by Laurel Dewey
“I brought us lunch. I know you’re into the whole gourmet schtick, so the bread is whole grain with fresh rosemary, the mustard is Dijon, the tomatoes are local and organic, the lettuce is from my garden and the sprouts are from the store. I made one with hormone-free roast beef and one with free-range chicken.” He held out the wrapped sandwiches. “Which one trips your trigger?”
Betty was blown away but tried to hide it. “I’ll take the roast beef.”
He handed it to her and she unwrapped it, taking care to not drop anything on the car’s fabric. This was certainly different. How strange for someone to take the time to make her a sandwich. She took a delicate bite and let the flavors mingle in her mouth.
“Well? What’s the verdict?”
She didn’t want to look a sandwich horse in the mouth but he did ask. “It’s quite good. But…”
“What?”
“It could use some salt.”
“I didn’t salt it on purpose. I believe that’s an individual choice that shouldn’t be foisted upon another person, unless you know that person very well. So,” Jeff pulled two small containers out of his jacket pockets. “I’ve got Himalayan Pink Salt and the ultimate, Fleur de Sel…from France, of course. Which one do you want?”
It wasn’t polite to open one’s mouth when it was full of food but Betty couldn’t avoid it when her jaw dropped. She quickly recovered. “I’ve always wanted to try the Fleur de Sel.”
“Well, there you go! One less thing on your bucket list.”
She sprinkled the pricey salt on her sandwich and took another bite. Heaven. Pure heaven.
As they drove, Betty explained in precise detail what her objectives were that day at the dispensaries. Jeff listened patiently and then twenty minutes later, he finally interjected.
“I brought a book to read when you’re inside. I’ll sit in the front room since I can’t go in without a card. Want to see the book?”
Betty nodded. He held up a copy of Jorge Cervantes’ Marijuana Horticulture: The Indoor/Outdoor Medical Grower’s Bible. It looked like the spine hadn’t been cracked.
“Whatever are you doing with that?”
“I thought it might be interesting reading. I like plants. Pot’s a plant. Besides, I think I’ll look good sitting in the front rooms reading this book. Maybe I can pick up some hot dispensary chicks.”
Betty shot him a look of disapproval.
“You know,” he added, turning through the glossy pages of the book, “I’ve been doing a little research for you on this whole medical marijuana deal –”
“Cannabis,” Betty corrected. “That’s the proper name for the plant. The term ‘marijuana’ is a Mexican slang name that was adopted in the 1920’s by the government to marginalize the herb.”
Jeff smiled broadly. “Okay. I’ve been doing research into cannabis and found that while many in the state legislature might turn their nose up at it, they’re also laughing all the way to the Treasury. Did you know they quietly transferred three million dollars out of the medical mari…excuse me, cannabis fund to pay off state debt? And apparently, from what I found out, if the budget shortfall continues, they may use three times that amount later this year to help with the debt.”
“Well, I guess they can’t un-ring this bell, can they? If the state is using fees from the registry to pay off their debt, they sure as hell aren’t killing this fatted calf.”
“No, they’re not. Four things will always be popular during any economic recession or depression: cigarettes, booze, pot and prostitution...not necessarily in that order. But, Betty, there’s still something to be said for staying low profile on this.” His voice was serious for a change.
“I agree and I intend to do that.”
“What kind of security do you have at your house?”
Betty turned briefly to him with a look of concern. “I have a gun and I know how to use it.”
“Okay. But you might want to invest in carbon filters to vent the odor. You understand that these plants give off quite a sweet, pungent aroma, right?”
“Well, I do now.” As long as the filters kept the odor from crossing the street into Jerry’s nostrils, she was satisfied.
They arrived on Broadway and sourced the first of many dispensaries. The process was the same wherever she went. Since she didn’t have a card, Betty presented copies of her notarized and signed paperwork which served as a temporary medical card. Once she was entered into a dispensary’s system, she was allowed through the locked door and into ganja heaven.
What struck Betty first about many of the dispensaries she visited was that most of them occupied old relics of buildings that weren’t in the best shape. Unfortunately, about seventy percent of the establishments had a seedy quality that didn’t generate a sense of class or safety. Posters of Bob Marley abounded, along with photos of Jimi Hendrix smoking a fat joint. Some of the businesses felt the need to blare heavy metal so loudly, Betty had to yell over the din in order to communicate. One dispensary’s front door was plastered with random bumper stickers; everything from “Free The Weed” to “Jesus Was A Liberal” covered the door. Some of the women who worked the front desk smelled quite skunky and took a little too much time entering her information in the computer. Another young girl had five face piercings and a large tattoo that wrapped around her neck in the design of a human barcode.
At a larger dispensary, a formidable Russian man in his mid-forties led Betty into a back room with a neon sign that read: “This is Not An Exit.” After seeing what was in the room, she mused as to whether the neon sign was an existential statement or just a directional indicator. Draped in red and black satin, the small, windowless room held over twenty-five jars of cannabis, along with glass pipes, vaporizers and an assortment of tinctures, salves, oil capsules and the ever present medicinal brownie. The room felt like a faintly remodeled flophouse where women charge by the hour. There was also something unnerving about the way the heavyset Russian kept leering at her and pushing his offerings with his heavy accent.
“You come from church?” he asked her, observing her outfit.
Betty stood straight as an arrow, doing everything to hide her apprehension. “Yes. Actually, I did. It was a funeral. The dearly departed was a dispensary owner, shot by a jealous competitor.” The Russian regarded her with a stunned expression. She leaned forward, speaking in a fabricated covert manner. “Funny thing is, I’m actually friends with the jealous competitor.”
That allowed Betty an uneventful exit. She continued her journey down Broadway. She discovered two quite-decent dispensaries that didn’t make her feel like she was doing something dirty on her lunch hour. Both of these were clean, well-lit and staffed by neatly dressed employees. But in general, Betty was underwhelmed by what she found available in the edibles department. Even the dispensaries that touted “connoisseur” and “gourmet” edibles, failed to impress her. Betty found nothing original or enticing about a medicated Rice Krispy treat – the only selling point was the good lighting shining on it in the case. The added distraction of dispensary menus with horrible misspellings didn’t exactly stir the cockles of her heart either.
“One usually has to travel to India and the slums of New Delhi to experience some of the establishments I’ve witnessed today,” Betty summed it up to Jeff as they got back into her car.
“I told you it was sketchy.”
Betty fell deep into thought.
“What is it?” Jeff asked.
“I can give my future patients something they’ve never eaten before. I could make cannabis medicine actually look and taste spectacular. Maybe even, transcendent.” She turned to Jeff. “Does that sound silly to you?”
“No. I think it’s absolutely beautiful.” His eyes lingered a little too long on Betty.
She turned away as her gut started to quiver. “You need to get back to your store. I’m sure you have lots of work to do.”
“Yeah. Lots of work to do.”
She dropped him off in the
parking lot, but he left the grow book on the seat, telling Betty she might want to “give it a gander.”
“I can pay you for the book!” she insisted.
“Don’t worry, Betty,” he reassured her.
On her way back home, she spied another dispensary outside of Paradox that advertised clones on their signage. Betty parked her Taurus and checked the area, making sure she didn’t know anyone. After submitting her paperwork, she was led into a brightly lit back room where temperature controlled glass cases were filled with dozens of cannabis strains, their delicate leaves gently fluttering from twelve small fans. Some plants were only five inches tall, while others reached upwards of over a foot. The “budtender” explained he grew a variety of pure Sativas, one of pure Indicas and crosses of both subspecies. Generally, one hundred percent Sativas had long narrow leaves and grew lanky and tall. Its effect on the body was very cerebral, often motivating and energizing, but could also promote paranoia, rapid thoughts and racing heartbeats, especially in people who were already hardwired to live in their heads or leaned toward obsession, fear or mania. On the other hand, Indicas grew squattier and had large, wide leaves. Indicas were used to relax the mind and create a “body high” or buzz that could be both comforting and calming. One hundred percent Indicas had the ability to put one “in da couch,” so to speak and unable to lift one’s arms off the armrest if the dose was overdone. In this budtender’s opinion, most older medical patients with chronic issues were best off with a pure Indica for sleep and pain issues, as well as possibly specific strains that were either sixty/forty or eighty/twenty percent Indica to Sativa. As he put it, “the right sixty/forty, Indica/Sativa cross can be a real gem for some medical users who aren’t bedridden, because the Indica relaxes their body and the Sativa keeps them awake and motivated.”
He patiently explained about the specific uses for the different strains he grew. Some were perfect for migraines and nerve-related disorders, while others excelled at reducing muscle spasms and resolving insomnia. The gentleman, who Betty reasoned was quite educated and definitely sober, also mentioned that each available clone was a female, pointing out the delicate white hairs that protruded from the stems, indicating their sex. “That white hair shows you it’s a female plant. Male plants literally have these little tight balls…kinda like a nut sack?”
Betty furrowed her brow. It had been awhile since she’d had the pleasure of seeing an actual nut sack, tight or otherwise. “Do you have a male plant I can see?”
“No ma’am,” without cracking a smile. “We’re not plant breeders here, and the male cannabis plants are only used for breeding purposes, not for medicine. If you grow from seed and you’re not a breeder, you gotta kill the plants that turn male, or they’ll pollinate your female plants, and then the ladies won’t develop the sticky bud you’re after.”
Killing the males, Betty mused. A feminist’s dream. She remembered the list Peyton gave her. Going over it quickly, she noted he put asterisks next to a few names. One of those was called Fucking Incredible. But Betty couldn’t see herself asking for a Fucking Incredible plant, let alone telling her future patients that she had some great Fucking Incredible chocolates for them to enjoy. Thus, she shifted her focus to another starred strain, Centennial Blueberry. Since she’d been introduced into this new world with that strain, she figured it was fitting to make it her first purchase. She selected three of the larger, more developed Centennial Blueberry plants that looked vigorous and were well established in their two-gallon dirt containers. With tax, it came to just over two hundred dollars. She proudly pulled out the funds from the sale of Frank’s wedding band and collected her emerald-leafed beauties. The budtender dropped a complimentary lighter in a bag that featured a smiling cannabis leaf. Betty almost returned it, but something about the lighter made her smile. She was still smiling when she secured her plants in the backseat of her car, and she couldn’t keep the grin off her face the entire time she drove back home.
That is, until she saw the flashing lights in her rearview mirror and the black and white police car urging her to pull over.
Chapter 15
“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
Betty’s heart raced, as she turned to her three plants secured in the back seat. A paper bag loosely covered them, but their scent was beginning to give them away. As the police officer got out of his patrol car, her mind raced. She could offer him her medical marijuana paperwork to explain everything, but what if word got out in the town about this?
“Hello, ma’am,” he said dryly. “Can you please roll down your window all the way?”
Betty smiled brightly and complied. “Whatever is wrong, officer? I don’t think I was speeding.”
“May I see your license, registration and insurance?” Betty handed it to him. “Your brake lights are not working.”
“Oh,” she said, with a sigh of relief, “It’s an old car. I’ll have to get that fixed.”
He screwed up his nose and sniffed.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” she quickly added.
He looked at her driver’s license and then at Betty. Leaning forward, he scowled. “Well, we have a situation here, ma’am.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You’re Colonel Craven’s widow, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Your husband trained my nephew down at Fort Carson and molded him into a first-class soldier we can all be proud of. I will always keep a place in my heart for your late husband.”
“How special.” Betty felt as if her face was about to break from her forced smile. “His legacy still continues to pay off in the most extraordinary ways.”
Handing back her license and other cards, he bid her goodbye. By the time she got back home, she’d shaken off the adrenaline rush. She was surprised to see Buddy atop her roof. Again, it was an unscheduled visit. Betty carefully removed the covered plants from the backseat and walked with them toward the front of the house. Shielding her face from the searing sunshine, she called up to him, asking if he wanted any lunch. Buddy declined the offer, but she could see he was sweating like a stuck pig and struggling with his tool belt.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Buddy?”
“Yeah. Just a little creaky in the back today.”
Betty let out a sigh. The poor man desperately needed to lose at least fifty pounds and eat better food.
Inside the house, she quickly transferred the three Centennial Blueberry clones up to her bedroom and set them on the windowsill, where the sunlight streamed in consistently this time of year. Smiling, she stood back and admired them. The large, fat leaves were nearly the size of her palm and happily lifted their tips toward the light. She knew she would need better lighting, but that would take some research and a trip to the grow store where Peyton worked. But right now, she had two chunks of canna cocoa butter and canna coconut oil in her freezer that needed to be processed.
As Buddy’s footsteps moved back and forth on the roof above her, Betty diligently removed the first bowl of canna cocoa butter from the freezer, and after loosening the sides under a stream of hot water, carefully slid the contents onto a cookie sheet. The water separated from the fat, and Betty was easily able to chip away the distinctive layer on top with a sharp knife. Once that was done, a beautiful two-inch-high, round chunk of cannabis-infused cocoa butter sat on a plate. Betty repeated the process with the coconut oil version, making sure to keep her activities limited to one section of the kitchen just in case Buddy showed up unexpectedly, and she needed to toss a few dishcloths over the evidence.
She really needed to figure out the location and design of her grow room, but she also wanted to see what tempting creations she could come up with using the green cocoa butter. So Betty quickly whipped up a chocolate base filled with local honey, cinnamon, a dash of nutmeg and a sprinkle of amaretto for added flavor. While that melted, she portioned off just enough of the canna cocoa butter from the chunk and factored that one good teaspoon per
chocolate square was certainly sufficient. She recalled Peyton told her he added two good teaspoons to the chocolate he gave Peggy, but that was on the high end as far as Betty was concerned, since the tablespoon she took straight out of the bowl had put her into a semi stupor. By only putting in one teaspoon of the cannabis cocoa butter, it made sense that one could take a quarter of the chocolate square or even less, in order to get the desired pain-relieving or sleep-inducing effect. Thus, one bar could last a novice user like Betty four or more doses. Pouring the chocolate into the square moulds, Betty allowed enough space to add the extra teaspoon of medicine. Using a toothpick, she gently stirred the aromatic canna cocoa butter into each mould, making sure to spread it out evenly. From there, the moulds went into the freezer to harden.
Thirty minutes later, she heard Buddy’s heavy footsteps cross the roof and head toward the front of the house as she removed the finished chocolates from the freezer. She popped them out one by one onto a plate; they looked like any other chocolate bar one might encounter, albeit this one was made from the finest ingredients and generously sweetened with honey. She was just about to decorate them with the silver and gold swirls she’d perfected at The White Violet, when she heard a horrible thud outside.
Covering up the chocolates with a towel, Betty raced into the living room to find Buddy tangled in the boxwood bush that framed the front window. “Oh, dear God!” she yelled, hurrying outside. “Don’t move!” she frantically told him.
“Shit,” he muttered, attempting to extricate himself from the foliage.
“Please, Buddy! Don’t move! I’ll call 9-1-1.”
“It’s my fault, Mrs. Craven. My back seized up.” He worked his way out of the boxwood, but he was clearly in pain. “Don’t call 9-1-1. I’ll just drive myself to the ER.”
Men could be so stubborn. “I’ll drive you.”
He tried to reach into his back pocket, but the pain was too much. “Hey, could you get my wallet out of my pocket? My insurance information’s in there.”
