Episode 1: The Third Wheel Part 2- The Moving Pandemonium
“Goddamned Johnson,” Alan shrieked, “we’re doing all of the work and cleaning up his shit, and he’s off drinking beer with his friends, and playing frisbee golf!”
Alan kicked a pile of cardboard that was lying on the floor up against the wall, sending the debris and garbage underneath, flying up into the air, and all over the living room. This was an unexpected development, and I was still attempting to process this new plot twist.
As I watched the dust settle, I took the occasion to break from packing, to pause and wipe the sweat and dirt off of my face with the front of my t-shirt.
This isn’t a great start to the partnership, I walked a fine line, in my mind, but at same time… at least Alan’s not pissed off… at me.
I was very concerned about where this drama was going, but truth be told, I was also just relieved, not to be the one under attack for a change.
Alan kicked a wooden chair, knocking it over. “Goddamned, Johnson, tricked me into coming out here!”
It was hot as f*ck in this apartment; unbearably dirty and smelly. Stuff was scattered everywhere- a total disaster zone. We still had an ungodly amount of work to do. Crates of melted brownies that were piled all over the kitchen and the dining room, had been ruined by the ambient heat. That was hundreds of dollars down the drain.
What a fucking shit show, I surveyed the landscape.
“I never would have come out here,” Alan declared deafeningly, his decibels rising, “if I had known that Johnson was going to be a mean, pathetic, fucking drunk!”
I dug deep in my head to find the right words, to defend Johnson, my friend and business partner, but it was too difficult at the moment, to dispute Alan’s assessment of the situation.
Alan and I were responsible for getting everything packed up and moved over to the house by ourselves. We were supposed to get this dump cleaned up, and be out of dodge by tomorrow. This now appeared to be a seemingly impossible task as we were completely fatigued and run down from several days of this. The finish line was still, somewhere far off out of sight, and in the distance.
Meanwhile, it sure did seem, like Johnson was intentionally taking his sweet time in Arcada. The cynics in us, suspected that Johnson was waiting until we had wrapped up this catastrophic, nightmare-move, before he would conveniently be able to return home with the trim, just in the nick of time for us to be finished.
It seemed painfully obvious in fact, that he had left us out here indefinitely to die in agony by ourselves in this asylum, while he was hiding out, having a holiday, in ‘hippie-heaven’. Alan was further nervous and irritated because Johnson had his nest egg with him; cash that Alan had been holding onto and hording for years.
“Johnson thinks it’s his fucking job to get drunk and hang out with his friends from high school!” Alan was ranting, though at least now, he was being productive while he ranted, as his hands stayed busy, packing a bin full of DVDs in the living room.
“Well…” I offered gingerly, “that is technically… kind of… his job.”
“That’s fucking bullshit!” Alan squawked, “I put 10 thousand dollars into this business, and I never agreed, that we would do all the work for him!”
From my perspective, I could see both sides of this issue. On the one hand, Johnson had the connections to the growers, a car, and was willing to risk driving with hundreds of pounds of trim and flowers. I didn’t have a vehicle, but even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to be the one making the run, and I really doubt that Alan wanted to take that chance either, especially when in his mind, he had a willing, and expendable stooge, in Johnson.
On the other hand though, Johnson was really pushing his luck and had already been gone for four days. This seemed to be a dickishly long time for a run in general, let alone a quick trip there and back, as he had billed it. And even though we knew, that in all probability, Johnson was just clowning around up there, it still added unnecessary tension, to a massive pile of pre-existing, stressful puzzles and problems, that we were already tackling and attempting to solve.
In this industry, it was prudent to be paranoid while you were waiting, or whenever you were in the dark about a deal. Even though we were breaking out of the dam, and I felt like legalization was just around the corner, the scene was still dominated by a black market mentality. Cannabis entrepreneurs had to be careful. There was good reason to be nervous and cautious about who you let into your circle. Avoiding drama, was a matter of self-preservation.
“Does Johnson think, that I’m his fucking maid?” Alan raged, throwing his arms up in the air, “does he really expect me to pack up his dirty clothes for him?”
Alan had already been in LA now, off and on, for about a month. He first flew out to get a lay of the La-La-Land, ironically on the same day that the shake business was born…
* * *
Johnson had taken off a little earlier to make a few deliveries on the west side, and afterwards, he was going to pick up Alan at LAX. Then they planned, to meet up, with Dave and I for brunch, at Venice Beach. Of course, on the way there though, I asked Dave, if he wouldn’t mind, if we made a quick stop, to call on an account on Melrose, that I had passed before and had been wanting to woo, with our wares.
I got checked in and was buzzed back into the bud-tending room, where I laid our line for the owner to consider.
“Hey, I’m interested,” the owner, Aaron, admitted as he surveyed my samples on his counter. Aaron was a big, heavy set, white guy, with a shoulder length, brown ponytail, and a long beard.
This store had a modern art, hippie-ish theme, with brightly colored prints of paintings framed along the wall next to tie-dyed posters. The combination was eclectic, but not quite crossing the line into obnoxiously and hideously clashing.
“What I could really use though,” Aaron scratched at his chin hairs, “is some shake.”
“Sorry,” I shook my head, “unfortunately, we don’t have any shake.”
“How do you make your edibles, then?” He grilled me.
I knew that some people used flowers or shake to make their butter, which was better quality than the trim that we were using in theory. In practice though, all that really mattered, was the potency and consistency of our end products.
Nevertheless, I was nervous about telling Aaron what we used to make our butter, because I didn’t want him to think of us, as having a lower perceived value. I wasn’t about to lie to him either, though.
“We use trim,” I finally, fessed up, “but it’s pretty good quality.”
“Ok,” Aaron tapped on the glass counter with the end of a plastic pen.
“It’s got a lot of sugar in it.” I tried to clean up after myself, “it’s really frosty.”
“Fantastic,” Aaron turned the tables on me, “can, I please, buy some trim, then?”
“What?” Confused, I cautiously proceeded to quiz him. “So… you want to like, make your own edibles, then?”
“No, no,” Aaron made manifest, “I’ll buy your edibles. But I also want to buy the trim too. I can sell it as shake.”
“But it’s trim,” I protested.
‘Shake’ as I had known it, throughout my amateur, cannabis career, was basically just what was leftover at the bottom, of a bag of flowers. Trim on the other hand, still had leaf material mixed in, and didn’t smoke smoothly from my experience.
“I puff on it all day,” Aaron countered, and showed me a vaporizer that was filled with pulverized plant matter.
“It’s really good,”Aaron coughed as he took a hit out of a nipple, that was attached to the end of a plastic bag, full of vapor.
“Interesting.” I responded, though I still wasn’t certain, if we were talking about the same thing.
“Will you sell me some, then?”
“Are you sure?” I was still skeptical.
“Yes,” Aaron laughed, “my customers can’t get enough of this stuff.”
What’s going on here? I attempted to break down the situation in my head and came up with the only logical explanation, that I could think of- maybe Aaron, doesn’t know, what trim is?
“Well,” I proceeded cautiously, “how much do you, normally pay, for… trim?”
“Depends on the quality,” Aaron answered, “but usually, I can pay around $4 or $5 a gram.”
My jaw dropped to the floor, and all I could see were dollar signs in the air.
Does a cannabiz got you baffled? Maybe we can help.
He’s not serious. I calibrated my expectations, he can’t be serious.
“How much?” My knees started to wobble.
“Depending on how it looks,” Aaron confirmed, “anywhere from $3.50 to $5.00 a gram.”
“Ok,” my mouth moved on autopilot, “Are you going to be here for the next hour?”
“Yup, I’ll be here.”
“How much do you want?” I took his order.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Aaron paused in thought, “I’d probably take about five or six pounds of different strains, if you have some variety?”
I ran through some quick math, in my head, if this is legit, then this sale could be worth over $10,000!
This can’t be real! I dared to dream, but… what, if it is?
“Ok,” I tagged down on third, “don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”
I casually made my way out of the bud-tending room. Taking my time, without a care in the world, I suavely strolled through the lobby, and out the front door.
As soon as I stepped outside and was out of view of the camera though, I immediately started running as fast as I could, for over three blocks to where Dave was parked.
“We need to get back to the apartment ASAP,” I gasped, as I jumped into the car.
We got back to Hollywood, and I ransacked our trim supply, trying to put the ticket together. We were already starting to run low, but I was able to compile three pounds of two different strains. It wasn’t the worst quality trim that we’d ever had, but it definitely wasn’t the best.
We had only paid $150 per pound, and incredibly, if this good-turn had a green-light, then we would be raking in around $2000 a pound. That was a pretty, amazing f*cking, profit margin!
I fidgeted anxiously in the car, as Dave slowly fought his way through traffic. We had to make it to the ball before midnight, and the illusion wore off, turning my coach, back into a pumpkin.
We painstakingly moved west down Melrose, until Dave finally approached the store on the left-hand side of the street.
“Stop please,” I pointed, “I’ll just hop out, here.”
I jumped out of the car in the middle of traffic with my backpack over my left shoulder, and ran back into the dispensary. I checked in at the front desk, and a few minutes later, they let me in to see Aaron again.
“That was fast.” Aaron chuckled.
Fast… really? It was all relative. It felt like a hundred thousand years, to me.
“Was it?” I tried to play it cool, and not give away how anxious I was.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.” Aaron rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Here we go…
I pulled out two turkey bags from my backpack, and placed them down on the counter. Aaron opened a bag and shoved his face into it, taking it the aroma. He carefully sifted through the powdery pot with his fingers and then took a pinch which he held under a light and examined with a magnifying glass.
“Hmmm,” he hummed.
I waited silently, wringing my hands together behind my back.
This is ridiculous, it was starting to register, there’s been a mistake. There’s no way, he pays me even, $2.00 a gram!
“I’ll tell you what,” Aaron got my attention, “I’ll take two pounds of each strain, for $4.00 a gram.”
No way… I had to check myself, is this really, about to happen?
“What about $4.25?” I countered, pushing my luck, hard.
What the fuck is wrong with you, I scolded myself, just take the fucking money and get the fuck out of here, you idiot!
“Ok,” Aaron nodded, “that’s fine, let me grab the scale.”
Aaron left and came back with a jumbo-sized jewelry scale, and a large plastic, salad bowl. He zeroed out the weight of the container, and then started pouring in the shake.
“That’s eighteen hundred and twenty four grams,” he crunched numbers on a calculator, “at $4.25 a gram, that’s $7752, let’s say we call it even, at $7700?”
“What do you think about, $7725?” I figured since I had already made it to $7700, why not buy myself some lunch to boot.
“Sure,” Aaron shrugged, “that will work.”
When Dave and I finally made it a little late to meet up with Johnson and Alan in Venice, I was able to brag about the biggest sale in our company’s history! More importantly though; this was only the beginning, and I knew that we had struck gold.
Alan had been on the fence about the edibles, but my score with the shake that day sparked his interest. As a smart Jewish kid, Alan, like me, saw that this opportunity wasn’t just about cannabis-infused cereal bars, but was actually ‘Shmata’, which was basically another word for the recycling business.
Over the next two weeks, I continued to test the waters and deplete our trim, selling our ‘shake’ to existing edibles customers. It was such a success that Johnson and Alan were finally forced to corner me for an intervention. They had teamed up to tell me, that they had to temporarily cut me off.
“Sorry,” Alan softened the blow, “I love what you’re doing, but we don’t want to run out of edibles and ruin our reputation with our customers. You’re going to have to stand down until we get more trim.”
“Insufferable fools!” I battled back. “You’ll never stop me! I am the Shake-King, of Los Angeles!”
“It’s just until I can get up North again.” Johnson reasoned with me.
“When is that going to be?” I snarled, “I don’t want to lose shake accounts either. Other people will figure this out and take our place quickly, if we’re not on top of it.”
“Why don’t you do this,” Alan suggested to Johnson, “why don’t you call your friends and get a package ready now, and then you can go and pick it up next week after we’re done moving.”
“That’s fine.” Johnson’s face was expressionless, as his mind seemed to be wandering elsewhere.
I had been in a sales frenzy, and was resistant to them at first, but eventually, I backed down and acceded to their demands to hit a strategic pause on new sales.
* * *
“Why the fuck am I touching Johnson’s sweaty, smelly socks and nasty fucking underwear,” Alan’s screams echoed from Johnson’s bedroom and out through the open door into the living room, “while he’s in the woods, partying with a bunch of fucking hippies?”
“Maybe you should just burn his boxers,” I suggested, “or quarantine his loincloths until the CDC can get here with a hazmat team to safely evacuate the undergarments.”
“What a disgusting fucking animal,” Alan continued to shout from Johnson’s lair, “look at this, filth!”
As soon as Alan got here and started sharing these one-bedroom barracks with Johnson and I, he immediately made it our company’s top priority, to find a new place for us to live and operate from. Alan was appalled by our sweltering, semi-squalid living conditions, as for several weeks, he and I, had both slept on perpendicular sections, of our dilapidated, ‘L-shaped’ couch.
As much as things had been a little rocky out of the gate, everything really started to go off the rails, on the day that we took custody of the keys to our new crib…
* * *
I finally saw our new castle in Silverlake, when we had gone over there to sign the lease. When Johnson and Alan had first gone to check out our prospective pad, I hadn’t even bothered to go with them and stayed behind at basecamp to make more shake from trim instead.
I felt like it wasn’t necessary for me to see the new living quarters in advance. For one thing, I still had terrible credit, so I really couldn’t get a nice place without their help, anyway.
At that time anyway, I was also still apprehensive about the two of them ganging up on me, so I just wanted to keep my head down, and focus on work and to save my political capital for the things that mattered most to me.
Alan was excited, as we approached from the outside, and I saw the property for the first time. There was an actual lawn with real green grass. Alan and Johnson started talking about growing vegetables in potting soil, in a raised garden bed that bordered the path to a wooden fence leading into the backyard. Johnson of course, also mentioned getting some lights, and setting up some pot-plants inside, in a crawl space.
When we had initially filled out the rental application, I had been nervous that my credit would blow it for all of us, and I still had a lingering sense of self-doubt, as I sat at the table and stared at the lease in front of me.
It was kind of like the feeling I experienced when I was in a car, if a cop pulled up behind me in traffic. Even if I was driving perfectly well, had no drugs or contraband, was sober, and staying within the lines and the speed limit, whenever I’d spot a state trooper, I’d still a get knee jerk reaction to feel guilty, as if I had done something wrong.
While that was the case here as well, we executed on the rental agreement without any last-minute meltdowns, as we sat at the dining room table, with the property manager, in between the kitchen and the living room.
There were two small rooms to the left of a long hallway with the master bedroom at the end. Above the hallway there was a dropdown staircase, that led to a large, open, carpeted attic.
On the floor in the living room was a sheet of plastic held down by buckets of paint, and piles of painting supplies. The management company still needed a few more days to get the residence ready, but we had asked if we could get the keys early to start moving stuff over into the garage.
The property manager left the house in our hands and exited through the front. Johnson and Alan were both in a great mood and seemed to have worked out their differences. They were exhibiting a pretty strong buddy-buddy dynamic and camaraderie, as they poked around the kitchen.
“Nice job guys, this place is a palace, compared to the apartment!
I had to give them credit for getting this team win. Where we were living now was like a third world, hovel, in comparison to our new home.
After a few minutes though, I watched as the boys bounced across the room, and simultaneously, stopped dead in their tracks. Gazing down the corridor in search of the siren’s call, they had both at the same moment, caught the same object of desire in their respective eye, as they became fixed on a forbidden fruit.
Mesmerized, and entranced as if under a state of hypnosis, my partners focused their attention towards the end of the hallway. I peeked over Alan’s shoulder at two open doorways on the left side of the wall. The second room was slightly larger than the first, and appeared to be the second biggest bedroom overall in this domicile.
“So,” Alan awkwardly broke the ice, “let’s talk about the master bedroom.”
“Well,” Johnson moved right in for the kill, “I was thinking that, I should get it.”
“Wait…” Alan was totally taken aback. “What? Why, should you get it?”
I’m not even going to bother to throw my hat into this master bedroom conversation, I calculated, better just to stake my claim to the middle-sized room now, while I still can!
“Excuse me gentlemen,” I stepped in between, and through the two of them, to get to the middle of the hallway, where I turned around and held my hands up in a ‘T-shape’.
“Timeout,” I announced an armistice.
“What do you want?” Johnson bellyached impatiently.
“Does anyone care, if I take this room?” I planted my flag, pointing to my right.
“That’s fine,” Alan agreed, “I figured you would want that one, anyway.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck.” Johnson looked passed and through me, at the master bedroom, behind my head.
Now that I had put my own bedroom uncertainty to bed, I felt more comfortable, and was able to explore the hotly contested holy land, as a neutral party and observer. There was no doubt it was an awesome room. The coveted chambers had a huge floor plan and to top things off, there was a walk-in shower and double French doors that opened directly from the back of the bedroom, into the yard.
Whoever gets this room, is going to have a big target on their backs, I chuckled to myself, as I made my way out of the line of fire.
“Great, well, thank you sirs,” I grinned, “I’m going to go look around the backyard. Please continue with your discussion. Again, my apologies for the interruption.”
I dipped out through the open screen, and scanned the yard, as I could hear the cease-fire collapsing behind me.
“First of all, we could use the bedroom for business,” Alan lectured, “That’s what makes the most sense. Second of all, even if we didn’t, what the fuck makes you think, that you’re entitled to it?” Alan was incredulous, “instead of me, or Gabe?”
“I brought you out here,” Johnson bickered, “and Gabe took himself out of the running!”
This might have been the most that angry that I’d ever heard Johnson before, and that was saying a lot.
“I put ten grand in the company,” Alan altercated, “and threw more money down, on our new headquarters, then you did!”
“Look no offense,” Johnson pivoted to a new tactic, “But I need the space more than you do. You guys were complaining about the noise in our old dwelling. And let’s be honest, it’s not like you’ve been bringing a bunch of girls, back home.”
“Bring girls, home? I’ve been sleeping on a rickety fucking couch, in your stinking, living room!” Alan admonished him.
Since Alan had been living with us for just a few short weeks, Johnson had variously been having loud sex with two different women, while seeing at least three.
It was super uncomfortable, and Johnson wouldn’t even bother to put on any courtesy music. Alan and I would leave the small space while this was occurring and walk around the neighborhood, bonding, as we discussed our growing list of mutual grievances against Johnson.
I could tell that Alan’s animosity towards Johnson was building, and might already amount to a damning case, whereas meanwhile, my rancor for him, had been boiling over into a critical mass, for as long as a year now.
“You’re not getting this room,” Alan put his foot down.
I watched through the doorway from a safe distance, while they continued to quarrel; entertained and satisfied, with my wise decision, to stay out of the fray.
“Look,” Johnson was obstinate, and unmoving “I’ve been squatting in a shanty for almost a year with Gabe, I’ve been working hard, and I deserve to get this room.”
“Why?” Alan challenged him, “you had the only bedroom at the flop-house, if anything, Gabe should get the master bedroom.”
“For the last fucking time,” Johnson spat, his words laden with loathing, “Gabe doesn’t want the room!”
“Come on Johnson, seriously?” Alan reality-checked him, “you don’t think, Gabe would rather have the bigger room?”
Johnson didn’t answer, but was radiating with bitter acrimony.
“Hey Gabe?” Alan dragged me down into the dirt, “wouldn’t you like to have a bigger room?”
Oh shit, I had to think fast, don’t get me involved…
“I’m sorry,” I disseminated, “were you talking to me?”
I gazed passed their frustrated faces, as I pointed to my ear, “The thing is, I can’t see or hear you, because I’m both blind, and deaf.”
Vexed, and speechless for a second, they stared at me.
“Furthermore,” I threw fuel on the fire, “for some strange reason, I’m unable to feel the texture of corn flakes.”
“I don’t fucking care about this bullshit!” Johnson was furious, “I’m taking the room.”
“You can have your prize, when you snatch it from my cold… dead… hands.” Alan threatened, “Cold, dead, hands, Johnson.”
“Whatever it takes, bro.” Johnson replied smugly.
After another fifteen minutes or so of arguing, Johnson ultimately prevailed, when Alan finally got fed up, and angrily declared defeat, “fine, you win Johnson, I’ll just go live upstairs, in the fucking attic, then!”
Johnson had gotten his way, but there had been a cost to his victory. Blood had been spilled, and it was bad-blood…
* * *
Alan picked up a broom and threw it across the living room like a javelin. It bounced off the wall and hit a box, knocking it over from the top of a lopsided stack, next to the dining room table. The box fell over sideways onto the floor, as the glass items inside, loudly shattered.
“On the bright side,” I pointed out, “at least we don’t have to figure out how to cram that box into your car.”
Most of my clothes and possessions had already been in two giant carboard crates that my parents had sent me via UPS when I first got out to LA. I had never gotten any dresser or drawers, so I had continued to use this packaging solution to store my belongings for the past year. These behemoth boxes however, were too big to fit into Alan’s car, and furthermore were passed their prime and fraying along the edges and on the bottoms, so I began to repack my nick-nacks into smaller containers, as I threw my clothes into black contractor bags.
Alan walked over to the dining room, simmering still, as I could see him hovering in my peripheral vision. I could tell that he was winding himself up to hit me with the next torrent of injuries and indignities, that he had suffered at the hands of Johnson.
“I just can’t believe how selfish he is,” Alan’s voice began relatively calmly, but quickly built into a violent eruption of indignation, “can you believe he had me talk to his father for him? What a pathetic, fucking, coward!”
* * *
Just six days before, Johnson’s father had come out to visit him for the first time since we’d been in LA. In an awkward and unscripted moment, Johnson finally revealed to his dad that he was in a quasi-legal pot business… by having Alan, do it for him.
“You’re doing what?” Johnson’s father was a conservative catholic, and wasn’t at all comfortable with cannabis, “you’re making marijuana food? Are you freaking, crazy?”
“Well,” Johnson dodged the bullet, “Alan here is our CEO. He went to business school and invested his own money in this. I’m going to let Alan take it from here and fill you in on the details.”
Alan was totally caught off guard.
“Wait… what?”
“Fine,” Johnson’s father turned to Alan and upbraided him, instead, “you, tell me then, just what in the heck, is wrong with you boys?”
“Ok… well… um….” Alan had already suffered and been struggling with severe, social anxiety for years, and he was now being wildly and nakedly flung into the far outer reaches, well beyond the event horizon of his comfort zone.
“I’m going to step outside for a minute,” Johnson smiled, as he put the bus in reverse, and backed it up over Alan.
Alan watched with seething hatred, as Johnson grabbed a beer from the fridge and then disappeared outside onto the balcony, to leave Alan to fend for himself, and answer to his own father.
“So please explain, how you’re planning to keep my son out of prison?”
“Well… you see… I mean-”
“You know Alan, I know you’re a smart guy and all, but I expected more from you… I am really, really disappointed, right now.”
* * *
“Fucking Johnson’s dad, lectured me for over an hour, like I was his fucking son!” Alan roared at me, “I dealt with the awful part, and then they went out together afterwards for a make-up beer, and they didn’t even, invite me! That selfish son-of-a-bitch, Johnson, never even apologized, or said, thank you.”
“On the plus side though,” I posed, “at least you didn’t have to go out with Johnson and his dad for a beer. Think of what other terrors, that they might have inflicted on you, there.”
Alan wasn’t laughing. The day after this incident, Johnson abruptly announced that the ‘growers’ needed him to come up north right away to get the trim, or we were going to have to wait another month. Johnson reported to us that there was no time to wait until after the move, meaning he would have to leave right away and if possible, he pledged, he would turn right around and get back in time to help us start getting the apartment cleared out.
“Alright,” Alan begrudgingly soldiered forward, “let’s go take another load over to Silverlake.”
“Ok… fine.” I groaned in pain and stopped what I was doing. I bent over to stretch my back and legs.
“We could really use another car and an extra set of hands right now.” Alan was so upset, he was shaking.
“Fucking Johnson,” His voice was despondent, “he really reamed us in the ass.”
“How much room is left in the car?” I tried to change the subject.
“Not enough,” Alan was pessimistic, “but we can squeeze some more stuff in.”
I grabbed a stack of weird pots, pans, and strainers that I had bought at the Thai grocery store, and picked them up from the floor of the kitchen. My pile was heavy, and awkward to haul, as I shuffled over towards the front entrance.
Alan opened the door for me and followed me outside. He was carrying two coolers while wearing a backpack. Alan was even shorter and feistier than I was and looked like he was carrying more than twice his body weight, like a little, fiery red-ant.
Excruciatingly, we made it down the stairs and around the corner, both out of breath, by the time we huffed and puffed over to his Honda, which was parked in the car port.
From the outside looking in, his vehicle appeared to be full.
“I don’t know if we’re going to be able to fit anything else,” I appraised.
“We’ll make it fit,” Alan insisted.
“Ok.” I put the pots down on the ground next to the grey coup, as Alan attempted to organize his backseat. He ripped apart a random mess of miscellaneous rummage, in an ill-fated effort, to make room for even more junk.
As I stood, watching Alan in a fit of madness, play a losing game of Tetris with his Honda, I had to fight back my urge to break down into hysterics.
The glass is half full, I tried to stay optimistic.
Usually, it’s better when the glass is half full, I noted, but that’s not true 100% of the time, for instance, in the case of tap water from Tijuana, Mexico, you’re much better off, with a glass that’s completely empty.
“I can’t do this,” Alan conceded sadly. He was deflated and defeated and looked like he’d been punched in the guts. Standing on his feet, drenched in sweat, worn down, and weary, Alan appeared to be dying from both the outside, and from within.
“It’s not going to work, it won’t fit,” Alan soberly assessed the situation.
“We can’t fit everything?” I clarified.
“We can’t fit anything.” He was broken, “nothing.”
You’ve got to be kidding me…
“Ok,” I snickered in anguish, “let’s go, then…”
Alan’s annoyance with this situation was now starting to rub off on me, as sweating in the hot sun, I hoisted the pots back up into my arms one more time, and dragged them around the corner, all the way up the stairs again, across the porch, and back into our hole in the wall.
We hunched over, gasping for air, upstairs in our abode. This failed attempt would have been our fifth trip to the house already for the day.
“Johnson!” Alan fell to his knees, throwing himself to the mercy of the gods, as he dramatically shook his fists in the air, “why have you done this to me?”
I also dropped to the floor, and onto my side, as I doubled over with laughter.
“Sorry,” I cackled as I tried to catch my breath, “I can’t help it anymore… I’ve been holding it in.”
Alan eyed me curiously.
“Apologies,” I allayed after I calmed down, “I have this thing about laughing uncontrollably, whenever anyone says something disparaging about Johnson.”
“Johnson is a useless, selfish, farting, piece of shit,” Alan sandbagged me, sending me into stiches again.
Having a good chuckle at Johnson’s expense was pretty cathartic for me, though I had been doing my best to avoid getting caught up in the conflict between them and becoming their collateral damage. All I could do, was stay out of the cross-fire, and make sure that I was continuing to add value and help grow the business on my end.
“Did I mention that Johnson’s chin, looks like a ballsack?”
I lost it, as howling, I fell over into a pile of rubble and wreckage in the ruins of our apartment, and was unable to command the strength to rise back up to my feet.
Alan was starting to enjoy the power he was exerting over me by continuing to mock Johnson. He had discovered my kryptonite.
“I don’t know what smells worse,” Alan tested me, “Johnson’s feet or his farts?”
“You forgot to mention, his body odor,” I entered into evidence. “When I lived with Crackle and Johnson in college, they would literally compete to outstink each other with farts, and strategically placed gym shoes. It escalated like an arms-race, but instead, it was, an under-arms-race.”
“Fuck,” Alan bitterly collected himself and got back into hear, “fun’s over. We should get back to work. We have to make up for that fucking cock, Johnson. I’m sure he was planning this, all along.”
“Ok,” despondently, I looked down at the floor of the living room, “I don’t disagree with you… but… that being said… I’m only seconds away… from my own, nervous breakdown.”
“I’m sorry,” Alan seemed sincere, “you know that I don’t have any problems with you, it’s just that, fucking Johnson! You know what I’m saying?”
“I know, I know,” I nodded, “But… I’m just so spent… why don’t we just stop for the night?”
“We have to get this done by tomorrow!”
“What if I talk to the landlord?” I offered, “she’ll give us another day, I’m sure of it.”
“I’d rather just be done with it.” Alan submitted.
“Please, can we stop for the night?” I begged, “It’s not too late for us to make it to happy hour sushi, and watch the Lakers game.”
“No,” Alan stood firm, “I’m going to stay and keep working. We’ve got to compensate for Johnson’s laziness.”
Dear God, I prayed for mercy, Alan is never going to stop working… maybe ever. He might not even sleep. He is going to shame me, to death.
“I’m so tired,” I put my forehead down onto my palm, “I just can’t keep doing this without food.”
“You should go without me,” Alan set and baited his trap.
“Come on!” I was sprung, “I’m not going to go stuff my face and get drunk, while you stay here working, I’m not falling for that.”
“What do you mean? It’s fine,” Alan was unyielding, “there’s still too much that I, personally, need to get done, though.”
“For the love of God,” I implored him, “just take a break for an hour or two?”
“I’m not trying to guilt trip you into staying, if that’s what you’re thinking?”
“That is what I was thinking,” I called him out, “You’re like a fifth-degree black-belt, in the art of combat-guilt, Jew-Jitsu.”
“No,” Alan laughed, “I’m serious. You haven’t had a break in months. I know how much Johnson has been ‘helping’ you. Please go, we’re wasting time arguing that I could be using to pack, and that you could be using to get drunk and eat raw fish.”
“Well, when you put it like that… ”
Despite Alan’s assurances that he wasn’t setting me up, I of course, did feel guilty and uncomfortable about the situation. Nevertheless, I was nearing my demise without nourishment, so I left by myself to go get grub and watch the game.
My mind was racing all over the place, as I took my time walking down the block. I had two partners that I had been paranoid, would team up against me, but instead, they were now at odds with each other, and I was caught up in the middle. Worse yet, I realized, that somehow, inconceivably; I had become… the adult in the room.
This isn’t supposed to happen, I was beyond concerned. How the fuck, did I become, the reasonable one, in the group?
That, I grew increasingly alarmed, should scare the shit, out of us all!