The ritual was the same each morning. It was a production, the production of medicating. For just as a diabetic readies the morning’s remedies, so does the medical cannabis patient.
Lewis’s place of preference happened to be on the morning throne, as cannabis “relaxes the bowels,” he often chuckled to himself.
The water in the pipe bubbled as he took a long, deep breath, releasing smoke out the cracked window.
The text on his iPhone was from a guy down the road with an “amazing” new strain – or so he claimed.
“Everyone says their strains are better,” the guy said. “But this one is different. It does everything bigger, faster and better.”
The guy was a tweaker and talked the nervous talk, but Lewis heard him out.
“I don’t laugh or smile,” Lewis said, wanting to shut the guy up, but taking the bowl offered anyway.
The hit was good, but nothing spectacular. His claims were nothing more than a peddler with snake oil, but the hit was stoney, nonetheless.
The tweaker was taken aback, but pressed onward to convince.
“Just wait,” he said. “Here, take another green hit. Wait fifteen minutes and take a black hit. That’s how it works.”
Lewis was thinking this guy was certifiable, but continued to hit the ho-hum weed. The more he smoked, the more the undeniable scent of mold came through.
“What the fuck, dude!” Lewis yelled. “Your wonder weed is moldy – I’m not smoking this shit.”
Lewis deleted the text without a response and laughed out loud at the thought of this guy and his miracle weed. The green train was full of losers wanting to cash in and this guy was no different.
“Fucking posers – they’re all the same. Lower than dirt,” Lewis said aloud to his cat, now following him from the bathroom to the grow room.
“People are sick and that guy is making promises he can’t keep with moldy weed,” he obsessed. What an Asshole.”
The cat jumped up into a five-gallon lady and made herself at home for a nap.
Lewis watered using a bucket, filling it up repeatedly from the bathtub down the hall. The trips back and forth wore him out and he headed back to the living room and his futon for a rest and a rip.
A car’s engine outside startled him and he carefully peeled a bit of tin foil from the window to scope out the situation.
Two young men in ganga gangsta attire were leaning against an old BMW with flared rims and a “Dank” sticker on the back window. The uniforms were the same, pants falling down with their asses hanging out; proverbial caps with pot logos; and hemp jackets embellished with Rasta images in red, green and gold.
“Fucking posers,” Lewis said in disgust, reaching for a shotgun under the futon.
The young men seemed to be waiting for someone, with both of them, heads down, texting, when a patrol car passed by, causing them to get back in their car and drive away.
“Yeah, that’s right, get the fuck out of my hood,” Lewis said, putting the shotgun back under the futon.
He bought it a year ago and only had to use it once as a threat. Home invasions were happening more and more, and with the tweakers attempting to get into the pot business things were getting out of hand, to say the least.
Lewis sat down and filled up the bong when someone knocked on the door. It was the tweaker with the bullshit bud.
“Hey, man, I have a better batch today – no mold,” the guy said too loudly from outside the door.
Lewis opened the door to shut him up and get him out of view. He was one of the walking dead – thin, shallow cheeks, sores on his face. Lewis knew him before he fell for the zombie drugs and it was sad to see his former self nearly gone.
“Stop yelling, man,” Lewis said, quickly closing the door behind him. “You better not be bringing me any of that moldy weed.”
The bud was thin. No doubt harvested early to beat whatever mold situation the guy had going on.
“You clearly do not know how to grow bud,” Lewis reprimanded.
“Yeah, but I really have something here,” he pressed on. “It’s better than any weed I’ve ever smoked. Maybe you could grow a few plants for me?”
Lewis filled up the bong, took a long drag, and wished he had a big, purple bud for every time a hack grower told him their weed was the bomb.
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Editor’s note: Sharon Letts began her love of gardening in Southern California by her mother’s side, watching as she buried fish heads at the base of roses.
At 24, Sharon hung her shingle, “Secret Garden,” planting flower beds for dainty ladies. Gardening led to producing and writing for television with “Secret Garden Productions.”
Today Sharon continues to write about gardening and all that implies, advocating for the bud, and writing for many magazines, including DOPE (Defending Our Patients Everywhere).