the home of someone who is in need?”

  “Yes. Actually, it screams it. Over on that table where you’re leaning –”

  “It’s not a table. It’s a credenza.”

  “Whatever. I saw the outline of two candlestick holders that had probably been occupying that space for years. And over there,” he pointed to where the antique chair used to sit, “you didn’t vacuum out the grooves enough where that chair used to be.”

  “I moved the candlesticks, and the chair is out for repair.”

  He peered at her from his seat at the table. “Nah. I don’t buy it. You’re too defensive when you say it. Your garden out front is lush and your house feels thin. I can almost feel the dining room table trembling, wondering if it’s the next to go on the auction block.”

  Betty wasn’t about to give in. “You have a very potent imagination, young man.”

  “That sweater you wore yesterday? You kept messing with the cuff. You know, the one that was unraveling?”

  She remained stoic. “So what?”

  “It’s just another piece of your puzzle that gives you away. You carry yourself with a lot of pride. Somebody like that would have a different sweater to go with every outfit, and they’d never have one that had a cuff unraveling. They’d throw that one out or keep it to wear around the house. But you wore it and you tried to hide the cuff. You don’t want people to think you’d wear something that was unraveling…maybe ‘cause you’re unraveling?”

  Betty stared at him, taken aback.

  “You know what?” he continued, “under the surface, we’re all unmade beds searching for the perfect comforter.” He watched her intently. “I’m not trying to embarrass you, okay? I want to help you because you helped give me my aunt back, and nobody can ever take that away. She never would have eaten the cannabis, but your chocolates were the clincher.” He dug into his jeans’ pocket that still hung precariously low on his waist. “And I already know that others will feel the same.” He handed her a wad of money.

  “What in the hell is this?”

  “I only had to give Aunt Peggy one of the chocolates. I took the rest and melted them down, added the right amount of cannabutter and ended up with forty-two pieces. I had ‘em sold within hours to my patients. There’s four hundred and twenty bucks there. I didn’t take a cut. It’s all yours.”

  Betty handed the money back to him. “I would never accept drug money.”

  He pushed the cash back to her. “It’s not drug money, Betty. I have legal patients on record with the state of Colorado who bought these from me, and I’m just handing that cash over to you.”

  “Patients? So now you’re a doctor?”

  “I’m a caregiver. It’s the name they’ve come up with for people like me who grow for five people who don’t want to go to dispensaries because they want more control over how their medicine is grown. Hey, given an option, I’d call them my ‘peeps,’ or ‘my dudes.’ But as it stands now with the state, I’m the caregiver and they’re my patients.”

  Betty stood there, clutching the cash and feeling adrift.

  “You know, Betty, a lot of people think that what Colorado is doing with cannabis is a sign of the cultural apocalypse. But I respectfully disagree. I’d say it was more akin to an evolution of consciousness when you wake up and realize you’ve been misinformed about this magnificent plant. Hey, if you’re so worked up about dangerous plants, you better get rid of the Belladonna and the Digitalis I saw in your front yard. Oh, and the Angel’s Trumpet too. Pull that sucker out of the ground. That’s a crazy-making plant. Back in 2003, this German dude drank some Angel’s Trumpet tea and cut off his penis and his tongue with a pair of garden shears.” Peyton crossed his legs. “As far as this whole deceptive campaign about cannabis is concerned, I look on it as an epic battle between the sacred and the profane. It’s the sacredness of the herb and the profane disinformation foisted upon the people who believe whatever they hear.”

  Betty placed the wad of cash on the credenza and opened the center drawer. “It’s not just what I hear, Peyton. It’s what I’ve personally experienced.” Rooting through the drawer, she removed a small, framed photo. “That’s my son, Frankie. He died in 2005 of a massive drug overdose. And it all started for him with marijuana.”

  Peyton intently studied the photo. In it, nineteen-year-old Frankie stood by a Colorado stream, staring off into the distance. “The cannabis didn’t kill him Betty.”

  “He never would have started harder drugs if it weren’t for marijuana. It was the gateway.” Her voice shook with emotion.

  “Oh, come on, Betty. Give me a break. I hate that whole ‘gateway’ crap. He needed to escape from something. Something awful. If it wasn’t drugs, it would have been alcohol. My cannabis use has never made me want to build a meth lab or light up a crack pipe.” Peyton continued to probe the photo. “He was a lost soul, reaching out for something that would make him feel a
temporary sense of peace. Hey, did you notice the doobie he’s got between his fingers in this photo?”

  Betty rolled her eyes. “Yes.”

  “What’s that red stuff over his hand?”

  “The head of the eraser I used to try and buff out the marijuana joint.”

  Peyton focused his attention back to Betty. “Wow. Okay. So, that’s why you keep this in the drawer? ‘Cause you don’t want your friends to see it? It’s a nice photo. I’d find new friends and display the photo.” He handed it back to Betty.

  She carefully tucked it back into the drawer. “You know, Peyton, you’re not stupid. You have a lot of potential. If you spent half your time doing something that was more acceptable…more conventional…there’s no telling how far you’d go.”

  “Gosh, Betty. If I did that, how would I find the time to grow cannabis?”

  Betty looked at him like a stern schoolmarm. “You know what I mean.”

  “Conventional, huh? That ain’t me. I march to the beat of a different banjo.”

  “You mean ‘drum.’”

  “Nope. I mean banjo. If I did anything conventional, wouldn’t I just keep perpetuating more of the same mind numbing, insipid crap that keeps us all in the same fuckin’ loop? No thanks, Betty. Hey, is this the way you used to lecture Frankie?”

  “You keep my son out of this.”

  Peyton stood up. “Why?”

  “He’s a very sensitive subject for me.”

  “All the more reason to talk about him. And put out his photo. No reason to keep him in the drawer…in the shadows. You’re not ashamed of him, are you?”

  Ire welled up. “Of course, not! He was a wonderful boy who had tremendous –”

  “Potential,” Peyton quickly added. “Yeah, I know. Some of us take that potential, and if we’re allowed to, we create ideas and build things that challenge the status quo. If your idea of ‘potential’ is just barfing up the same bullshit, count me out. And my guess is that Frankie looked at life the same way.”

  Betty shot him a hard stare.