Episode 4: The Maror
I looked out over rays of sunlight, reflecting through the clouds, as the glowing orange, globe, slowly started its decent across the skyline and over the horizon.
“You look a little nervous,” the stewardess checked in, “can I get you something to drink?”
She was right, I was a wreck. Among other things, I felt sick to my stomach about leaving the business behind. I was fearful and felt like something could and would go wrong, while I was away. I didn’t want to depart but Alan and Johnson had basically forced me. They literally put it to a vote, and begrudgingly I had agreed to take a vacation.
How am I supposed to decompress, with my destiny, dangling in their hands? Distraught from separation anxiety, I was superstitious that it was my passion, energy, and hard work that was keeping everything together. Now that I was gone, that carefully balanced universe, could fracture to pieces.
I needed something to calm my nerves which were under even more stress, on an empty stomach. My eyes sought relief out the window, but the sun was only marginally closer to setting than it had been the last time I checked. In addition to kerfuffling myself, about abandoning my baby, I was also suffering from a severe deficit of calories after having abstained from sustenance since sundown the night before.
“Is there anyway, you come back again in a few minutes?” I implored the flight attendant.
“Sorry sir,” she broke the bad news, “this is last call before we land.”
Why am I even fasting? I self-examined, I don’t even believe in this religion!
I wasn’t thinking straight anymore. What time zone, am I even in? How many hours ago did I start my fast, in PST?
Even though I wasn’t a practicing Jew, most years I still tried to observe the traditional fast for the high holiday, Yom Kippur. I typically participated out of cultural solidarity, for health reasons, as a challenge to myself, and also truth be told; I did it… just in case.
I was especially paranoid this time around after Alan and Johnson had sent me packing. I hadn’t realized when I haphazardly booked my ticket that I’d be flying on Yom Kippur, and didn’t find out until my mom was nice enough to point it out to me two days before I was scheduled to fly. If she hadn’t said anything, I would have just missed this somber and sober, day of atonement, and been blissfully unaware of the whole thing. This was only a problem now, that I knew about it.
Things were going really well though, we were finally making some dough, so I had been treading lightly, and didn’t want to jinx us. We had rebranded as Canna Catering, and with a clean slate, we were firing on all cylinders as a team, with even Johnson and Alan getting along.
Lauren, Andrew, and J2 had become our extended sales force, and helped us to divide and conquer, in every corner of SoCal. I had gone around with all of them to help them open accounts to get the ball rolling. The Valley and the Northside became Lauren’s haunt, while Andrew was our man in the OC. J2 was even working for us now too, and he and an assistant named Jay, were busy busting open the Inland Empire, and stopping down in San Diego, once every two weeks. Meanwhile Johnson, Alan, and I were covering the west side, Hollywood and downtown with the help of a Hanson, and Bredley, who was another recent transplant from college.
At this point, I was pretty sure that I had personally visited, stopped at, called upon, or sold to, literally every single dispensary in all of Southern California. I was getting anxious to expand our map, and to try my luck, even further up north in the bay area. Unfortunately, though, I had been forbidden, for the time being.
* * *
Alan who was now managing production was concerned that my aggressive sales initiatives south of the grapevine, had already pushed us to the point of critical mass. Under Alan’s leadership we had worked out a deal with a professional catering team we had met at the Culver-City commissary to take over making our desserts, which I had to admit, were much, much better now, that I wasn’t baking them, anymore.
In addition, Alan sourced a second kitchen to manufacture our infusions of cannabis plant materials into butter and now, vegetable glycerin as well. We had added the latter to our line-up recently, and it had become the basis for our tinctures. We were also able to apply the ganja-glycerin to power our best-selling new SKUs of medicated beverages under the banner of Chronic Tonic, which instantly became an overnight, smash success. Getting the look and the packaging just right to knock it out of the park had been a real odyssey, and we had literally been through four different graphic designers before landing on something that we loved.
The digital designer who ended up hitting a home run, was a snotty, fifteen year old Disney brat, that some reason was a part of Lauren’s social circle. Ethun was a child actor and skilled graphic artist, and he came up with a simple, elegant slam-dunk for our first beverage called, Lazy Lemonade, with black lettering printed on glass bottles that contrasted and popped against the bright yellow, backdrop of the beverage.
We loved it so much, we wanted an encore from Ethun for our next drink, Paradise Punch. But all of a sudden, he started playing hard to get. Ethun’s career was managed by his mother, who held our project hostage and demanded that we pay double, what we had already agreed on.
Johnson and Lauren finally went over there in person to reason with them and were able to work something out in the end. Despite the difficulty though, it was worth the effort it took to get the prime, Paradise Punch packaging made, and the pair of loaded liquids, were now our flagship products.
The new facility in Santa Clarita wasn’t just a space to work but came turn-key with a super-human employee. Winston, who was a tall, burly, and hilarious, dreadlocked, Jamaican cook, worked for the owner of the kitchen, making Caribbean meat paddies, and other pre-packaged and catered foods.
When Alan when to see the kitchen and meet Winston, the big guy asked to be trained on our processes, so that he could get the hours, and run the show for us. Alan thought it sounded like a great arrangement, but asked Winston who was going to assist him.
“It’s ok superman,” Winston chucked, “I got it covered.”
“Yeah, but it’s a three-day job,” Alan protested, “surely you’re going to have to do it in shifts, with other people?”
“Nah chief, it’s all good,” Winston was cheerful, “I just pull up a cot and sit down every once in a while, an’ it’ll be jus fine an’ dandy.”
“Don’t you sleep?” Alan was skeptical.
“Nah boss, not really all that much.”
“Have you seen a doctor for insomnia?” Alan prodded.
“Yeah boss,” Winston was an open book, “I can’t get no sleep, because the ghosts be screaming in my head, all night.”
Solutions for making our component and end-products were only one part of the puzzle. The other nut that we still had to crack, was the supply chain. Not only were we ordering ingredients like cereal, sugar, flower and chocolate flakes now, by the pallet, but we needed to make sure that we had a steadily increasing influx and availability of endlessly more trim.
We had already tapped out some of Johnson’s friends, so we had started supplementing our source materials with stuff from Hana and her friends in Mendocino County. We additionally had another, auxiliary dealer; a short, portly, crotch-rocket riding geek, who we referred to by the code name, ‘Blues Brothers’. With this eclectic mix of vendors locked in, we seemed to be poised, and at the precipice of breaking out through the glass ceiling. The sky now, really was our limit…
* * *
My mind drifted, watching through the window, as the plane cut through twisted tendrils of vapor, dancing listlessly in slow-motion, along currents of wind.
It’s got to be sundown, somewhere, I tried to justify my weakening resolve.
“In that case…” I couldn’t it anymore. I needed to get my brain functioning again before I dealt with my parents. “Please tell me, you have some food?”
“Sorry sir,” the stewardess gently shattered my hopes, “just the drinks.”
“Ok,” I caved, “can I get two Heinekens please? Oh, and you better add, a shot of whisky, too.”
Not only was I shaken by the fast and my trepidations about taking a leave of absence, but probably my number one monster to square-off against at the moment, beyond even the former laundry list of lamentations, was a looming fear of my family.
In just a very short while now, I was going to have to see my parents in person for the first time since I set out for California. Essentially, I had been living a lie, the entire time!
This was the real issue, because I had been deceiving them all, for well over a year, about my activities in LA. If I hadn’t been telling my parents outright falsehoods per say; then, at the very least, I had been withholding critical, contextual information. All I had told my parents previously, was that Johnson and I, had opened an organic catering operation. They no clue, that we were putting pot in everything!
Now, I was debating, whether or not, I should even come out of the closet on this trip, and tell them the truth; and if I did, when the right time to bring it up, might be?
I definitely don’t want to deal with this tonight. I rationalized, I’m too tired and hungry. Maybe, I’ll face my fears, and fess up to them, tomorrow…
On the one hand, it would be better to just get this out in the open. On the other hand though, if they disapproved, my mom and dad might worry unnecessarily, stressing themselves out in the process, and of course, dragging me along with them, into further duress as well. I was also worried about my dad. His Parkinson’s had progressively gotten more severe, since the last time I’d seen him, and I didn’t want to upset him, or cause a shock, or upset to his nervous system.
I was concerned that my career choice, could drive a wedge in my relationship with them. Worse yet, I knew that regardless of what anyone said or thought about my situation, I was so close to pulling off my dream, and so hellbent on seeing it through, that at this juncture, I couldn’t possibly be deterred from my course, alter my orientation, or slow down my mad-trajectory; even if I wanted to.
That being the case… I waffled in my mind, as I weighed the question, wading through it, and attempting to find a way out of my conundrum, what is the benefit of unsettling everyone with this information, vs. keeping it bottled up inside, and letting it, eat away at me?
It’s cowardly to keep it a secret, I determined, but at the same time, it’s
also selfish, to share my story…
As I was caught up in ‘22’, the stewardess came back and handed me my beers. I paid my bill and then prematurely broke my fast, on booze.
It’s just a silly ritual, I assured myself, there’s nothing to worry about.
I took a deep breath and sipped on some liquid calories. God willing, I would find some way, to figure out how to unwind, and to get the hang, of taking time off.
* * *
Don’t lose hold of your business goals. We can help!
My parents picked me up at JFK. I was starving and I asked them if there was anywhere nearby that I could pick up some provisions. My dad said there was a Dunkin Donuts and set his GPS for a rest area on the way back to Connecticut.
“Why did you pick this airport?” My mom started in on me, right away.
“Was this the wrong one?” I plead guilty to confusion, “for some reason, I thought I was supposed to fly in here?”
“No,” my mom laughed, “this was the least convenient, furthest away, of all the possible airports in the area.”
“Oh… sorry about that.” I apologized, “I kind of just picked the date and location at the last minute, after Johnson and Alan strongarmed me into taking a break.”
“So, how is your new undertaking going, anyway?” My mom turned around in her seat, and taking advantage of her captive audience, she wasted no time in putting me on the spot.
This was exactly what I was hoping to avoid, on the car ride back…
“By the way, did you get a cut?” I laid it on thick, “your hair looks really good.”
“Yes, I did thank you.” My mom had gotten her hair cut short behind her ears. She was fair skinned, with blond hair and blue peepers, while I on the other hand, was a doubleganger for my dad when he was younger, with tan skin, dark hair and eyes on a shifting spectrum ranging from aqua to azure.
“It’s going really well,” I was vague. I could see my dad silently evaluating me, from the rearview mirror.
“What kind of catering do you do again?” My mom scanned my face with her piercing, her all-knowing orbs, and built-in, factory-issued, bullshit-detector. Misleading my mom remotely, was one thing, but…
“Ok…” I hesitated, “So… there’s something, that I need to come clean about…”
Neither my mother nor my father had ever been supportive of my marijuana use throughout my life, and didn’t particularly approve of pot. I was surely about to draw heavy fire, and get unloaded on, with a sawed-off, double-barreled lecturing, by my parents.
“Yes?” My mom’s curiosity grew in proportion to my anxiety.
“The start-up that Johnson and I launched…” I explained in fits and starts, “is actually… a cannabis catering company… and we make, legal, medical marijuana desserts and beverages out of a commercial kitchen.”
“Eh, could be worse.” My mom surprisingly shrugged, “I guess, I’m just glad you have a job in this bad economy.”
I was shocked that my mom was being so cool, though my dad would be the real test. He was quiet still, from the driver’s seat, as he sized up my reflection.
“So…” My dad finally broke the ice, “you’re making and selling pot brownies, eh?” His voice was stern, as I prepared for the worst, “Well… did you bring anything back, for me?”
”What… I… er… no, sir.”
“Well, next time, you better have some pot-brownies with you, young man.” My dad delivered me a lecture, but not the lecture that I had been expecting.
* * *
I woke up on a pull-out bed in the living room, of my parent’s apartment in Danbury. I made a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette on the porch outside, as I tried to process my predicament. I was too perpetually restless these days to relax, and I didn’t have any sense of what to do with myself during this recess. Recreation had become a foreign concept to me, and I tried playing online poker for about a half hour or so, but I kept losing, and it wasn’t any fun. Regardless, I realized, I just didn’t have the patience anymore, to lounge around playing video games.
What’s the point of sitting in front of a screen, winning virtual accolades, I wondered, when I can level up my character, in real life, instead?
What excited me now was opening accounts, and even cooler, was the concept of breaking into new markets. On that note, it felt inevitable, and like it was only a matter of time, before I eventually brought my legal cannabis act, back home to the east coast.
I did have one vacation-quest of sorts though. Ever since the ‘box’ incident on the metro, the day after the Jemm-Cup, I had vowed but not followed through, on a commitment to myself to take an afternoon off, to go and get some new jeans. This seemed like the right thing to do now, and after an early lunch with my mom and my younger brother Steven, we went to the Danbury Fair Mall, where I was finally able to secure the sorely needed, spanking-new pants.
We went back to the apartment on Padanaram Road, and got ready to head over to break bread with the Brenders. The Brenders were our first and closest cousins, and lived nearby my parents, in Crowell Connecticut. Word had now spread throughout my entire family about my new vocation, and I was destined to face the firing squad at dinner. As guest of honor, at the Cann-ish Inquisition, torture was surely, in store for me, as the subject of everyone’s comments, questions, concerns, and uncomfortable scrutinies. Furthermore, I could be coerced into coming clean about the nitty-gritty details of my affairs, and the food courses, could be held up hostage, until I had answered, for a full reckoning of my crimes.
* * *
“So, what you’re doing is legal?” This was pretty much the reaction that I had been expecting from my cousin, Beverly. Bev wore a perpetual look of concern on her face, every time I saw her, but possibly… it was just me?
“It’s sort of legal,” I explained in between bites, as I grazed on salad from my plate, “under state law, at least… could someone please pass, the mashed potatoes?”
My cousin-in-law, Howie, handed me the beige dish, and I scooped out two piles of pulverized tubers, which still had bits of the skin, smushed in. I covered the mounds with a generous glop of brown turkey gravy, drenching the starch and meat on my plate.
Howie was a massive, bearish man with broad shoulders and a big belly. He wore suspenders and had a bowl shaped, bald spot on his head.
“Hmmm,” Howie scratched his chin, “my understanding though, is that it’s still considered a schedule one, felony narcotic under the controlled substances act?”
I couldn’t get away with anything in this household. A Mensa-member, and trivia buff, Howie was insanely smart, well read, and a general know-it-all, of everything.
“Schedule one, what does that mean?” Now my mom was disturbed and demanding answers.
“Currently there’s not any real risk of enforcement,” I gave myself some cover, “because Obama’s justice department is taking a hand’s off approach, as a steppingstone towards legalization.”
“I disagree.” David was sitting at the other end of the table, “I don’t think that Obama is going to de-schedule marijuana, nor do I think it’s a winning issue for the left with the midterms coming up next year.”
My cousin David was a few years younger than I. He was short and thin with pasty, white skin. He wore a Mets cap inside the house, and had a dubious, negative outlook, grimaced across his mug. David had just kicked off his post grad career, working for his local Democratic party, and apparently; he wasn’t politically, pro-pot, which kind of came as a surprise to me.
“You couldn’t be any further off the mark on where the demographics are trending on this.” I got animated, as we argued, “just like… you were wrong about Obama.”
Passover the previous year, had been a real, battle-royale at the Brender’s, over the Democratic primaries, with David, and several other members of my family, firmly taking a stand, on the opposing side, of the dividing line from me, in the Clinton camp.
“Legal weed is just a distraction for this administration. We can’t afford to burn our limited political capital, on pot.” David acted like this conversation was beneath him, “we’re working on real issues right now, like universal access to health care, for one thing. We don’t have time to worry about a black market intoxicant, that is a gateway to even more dangerous drugs.”
“To be fair,” Howie weighed in like a human-Wikipedia, “I don’t think it’s been conclusively proven that cannabis is actually a gateway drug.”
“Come on,” David was annoyed with his father, “give me a break, will you?”
“Actually,” I interjected, “while marijuana itself is harmless, I do agree that it is a gateway to the deadliest, and most dangerous drug in America.”
“Which one?” Howie hazarded a guess, “heroin?”
“No,” I clarified, “High fructose, corn syrup.”
“That doesn’t count.” David was keeping score.
“Of course, it does,” I countered, “sugar not only causes more fatal overdoses than any other substance; it’s the number one cause of death in our country, period!”
Things were getting a little chippy, but that was par for the course in this setting, whenever politics were being discussed. Moreover, while I was getting a little disquieted and weary, as I squirmed about in the hot seat, this was nowhere near the most distressed that I’d ever felt sitting in this chair. Not even, by a long shot! In fact, the most traumatic experience of my entire life, had occurred, right here, at this very table, some twelve-odd years, before…
* * *
I was in the backseat of the Chevy Luma. We were still about 20 minutes out from arriving at the Brender’s same condo-complex, in Cromwell. I was sixteen and in a state of flux, selling off my stuff and just a few weeks away from taking off with Tyler on our epic journey into the unknown. Meanwhile I had been regularly taking psychedelic drugs to prepare my psyche for the mysterious sojourn ahead of me.
Whatever insanity had possessed my troubled mind, for some crazed, cockamamie, inane, and spectacularly ridiculous and stupid reason, I thought it would be a fun idea to take LSD right before Passover Seder.
As I was sitting in the backseat of the car, listening to a cassette tape of Soundgarden Superunknown, on a Sony Walkman, I grabbed two small paper squares with black skulls printed on them, along with a couple of white mints, out of a tin of Altoids, and then tossed the pile onto my tongue.
I was hoping to see theatrics, a laser lightshow perhaps, and some special effects in my head. For example, I could picture scenes like Moses leading the Israelites across the Red Sea, coming to life, in an epic, immersive movie.
Inside the Brender’s abode though, it was jam packed with an impenetrable wall of my relatives; a massive mess, occupying each square inch of space, across all surfaces of the couch and sofas, and with toes touching every last, patch of the floor. I had to wait in a long line of my kin, just to make it through the hallway in order to squeeze shoulder-to-shoulder into a bottleneck in the center of the living room.
In a chorus of voices, it seemed liked everyone in attendance, suddenly, said hello to me, at the exact same time. I didn’t know how to react, and I was overwhelmed. There were too many guests, to greet each one, individually, so instead, I just ignored all of them.
Wow, the reality of the situation began to penetrate, and I was beginning to wonder if I had a made a huge mistake, things here, could get really ugly…
My younger cousins, David and Naomi, were at a pre-adolescent age and had taken to running around the table in circles screaming, while cascades of adult conversations spoke over one another in layers, like a series of tiles.
My older sister Michele, was here, visiting on recess from college, and fraternizing with the grown-ups, while my brother was only 12 years old, and still slotted in, with the PG crowd. I was alone, in my own age group.
Am I tripping my balls off already? I tried to make sense of the world around me, or is it just, psychosomatic?
Even amidst the chaos and pandemonium though, I felt sanguine, and unflappable. I was on a floating plane of calm, peace, and tranquility, and furthermore had learned, that I was in control of how the story, unfolded. This was my fourth LSD trip or so, in the last two months, and I was confident in my continued elevation, as an evolved entity.
As most of my kinsman commenced to sit down, I noted there was bright light that was beaming out of my palms, and my fingertips were glowing orange, as if I had been shining a flashlight behind them.
Well, that’s… unusual, I observed, maybe, it’s time for a quick, safety-check?
Unsticking myself, from a morass of family members, I moved away from the table. All of the faces around me looked familiar, but were fuzzy and out of focus, as I made a beeline for the bathroom.
When I saw my reflection, as expected, I was able to confirm, that I was in fact, transcending into a being of pure light energy.
Jesus, it’s all so fucking simple, I kicked myself for not being able to see the truth before, it was all right in front of my eyes this whole time. Even a child, or an idiot, should realize that our 3D-reality, is nothing more than an illusionary projection of two-dimensional blueprints of information, based on patterns organized by the polarization of one-dimensional point-particles, energized in electric fields by photons that pop in and out of existence from the singularity before the big bang. Like, how is this not obvious to everyone?
I had cracked the code, and figured out the meaning of life, but now I was facing a new and totally unanticipated challenge.
What is the purpose of being alive? I was awakened, isn’t it just a waste of my time now, to continue wandering the earth any further, when I’ve already solved for X?
I paused, lost in pondering the new pointlessness of our matter universe, or for that matter, why I should care about any of it, at all, anymore.
Well then… a shining, spiral stairway, that infinitely wound up and down, in both directions, appeared before me through the glass surface of the mirror.
Maybe it’s time, to go home?
I closed my eyes and held my breath as I could see my consciousness expanding. Layers of my perception began to peel back, revealing the unraveling of different dimensions of existence, each correlating to various sections of my brain, as they were being choked, and starved off from oxygen.
I watched it all unfold as if in the audience of an all-encompassing, IMAX theater; beyond myself, as I spied on my body, which was dying in slow-motion. I was connected to everything through threads that vibrated; happily, and harmoniously humming, as I set out to cross over to the other side.
As I was molting from my mortal shell, like a mad cicada on acid, I gawked back at my hollow, human husk, and I gave my wilting, finite-form, the middle finger.
So long sucker! My spirit snickered.
I was on the doorstep of a place that was eternal, but all of a sudden, I felt a tension tugging at my string, and then I suddenly had a horrifying epiphany…
This is a trick, it dawned on me, as I heard dark, evil circus music, playing in the background.
My soul’s not really, at rest. I painfully came to grips with my spiritual status, I can’t die yet, it’s too soon!
I violently recoiled back down into my body…
I abruptly awoke, hyperventilating and gasping for air, as I sat on the toilet seat. I wasn’t getting enough oxygen out of my shallow breaths. There was a stabbing sensation in my chest and my lungs felt like they had been punctured and pricked with millions of microscopic needles. My eyes burned, and my head was ringing. Even my blood hurt, and it felt like a toxic river, was boiling beneath the surface of my skin.
The ambiance around me, now had a sinister and foreboding character to it that I had never noticed before. The hell-sprung circus, radio-station playlist, continued to haunt me, with what sounded like, a monkey cranking tunes out on an accordion, in my brain.
I’ve pierced, Pandora’s Box. This frightening fissure started to come into focus, as I became cognizant of my curse, I’ve been marked…
Death had grasped me, in its cold, boney clutches, and now that I wanted to live, I could feel the grim reaper’s invisible presence hovering nearby in the room; still waiting to answer my self-sabotaging, summons.
I need to get the fuck out of here… I just need to go for a walk.
“Are you ok?” my mom spotted me leaving the bathroom.
“I’m feeling a little ill,” I admitted, while omitting a few things, “I just need to get some fresh air.”
“Alright,” she put on me the clock, “but don’t be long. We’re about to begin, any minute, and you don’t want to miss your chance to drink wine with the adults, do you?”
“Maybe you can ask Jesus, if he’ll turn it back into water?”
“What are you talking about?” She suspiciously assessed my face, even as I made a run for it.
“I’ll be back,” I fled through the front door.
Will this be my- Last Supper? I saw foreboding signs, everywhere I looked.
Even though I had claimed that I was headed out for fresh air, I was actually going to smoke a cigarette, and I walked through the parking lot until I was out of sight of the Passover Party. I lit up, in hopes that it would help me cool down my frazzled, embattled nerves.
It’s going to be ok, I coached myself, I’m just tripping. Everything is going to be fine. I’m not going to die. I can’t fatally overdose, on ‘doses’.
The cigarette tasted like a cloud of exploding rust. If tetanus had a flavor, this was the country that my taste buds were in. I coughed as I took a foul drag, and tossed the butt, stomping it out on the pavement, less than halfway through.
There was no stopping the anxiety; a constant uneasiness that was creeping through my system, crawling out of my pores, and across my skin.
For fuck’s sake, I realized my folly, I still have another seven more hours to go, before I come down from this nightmare!
There was nothing I could do now, other than to wait it out. I tried to think positive thoughts, Maybe, I can still find a way to have fun tonight? Maybe the Seder, won’t be so bad?
Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught the dark outline of a shape coming out from behind the tire of a purple Mazda Protege. It was a black cat. The coal-colored kitty, strolled across my path and then stopped dead in its tracks right in front of me, turning its head, and looking me square in the eyes.
It’s just a fucking cat, I tried to keep things in perspective, get a grip, man!
As it sat in the street, and stared me down though, the fearless feline, peeled back it’s pink lips, and smiled slowly. The provocative pussy continued to stretch its mischievous maw into a wide-mouthed, malevolent, toothy grin, and then… the black cat, winked at me.
What the fuck? I shook my head in disbelief as the cat continued along its merry way. I must be hallucinating…
“That was weird.” Startled, I heard a voice, and turned around to see Steven, standing there. My younger sibling took after my mom with blond hair and fair skin and had already overtaken me in height. Steven hovered above me, lingering gracelessly with his long gangly arms, dangling down by his sides, as a goofy, vacant look of uncertainty, was plastered across his countenance.
How long, has he been, lurking there?
“I’ve never seen a cat wink before,” My brother looked amazed, “I didn’t even know that they could do that.”
“You saw that too?”
He shrugged.
How can it be possible? I trembled, as my muscles locked-up; a tangible, physical manifestation of my fear.
“I’ve been sent for you, you have to come with me now,” my brother had already moved beyond seeing a cartoon cat, come to life. “It’s time… time for you to pass over.”
“What did you, just say?”
Time for me to pass-over? I became alarmed, pass-over to the other, side?
“I said,” my brother peered at me, perplexed, “that it’s time to go inside for the Seder.”
“Are you sure, that’s what you said?”
“Yes,” Steven giggled, “I’m pretty sure.”
Why don’t I believe him? Is my brother, in on this, somehow?
* * *
Back inside the townhouse it was utter bedlam. I knew that my suffering and agony were merely just beginning, as I became lost in a sea of what seemed like a hundred voices. I was directed to a seat at the end of the kid’s table, which was adjacent to the adults.
Howie was the leader and guided us through the Haggadah, as the table went around in a circle. I didn’t see any cool visuals as I had hoped, but instead, I just experienced a seemingly never-ending torrent of terror, torment, and inner-turmoil.
Finally, the moment I’d been dreading had arrived, and it was my turn to read, from the annals of Exodus, “Maror… why, do we eat it? We eat Maror… what an odd word Maror… we eat Maror to remind us of the bitterness of slavery that our ancestors experienced in exile in Egypt, and that some of us are experiencing still to this very day… and you know it’s 1996, and while people continue to suffer, and slavery continues to this day all over the world, we sit here safe, happy and fat as we exist sheltered and shielded behind the color of our skin, and camouflaged by contemporary white privilege…” I lost my train of thought.
The ceremony had halted as the puzzled Passover participants, witnessed my bizarre, drug-induced meltdown.
“Gabe?” My mom admonished me, “the Maror?”
“Right,” I shook my head, “the Maror… now… everyone… dip your bitter herbs into salt water here, and then inexplicably… you’re supposed to eat this stuff.”
I tried chewing and swallowing my Maror, but I choked and coughed up a briny, bitter leaf onto the plate in front of me.
“Is everything alright?” Beverley eyeballed me with cautious curiosity, as if making first contact with an extra-terrestrial.
My cousin Phil had been a hippie in the 60’s, and rumor was, that he had fried his circuits some years back on psychedelics. Phil still had wild and crazy, curly hair, that was sticking up unkempt, in all directions, as if he were still buzzing from the aftermath of being electrocuted. Phil knowingly glared across the table at me, locking me in, with his gigantic, googly, left eye.
“So Gabe…” Phil sniggered, “what have you been up to recently?”
“My stomach is a little twisted. Can we just keep going?” I begged, desperately seeking an escape from the spotlight.
Every few minutes we were supposed to drink more wine, but it tasted like poison, and I couldn’t get it down. My dad who was sitting next to me though, wasn’t having that problem. He pretty much, had never gotten drunk throughout my entire childhood, but for some strange reason, my dad was guzzling down glasses of merlot, like they were going out of style, and had gotten completely wasted, in what seemed like, just a short period of time.
“What you got, man?” My dad threatened me with a fork in his hand, “you want a piece of me?”
I didn’t say anything or respond, but my dad started poking me anyway, jabbing me repeatedly with the prongs in the side of my left rib cage, as the Seder continued around us, oblivious to this disturbing development.
What am I going to do, now? I was trapped with nowhere to run. Somehow or another, I was going to have to figure out a way to deal with my father and the rest of my family, if I was going to make it through this dinner alive…
* * *
“So, tell me about your business partners?” Beverly continued to pry into every personal and professional detail of my life.
“We all went to college together.” I offered some background intel.
“And they’re running things, while you’re gone?”
“Yes…” I smiled, and when I said it, I actually, genuinely believed the sentiment for the first time, “they are, running things. They’ve got, pretty much, everything… taken care of while I’m away.”
It felt good, as the significance of those words started to set in. I didn’t have to worry every single moment of every single day, as if all events, even those external to my purview, were still in some sense, privy to, or contingent on, my own thoughts or deeds.
I can’t control what’s going to happen, I reflected, I need to be present, and to learn to see the beauty of the things that are happening right in front of my face.
“It says here,” David studied the screen of his cell phone, as he helpfully provided the table with free, fact-checking services, “that the medical marijuana laws in California, only offer offenders an affirmative defense in court, but not any protection from arrest.”
“There’s just not really any local political climate for them to prosecute people for pot out there anymore,” I parried, “weed is just too popular on the west coast.”
“It looks likes arrests in states with medical marijuana laws are actually up this year,” David was kind enough to educate everyone, “how do you explain that?”
My phone rang and I saw that it was Alan on my caller ID.
“Hold that thought, that’s one of my partners now,” I excused myself from the table, “I have to take this real quick, he said he would only call, if it’s urgent.”
I fenagled around my family to reach the sliding glass door, where I escaped onto the porch in the back of the condo.
“Thank God, you called,” I was greatly relieved as I picked up my phone, “you just bailed me out of a real shit-tornado. I mean, this was an epic fucking flood, the apocalypse, of fecal matter.”
“I need you to listen.” Alan sounded serious.
“Jesus man, ok, I’ll be quiet.” I wasn’t surprised at all, “but first, I do have to point out real quick though, that I haven’t even been gone an entire day yet and you guys have some kind of issue already. I don’t want to say, you know… that I told you so, but… I kind of… told you so?”
“Fucking Johnson, got busted,” Alan dropped the bomb on me, “he was driving down the gauntlet, near Santa Rosa.”
The ‘Gauntlet’ was an infamous stretch of Highway 101, between the metro markets of Northern and Southern California, where the cops would pick off drug dealers along this drag, like boneless, fish filets, from a bbq-grill, barrel.
“Sure he did…” I laughed out loud.
This can’t be true!
“Fuck you Alan,” I accused him, “you’re fucking pranking me right now, because you know I was superstitious about leaving, and flying on Yom Kippur!”
“I wish it was a prank,” Alan bristled, “Lauren is on her way to bail him out of jail right now, with the very last of our bankroll. And get this, I found out, that Johnson had weed, literally all over the backseat of his fucking car!
“What?” I couldn’t fathom Johnson being so careless, “why didn’t he put the trim in the trunk?”
“That’s the best part,” Alan boiled over, “that piece of shit Johnson got a bunch of flowers fronted to him without telling us about it. That’s why he didn’t have room in his trunk like he normally does. He tried to take too much shit, because of his greed. And now what, we’re supposed to help him pay for his fucking lawyer, with the zero dollars we have left?”
“You’re lying.” I refused to believe him.
“Everything we had, was invested in that inventory.” Alan was demoralized, and the tone of his voice hit me like a ton of bricks, “we’re broke, we have… nothing.”
“But… I…”
“It’s over…” Alan threw in the towel, “we’re done.”
“What do you mean?” I argued with him, “I’m not done with anything. We can figure this out.”
“How?” Alan was despondent, “and with what? We have no cash, no trim, and no resources. So, unless you personally have something up your sleeve then… listen I’m getting a call on the other line, from Lauren now, I’ve got to take this, I’ll call you back later.”
Holy shit… I sprung into a full-fledged freak-out. Did this happen because I cheated on my fast? Or is God just punishing me, for taking a vacation, in the first place?
I was crushed and it was time to start panicking. What in God’s name was I going to do? How could I possibly go back inside and face my family, now? What was I going to say to them?
I can’t tell my family that my business partner was incarcerated, and that we’ve lost everything! I just convinced them, that there’s nothing to worry about, not even five minutes ago!
* * *
“Is everything, kosher?” My mom’s preternatural instinct was finely attuned to cut to the core of whatever I was attempting to obfuscate from her, “how is the business doing?”
“Great!” Dead on the inside, I forced a fake smile, awkwardly imposing it onto the corners of my cheeks, “that was Alan. He was just calling, to give me his report, on how… smooth, everything’s going.”
“Now you went out there first, with that one guy,” Beverly dug deep, “what was his name, Jefferson, or something?”
“It’s, Johnson.” It was hard to even say his name. I wanted to cry, I felt nauseous.
“Right,” Beverly nodded, “I remember now, so he’s back in Los Angeles?”
“Yes,” I dissembled, “I mean, technically not, right this second…”
“Oh, where is he?” My mom was very curious.
“Yeah, so he’s on, a business trip…”
“Huh, what kind of business trip?” My mom kept her foot on the gas pedal.
“Just… you know… boring, supply chain stuff, I don’t really want to get into all of that now.”
“Perfect,” David smiled eagerly, “if you’re all done dodging your mom’s questions then, let’s talk about some marijuana arrest statistics, from last year in California.”
Ok, I acknowledged, maybe now… this is the most traumatic experience of my life.