by Laurel Dewey
“Don’t tell me that idea hasn’t crossed your mind, Betty. If you’re not allowed to do or be whatever you need to be in this life, you get self-destructive.” He took another look around the room and then returned his attention to her. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. This place is your cell. And you’re the prisoner. But you’re also your own jailer, too. You have the keys to break out. You just forgot where you put them.”
Betty turned away from him.
He pulled out a crumpled receipt from his pocket, flipped it over and jotted down his phone number and address. “That’s my info if you want to talk.”
Betty turned over the receipt. “The Flying Pig Dispensary?”
“Yeah, that’s one of my two jobs outside of my grow op. You know how people said that cannabis would be legal when pigs could fly?”
“Ah, and the Flying Pig was born,” she said, shaking her head.
“I also work at Grow Do It, a grow store. Growers call it ‘Grow Doobie.’ My boss is a tool but I get twenty percent off lights and shit, so I suck it up.” He headed toward the front door. “Hey, you know what I’d do if I had a lot of money? I’d buy an airplane and skywrite ‘Why not?’ all day long. And I’d hope that somebody would look up, see it, understand it and then change their life for the better.”
~~~
Later that night, curled in bed with Ronald snoozing at her feet, Betty still couldn’t shake Peyton’s visit. She determined that his well meaning, yet insane proposition, was a passing impulse, brought on by the shock of his aunt’s death. He was a nice boy, she decided, but certainly not tuned into the practicalities of life. Then again, his acute, candid observations seemed quite perceptive and dreadfully accurate.
The pills still made her woozy and ill at ease. She flipped on the TV to PBS, and through foggy eyes, watched the last fifteen minutes of Nature. The show was about a female insect somewhere in the world that spent every waking moment struggling for survival for herself and her offspring. She had to fight other, more formidable insects for food to bring back to her young, who constantly cried out for more. Finally, after the struggle reached a crescendo, her offspring left the nest, and cued by her DNA, she promptly died. Betty wasn’t sure if it was the loopiness of the pills still churning in her body, but she found this segment sad and perverse. She began to blubber and would have continued if the phone hadn’t rung. It was 10:00 – far past the acceptable time to call someone unless it was an emergency.
In her stupor, she forgot to check the Caller ID before answering. “Hello?”
“Hiya! Is this Betty Craven?” The male voice on the other end was unfamiliar and superficially overconfident.
“Who is this?” It was all she could do to maintain mental equilibrium.
“Tom! Tom Reed! I got your number from Judi Hancock. She said she mentioned me to you at some powwow over the weekend at your house?”
Powwow? In her uncertain state, Betty flashed for a second on herself dressed in Native garb, smoking a peace pipe around a fire. “Uh, yes…right…Tom Reed, I’m –”
“She thinks you and I should get together for drinks. How’s tomorrow look for you? Five o’clock at The Phoenix?”
“Well, Tom, I really am not –”
“Hang on a second. Let’s make that five thirty. I’ve got a tennis game that might go a little late.”
In any other state of being, Betty could have cobbled together a reasonable excuse for not accepting his invitation. But it was all she could do at that moment to sit upright and focus. “The Phoenix?”
“Yeah! It’s a nice little retro, sixties joint over at Franklin and Fifth Street. They don’t mind if people linger there.”
It sounded as if Mr. Tom Reed was all too familiar with how The Phoenix rolled. “Tom, I appreciate –”
“One second. Gotta another call comin’ in. See you at five-thirty tomorrow!”
And with that, he hung up. Betty was so out of it she kept holding the phone to her head for another minute, not quite sure what had just transpired. Finally, the sound of the elm branch scratching at the bedroom window brought her back into the moment. And while she couldn’t be certain, she sensed Frankie’s presence nearby and a swell of agitation engulfing him.
Chapter 8
“One never gets a second chance
to make a good first impression.”
Morning came far too soon with a pounding headache for added misery. Betty’s neck still felt stiff, but a long shower with the pulsating showerhead thankfully lessened the tension.
As she dressed for the day, she recalled the late night phone call from Tom Reed and half-wondered if she dreamed it. When she realized it actually happened, she checked the Caller ID to retrieve his phone number and figure out a way to wrangle out of the engagement. But all she found was a glaring “Private” instead of his number. She could call Judi and get his number, but she knew that Judi would harangue her into accepting Tom’s invitation for drinks. That familiar sense of being cornered reared up again. But this time…this time a gurgling sense of resentment accompanied it. This was new, and Betty wasn’t quite sure if it was appropriate. She sat on her bed and waited for the sensation to pass but it didn’t. In fact, it grew wings and began to zip up and down her body like a hummingbird powered on jet fuel.
Her neck tightened, her jaw clenched and that damned flutter in her ear resumed. She looked at Ronald as he turned onto his back and yawned before embarking on another marathon napping session. Oh to be a cat like Ronald, and not have to deal with this crap, sounded deliriously divine at that moment. The sound of footsteps on the roof brought Betty out of her rancor. It was Buddy and it was Tuesday and this was totally unexpected.
“Buddy?” she called, after walking outside and seeing him perched on the roof above the kitchen.
“How’s your neck, Mrs. Craven?”
“Better. I wasn’t expecting you today. I thought you had your day job!”
“I do. But the code inspector showed up and everything came to a grinding halt. I had a couple hours to kill, so I thought I’d come over here and work a bit.”
Betty was touched that the big buffoon would think of her, when he could have easily chewed up the time taking a nap in his truck or staring into space. She spied the wad of cash Peyton gave her, still sitting on the credenza where she’d left it. That could certainly be used to pay Buddy part of what she owed him. But no, that was still ill-gotten funds in Betty’s eyes. She quickly hid the tainted cash in the center drawer of the credenza and flashed on the one hundred and fifty-two dollar consignment check for her beloved antique chair. It certainly wouldn’t cover all of what she owed Buddy, but she felt it was only fair to pay him something for his commitment to her deteriorating roof. After writing him a check for one hundred and fifty dollars, she advised him that the funds would be available by the end of the day. Hoisting the flag outside, she returned inside to grab her purse and leave for the bank when the front doorbell rang.
She opened the door to find Peyton. He wore the same loose fitting jeans and a new t-shirt that sported the phrase, “Doobie Douggie says ‘It’s just a plant, man.’” This morning was quickly turning into one unpredictable parade of people.
“Hey, Betty,” Peyton said, much more reserved than he was the previous night.
“Peyton. I’m just leaving –”
“I just wanted to come over and apologize if I overstepped my boundaries with you last night.”
“Regarding the mari…uh, cannabis?”
Peyton furrowed his brow. “No. Not that. I mean about your son, Frankie. That’s none of my business.”
Betty regarded the boy and how thin he appeared. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Huh?”
“You look skinny. You want something to eat?”
He smiled and wagged his finger at her. “You see, Betty? This is what I was talkin’ about last night. You are the poster girl of caregivers. I’m surprised you don’t take in stray animals.”
/> “I can’t do that. Ronald is too old to handle either the stress or the rivalry,” she replied with complete sincerity. “Breakfast?” She waved him inside.
He walked in, closing the door behind him. “I’ll take a rain check.” He peered out her front window. “Hey, your garden’s even prettier in the daylight. You really do know what you’re doing. Most of your flowers are two or three weeks ahead of everybody else’s.”
“Well, I have my little gardening secrets I’ve perfected over the years.”
“See, that’s the difference between regular gardening and my kind of gardening. Those of us who grow and enjoy the herb, freely share our organic brews and compost tea recipes. It’s not about competition, you know? It’s about spreading the knowledge. The more people involved, and the more creativity and innovation, just moves the entire grow process into a whole new realm of unity.”
“You’re high again, aren’t you? Or you’re a Communist. Proprietary secrets are there to protect one’s creation.”
“We’re talking about how to make a flower bigger, not some patented surgical technology. If you keep all your little gardening secrets to yourself, who does that benefit? Wouldn’t you rather drive down this street and see everybody’s yard looking like yours, instead of the way it looks now? Like a nuclear horticultural holocaust hit your neighborhood and your house is the only one that survived?”
Betty couldn’t argue with his assessment of her neighbor’s perplexing lack of botanical acumen. “I really do need to get going, Peyton –”
He stood in front of the door. “I’ll cut to the chase. There are a lot of smart, innovative people out there who grow cannabis. It’s not all a bunch of burned out stoners and hippies. Some of these guys know more about botany and the complex structure of the cannabis plant than any professor out there. There’s a shit load to know about growing the herb. You don’t just pop the seed in the ground and walk away.”
“You call it an ‘herb?’ You’re not growing chives, sweetheart.”
“But it is an herb. And it is medicine. Hey, you can’t grow Valium or Prozac –”
Betty heard Buddy’s footsteps walking across the roof and descending the ladder. “You can’t be talking about this in front of Buddy.”
Peyton smiled. “Buddy? Your roofer dude’s name is Buddy? Bud? Don’t you see? It’s like a sign from God.”
“Back in Houston, my next door neighbor was Mary Jane Blunt. Was that a sign, too?”
Buddy rapped on the windowpane, pointing toward the bathroom off the kitchen. Betty smiled nervously and waved at him, motioning him to come around the back. She took Peyton’s arm and moved him further into the living room.
“I appreciate your wanting to help me, Peyton,” she whispered. “But this is not something I can do.”
“Why are you whispering? Betty, you’re acting like it’s some back alley deal. It’s not. It’ll all be above board. First, you’ll get your red card – your medical marijuana card – so you can legally grow for yourself and five other people. You’ll designate yourself to be a caregiver –”
Betty backed into the credenza. “Peyton, for God’s sake! You don’t know me. You don’t know who I am and what I believe.”
“Actually, I think I do know you. I wouldn’t have come back here today if I didn’t know that in my heart. The problem here is I don’t think you know who you are. Maybe what you believe is wrong? Maybe you’re holding onto beliefs that aren’t even your own? Maybe you should do some research?” He stopped, realizing he was overpowering Betty. “Hey, I want to talk to that person inside of you – the one who’s stored away but maybe can still hear me. Cannabis is more than just THC. It has this stuff called CBD in it. CBD is non-psychoactive and cannot get you high. What it can do is reduce anxiety, melt away pain, reduce nausea and seizures, and protect against nerve damage, especially in the brain. Some people even think it can stop cancerous tumors from spreading. There are growers out there right now who are cross breeding various strains of cannabis, in order to make the perfect CBD-rich strain with low THC. When that happens, it’s going to revolutionize the way people look at cannabis. The proof will be too obvious, and they won’t be able to marginalize the herb as ‘just something stoners do.’ This is groundbreaking stuff, Betty. We could work together and you could be part of something that could literally change the way people deal with their pain and anxiety.” He turned and looked at the credenza. “You still got your son in the drawer?”
“Yes.”
“You ever talk to him?”
Betty was nonplussed. “Excuse me?”
“Okay. I read that as a ‘yes.’ What do you think your kid would say if you asked him about this?”
“You must be joking. He was a drug addict. What do you think he’d say?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”
“This conversation is making no sense.” She walked past him. “Please, Peyton. I really do need to go.”
“Me too. Let me walk you out to my car.”
After locking the front door, Betty cautiously followed Peyton to his silver Prius. Sitting in the front seat was a gentle, grey haired woman who appeared to be in her late seventies. He opened the passenger door and helped her out of her seat.
“Betty, this is Gladys. She’s one of my patients.”
Betty tried her best not to look shocked. Gladys was slightly stooped over, moved carefully and could be the archetype of anybody’s grandmother, not the epitome of someone who used cannabis. Extending her hand, she remembered her manners. “Pleased to meet you, Gladys. Betty Craven.”
“Nice to meet you too, Betty,” Gladys replied with a soft voice, her cherubic face brightening. “We’re on our way to the grocery store.”
Peyton explained that he helped out his patients whenever they needed a drive to the doctor’s office, market, etc. Betty listened, but was still trying to envisage this darling, elfin woman chomping down on a cannabis brownie. Something about that seemed quite bizarre, and yet there she was. Gladys seemed happy as a clam and quite in touch with her surroundings. Betty surreptitiously checked closer for any telltale glassiness in Gladys’ aging eyes, but came up empty.
The conversation quickly veered onto “the herb.” Gladys put her hand on Betty’s arm. “My blood pressure has dropped to almost normal since I began medicating.”
Betty needed to check herself. Here they were, standing in the bright sunlight, discussing how marijuana was such a hit. Weren’t these discussions usually done in the shadows of night, on dirty streets between men with sketchy background checks?
“Have you tried his cannabis hand oil?” Gladys asked Betty.
“No, darling, I have not.”
“Oh, it’s the best around!” She held up her hands. “I rub it on my joints three times a day and now I can actually open a pickle jar.” She leaned forward. “At first, I got a little buzzy on it. But now, I’m quite used to it.”
Her neighbor across the street, Jerry, emerged from his house and called out to Betty. “Hey, Betty! I saw the letter to the editor in the paper yesterday! That’s your group, right?”
Betty felt her stomach lurch. She waved her best royal wave toward Jerry, followed by a thumbs-up. “Yes,” was all she could manage.
“Well, you got my support!” Jerry yelled across the street, as he pumped his fist into the air. “Gotta keep the riff-raff stoners out of Paradox!”
Gladys looked around the front yard. “Beautiful yard, dear. Where are you growing your herb?”
Betty felt faint. “I’m not growing!”
“Really?” Gladys asked innocently. “Why ever not? With a green thumb like yours, your buds would be bodacious!”
Was this really happening? Betty wondered. Had the world gone mad? Peyton quickly interjected that Betty was a “newbie” but he had high hopes for her. Helping Gladys back into the front seat, he casually walked with Betty to her car.
She maintained a plastic smile for Gladys’ sake, even thou
gh they were out of her earshot, as she spoke quietly to Peyton. “I know what this is all about. You brought her over here to try to manipulate and trick me.”
“Maybe a little manipulation but no tricks,” he assured her. “And I admire your ability to remain gracious, even though I knew it would be outside your comfort zone.”
“One never gets a second chance to make a good first impression.”
“You see?” He said, smiling. “Talent, sensitivity and courteousness. You’re like the whole package, Betty!” He gently patted her shoulder before turning back to his Prius. “Hey, what letter was that dude talking about?”
Betty looked at Gladys tucked into the front seat and then to Peyton with his easygoing smile. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”
Chapter 9
“If the world were your oyster, who would be your pearl?”
After depositing the consignment check in her bank account, Betty started back home when her cell rang. It was Judi. She could have ignored the call, but she was still quietly seething from the ad hoc matchmaking Judi conceived behind her back.
“Hi, Judi.” Betty purposely modulated her voice to show affection caramelized with a sprinkling of irritation.
“Hey, Betty! I just wanted you to know how proud I am of you!”
“Proud? Why are you proud?”
“I heard through the grapevine that you and Tom Reed are hooking up for drinks tonight at The Phoenix! Good for you, honey.”
Well, for Lord’s sake, Betty fumed. She must have missed the breaking news of her tête-à-tête on the local morning broadcast. Privacy was of utmost importance to her and to have her evening plans summarily advertised like some low-rent garage sale was more than Betty could handle at the moment. “Yes, Judi, about that –”
“I know it’s baby steps, but it’s a start! And I’ve heard he’s really a stand up guy! I bet you and Tom will be like two peas in a pod!”
“Hang on.” She pulled the Taurus into a parking spot. “If you’ve only heard that he’s a stand up guy, how on earth could you fathom that we’d be like two peas in a pod?”
