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Game Boy

Lewis woke up, rolled over, sat up and pushed a half-eaten bag of chips away from the computer screen, knocking an empty can of Rock Star to the living room floor.

The flashing icon on the screen told him that “Medford Mantis” was ahead again, with “Slayer II” a close third.

“Take that damn wall down, rat bastard!”

Peeling a piece of tin foil away from a corner of the window he could see it was light outside, but couldn’t tell if it was early morning or late afternoon.

It took hours to regain his status.  When he was satisfied he picked up the bong and fumbled for a lighter that worked.

“Bong’s dirty,” he thought, dumping the water into the trash can by the futon. Looking around, he picked up a half-empty can of flat Mountain Dew and refilled the bong with the flat syrup. “Whatever works,” he said.

“What’ll it be today, Durbin Poison or Cat Piss,” he said aloud purveying the assortment of mason jars on the coffee table. “I think it’s a pure Kush kinda day.”

Lewis picked up a pair of old scissors from the floor and wiped them down with a sock sticking out from under his pillow. He then cut up a couple of buds and pressed a generous clump of green into the bowl.

After five bong hits he hit enter and starred at the computer screen. “Slayer II, die!” he yelled, pounding the keys and maneuvering the mouse in an attempt to regain points. “You will rue the day you messed with Lewis B. Toklas.”

Several hours later he paused, wiped the sweat from his forehead, downed the last swig of a warm beer and reached for the bong. The routine was the same. It had been 14 days since he last went outside, and three since he showered.

The sunlight coming through the torn piece of aluminum foil on the window told him it was indeed daytime. He felt hungry. A pizza box lay at the foot of the futon. Lewis nudged his cat away from inside the box, peeled back a slice from the cardboard, and held it to his nose.  “Breakfast,” he said, putting half the slice into his mouth at once. Pepperoni grease dripped down his chin, and he made a mental note to have another pie delivered.

His cell phone vibrated and flashed. He had to dig to find it, when he did the name on the screen was, “Bud Boob Girl.”

“Hey, Boobette,” he said, answering the phone in a flirtatious voice.

“Hey, Lew,” she said, rolling her eyes – envisioning this trimmer/gamer in the hovel he called home. “River wants to know if you can come help us this weekend,” she asked.

“For you, yes – for River, no way. He’s an asshole and he stiffed me last time. He said he’d pay half with bud, but it was fucking popcorn,” Lewis said, clearly upset.

“Then do it for me? Pretty, please? We really need the help this time, Lew. I’ll make sure you get some good bud this time, promise,” she implored, knowing full well she’d have to sneak it herself from River’s stash.

“Ah, alright. You are too cool to be with that guy, though. He’s a tight-ass grower and I don’t like him.”

Lewis said his goodbyes and tossed his cell phone onto the floor. If there was one thing he hated, it was So Cal gangstas coming up here, ripping people off, and taking all the good bud and piles of cash south.

Lewis decided to head down the hallway to get some work done. A doorway at the end of the hall lead to the garage and his grow. After dumping the humidifier into the utility sink he began the tedious task of thinning out leaves.

“Fuck it, good enough,” he said after 20 minutes had passed. He stood up slowly. His back hurt from hours on the computer. Gnats were getting in his ears, nose and mouth, and it was time for a bong hits.

“Time for a series of serious bong hits,” he said to his cat, now licking the inside of the empty pizza box.

He could see the icon flashing on the computer screen, but he was trying to ignore it. As if in a dream he went to the computer and hit enter. Slayer II had signed off. “Fucking Pussy,” he said with disdain and sat back down for another round with a guy from Denmark.

Two hours later he reached for the bong and stared at his jars of bud. “Danes conquered! It’s Herijuana time!” he said, reaching for the big guns, singing, “One toke over the line, sweet Jesus. One toke over the line…”


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).

She also pens “Road Trip: In Search of Good Medicine,” touring MMJ states, following the Green Rush.
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