Episode 6: The Diet Part 2- The Cursed Public Storage Unit
Day 21
I climbed out of bed, with a knee-jerk instinct to run for the coffee, when I remembered that it was still, only Day 21…
The diet, damn!
I looked over at my alarm clock on the nightstand, to check the time, observing that it was 5:38am. My natural body clock was pretty on point, and I usually woke up around the same time every day. As I was staring absent mindedly at the alarm clock though, the digital digits, suddenly started spinning in circles.
“What the fuck?” I spoke to myself in the darkness.
The numbers abruptly all stopped, landing on, “06:66”
“Holy shit!” My heart jumped as the alarm clock shorted out, and its face went black.
“No…” I took a few steps back from my nightstand, until I found myself up against the wall.
What in God’s name, is going on? Somebody, is messing with me? What is this?
I was freaked out and panicked, as my pulse pounded.
I just woke up, I laughed, I haven’t had coffee in weeks, my head’s in a fog… it’s just a nightmare, I was like sleep walking or something…
I took a deep breath and inched over by the door to the turn on the lights, so I could wake up my mind and get my shit together. As my fingers flicked the light switch up though, I felt a static shock in my hand. The overhead light on the ceiling came on briefly, and then almost immediately, flickered out, frying the bulb. I tried hitting the switch up and down again to no avail.
Get a grip, I steadied myself, as I went to prime my day with an undrinkable cauldron of morning nettle tea; a critical requirement to remain in accordance with the dreaded diet.
That scared the shit out of me! I cracked up. In retrospect it was kind of funny, how I’d let my imagination get out of control.
Throughout my life, many friends, family, and strangers even, had charged me with being a space cadet, which personally, I found, very offensive. “If anything,” I had set the haters straight, “I’m a Space Commander! I didn’t spend eight years, in the Imaginary Space Academy, to be mistaken for a rookie.”
I wasn’t about to let this experience get into my head, flummox me, or bring me down, though. Things were finally going well. I had a new girl in my life, and I was going to see her later that night. This time I was going to spend the night at her place, which is maybe what I really needed more than anything, to retain my sanity, just a night away from this prison, including my business, employees, and especially, my partners.
I must have been dreaming, I had myself in stiches, otherwise the only other conclusion to draw, is that the house was built on an Indian burial ground and… I’m just not ready, to go there, yet.
I mean, can you imagine? I was in hysterics, a poltergeist hovering around and entertaining itself with our ridiculous, reality show? As if some other-worldly imp, wouldn’t have anything better to do, than to spend all day coming up with new ways to torment us and get under our skin…
* * *
“I’m Mike Tyson, I have a tiger, and I bit Evander Holyfield’s ear off.”
“You’re still basically just saying the same thing. It’s not believable.”
We passed by the blue Church of Scientology building on the left-hand side of the street on Sunset Boulevard. It looked epic and out of place, like a sci-fi, dystopian, casino or something.
My sister always said, I’d make a good cult leader, I considered, maybe, I missed my calling?
“Yeah,” Bredley bickered, “but, I’m playing the character now, and I’m describing things from Mike Tyson’s point of view.”
“No you’re not,” I clanged loudly on the gong, “the real Mike Tyson, wouldn’t keep saying his biographical details, over and over again, either.”
“How would you know,” Bredley bantered, “have you talked to Mike Tyson before?”
“No.”
“Then, how can you prove that I’m wrong?”
We stopped inside the Green House, for the most outlandishly expensive connoisseur cannabis that I had witnessed in all of my days in dispensaries.
The budtending floor in this store was a really tight space, with standing room only, for just two or three people max, in front of the counter. Their selection was fairly limited, and they didn’t hold a lot of inventory. Their bottom shelf pot though, could still go on the top-rack at just about any other store in the city.
“Check out the Skywalker, man, it’s fucking fire.” Art, the budtender, held out a jar of sticky flowers for me to smell and examine under a light.
I didn’t know what the hard numbers were, but I could bet that if you happened to be in a dispensary in Los Angeles and your budtender was a male Armenian, then I’d proposition that there was at least, a fifty percent chance, that his name was Art, Arthur, or some derivative thereof. In the unlikely event that his name wasn’t Art, then Mike, was additionally a good guess, and would have the dual benefit, of also covering a good cross section of the Russian pot stores employees.
There were even a few Russian-Armenian’s that were named Art or Mike, and these were like, the ‘Day-Walkers’ of the dispensary owners, because they spoke both languages, and could move with ease between the two tight-knit, communities, which otherwise were competitors, and at odds. Almost all of the cannabis club owners in LA, seemed to be affiliated with their own respective, ethnic mafias.
“Holy tamale,” I drooled, “this isn’t the Lie-Walker, that’s all over the place now, this is the real deal.”
“Dude, we pay more money than any other spot in California, so that we can create a truly transcendent experience, you can’t get anywhere else. We have all of the best growers on exclusive contracts, bro.”
I knew he was telling the truth and they did support, stupid high prices to get the best shit, because I had sold them our second batch of Sour OG. Unfortunately though, we had gotten the hook-up for that strain from Hana’s friend, and she wasn’t returning our calls, anymore.
“That’s amazing,” I gave Art credit, “I really appreciate what you guys do here.”
“Take a look at the Don Cristo, this is the most powerful pot, possibly ever produced in history. It tested at 37.8% THC,” Art held up the tightly packed buds, which were shining brightly under the lamp.
It would take some strong weed to help me digest the devastating loss of this relationship, and what it meant to me. It’s not that Hana and I, had really been all that close, and I had only known her a few years. Ben on the other hand though, was like my brother, and I imagined, he was rolling over in his grave, right now.
“Wow,” I geeked out, “it’s… beautiful.”
“This is the most expensive thing in my store,” Art shared, “it’s one hundred and thirty dollars an eighth.”
“That’s… criminal.”
“Do you want to try it? I’ll give you a 20% off discount.”
It still seemed expensive.
“Do you want to trade for drinks?” A swap seemed in order.
“Sure man,” Art smiled, “that’s fine, just give me two cases of the punch and we’ll call it even.”
Our communist company/house, cannabis policy, was that we all shared our pot as a community. Whenever possible, if one of Alan, Johnson, or I was going to purchase some, it was better to spend product than cash, since the true cost to us, was far lower than the wholesale price, creating an exchange rate in our favor.
Score! I celebrated silently as Art bagged up the goods; the boys are going to salivate, when they see, these gems…
* * *
I came in through the front door in a fantastic mood. Despite the fact that my energy level was still hovering below the basement, I still had another date later that night, plus a stoner’s wet dream of flowers to sample.
“Gabe, great,” Alan was sitting down at the table with Johnson, looking serious, “good timing, we need to talk.”
“Have a seat,” Johnson gestured towards a chair.
“No thanks,” I put on my best customer service smile, “I prefer to stand.”
“Ok then…” Johnson jerked his head over to look at me, “I know this is going to be hard for you to hear, but we need you to take a break for a while.”
“Again? I just took a vacation a few months ago, and it was a disaster, as you should know.”
“You need to stop, immediately.” Johnson was as unyielding, as he was, unclear.
“What in God’s name are you blathering about?” I begged for guidance.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Johnson’s face was humorless, “new accounts, we already told you to slow it down, twice this month, on opening new accounts, and you just won’t, seem to listen.”
“Look,” Alan spoke up, “with the loss of Hana’s circle from our supply chain, we’re running a real risk of running out of trim, even trying to support our current demand in Southern California. Any more business, and I’m afraid we’re going to blow.”
“It’s called, scaled, managed growth,” Johnson patronized me, “we can’t get ahead of our skis.”
“I don’t understand the problem,” I was dumbstruck, “why don’t we just get some more trim and make more stuff? It’s not fucking rocket science, let’s try to lean on some new people in our network?”
“It’s not just the trim,” Alan explained, “we’ve reached critical mass at both kitchens, and we can only do so much with the time and bodies we have.”
“So? Buy more time, get more bodies?” I pushed back.
“That’s all well and good,” Johnson torqued the topic to gain the upper hand, “but you don’t have to deal with managing the production. Alan and I do.”
Alan gave Johnson the stink-eye briefly, before moving on, “well pretty much, I… manage the production…” Alan clarified, “and I can tell you that, we cannot handle any more volume, right now.”
“So, just for the record, then…” I looked between them pausing on Alan and making eye contact, “both of you, are against me?”
I didn’t have to wait for an answer to my rhetorical question, as I shook my head with disdain. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you two, turned on me…”
“You’re being hysterically hyperbolic,” Johnson put things in perspective, “we’re talking about one business decision, that we’re outvoting you on.”
“For real, Gabe,” Alan tagged into the ring, “I’ve got to say, that I’m a little offended by your comment.”
“Well spare me your indignities,” I spit back, “because I don’t care.”
Folding my arms across my chest, I was furious with their short sightedness. We should be stepping on the gas pedal, not making a pit stop!
As I looked down at Johnson and Alan at the able, I felt cornered, even though, I was on my feet and in theory, and could flee at any moment.
I just may…
“So, you agree not to open any new accounts, then?” Johnson gawked from his chair, as he twisted his torso, against the table to put me on the spot.
“Would you like to know,” I shot back, “if I am now, or have ever been, a member, of the communist party?”
“That’s a little extreme.” Johnson withheld his amusement.
“Or maybe you’d like to see if I float, in order to ascertain, if I’m a witch?”
“Come on Gabe,” Alan weighed in, “let’s be adults here. Just agree that you’ll abide by the fair results of this democratic vote, and then we’ll move on?”
“Whatever…” I tiptoed around my response, “I have to get ready to leave, I can’t deal with this, right now.”
“Where are you going?” Johnson interrogated me.
“I have a date.”
“That’s, great,” Johnson sounded genuine, “with what’s her name, the short blond?”
“Shannon,” I disputed, “and she only looks ‘short’ to you. To me, she’s regular height.”
“Hey,” Johnson put up his hands, “she’s cute, I wasn’t trying to say anything, I’m happy for you, it’s about time.”
“Do you need a ride somewhere?” Alan offered.
“No thanks… pal,” I avoided making eye contact with Alan, “she’s picking me up.”
“Well, aren’t you the lucky, little lady?” Alan snickered as he rubbed salt on my wound.
I was expecting constant hostility and conflict from Johnson at this point, but from Alan… it felt like… a betrayal.
* * *
Are you coming up with more questions than answers?
“Brandy, what a fine girl, what a good wife, you would be, but my life, my love and my lady, is the sea…”
I took a sip of water, as a young guy with long, curly, brown hair, belted on the microphone, in a deep baritone.
“He’s not too bad?” I made a face.
“No, I love this guy!” Shannon was getting a little drunk, as she gulped down her third margarita. She swapped out the empty glass with the waitress for a fresh one.
“Say, maybe I should drive back from here?” I suggested, “since I’m on the diet still, and sober, and so forth.”
“Do you even know, how to drive?” Shannon mocked me.
“Yes,” I groaned, “I know how to drive.”
“I’ll let you drive,” she bargained with her life, “only if you do a karaoke song, first.”
“You want to hear, ME, sing?” I pointed to myself, as she nodded, “you’re sure about this?”
“Yes, go sign up!” Shannon twisted my arm, both figuratively and literally as I got up from our booth and registered for a song, I Saw Her Standing There by the Beatles. A few minutes later they called my name and predictably, I bombed and chalked it up to a long personal list of public failures, spectacles and humiliations.
“That was so, awesome!” Shannon applauded me and screamed as I sat down.”
“Awesome or awful?” I wasn’t sure if I heard her clearly over the roar of the crowd.
“It was both, like a really cheesy B, horror movie.”
“Embarrassing myself for the entertainment of others is like my top talent, FYI. It’s on my business card.”
“Is it really?” Shannon was rightfully skeptical.
“No… no, it’s not.”
“That’s good to know anyway,” Shannon grabbed my hand, “there’s strength in having no shame.”
“There’s dignity,” I escalated the rhetoric, “in sinking to heretofore, unknown depths of depravity.”
“Sure,” Shannon demurred, “whatever, you say… do you want to go back to my place, now?”
* * *
The exterior paneling of the house was dark grey, with contrasting, brightly colored, stained-glass windows. The landscape was nicely maintained, and there were aesthetically interesting paths of flat stones arranged around the property and branching off into the backyard.
“Wow nice, digs,” I was impressed, as Shannon unlocked the front door.
“Thanks,” she looked proud, “I bought it about five years ago.”
“Wow, you own this place?” It occurred to me, that I didn’t really know all that much about this girl, “what do you even like, do for a living, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m an artist,” She painted me a picture of her background, “I’m somewhat successful, but I mean… I haven’t gotten rich from it, or anything. My grandmother left me ten million dollars when she died, though.”
“Oh, sorry, for your belated loss.” I offered awkwardly.
“Thank you,” she held the door open for me, as I stepped into the hallway.
“Would you mind taking off your shoes, please?”
“I don’t mind observing the proper pedetiquette.” I slid my sneakers off and placed them in a line of footwear to the left of the front door.
Shannon flipped on a light switch in the kitchen. Right away I got an overwhelming sense of Americana. There was a bunch of different statues, and figurines, a lot of them looked like goofy, toothy little devils, cheesy imps, and ghouls. In fact, I noticed, on second inspection, it appeared that all of the various figurines, wind-up toys, ornaments, and decorations, were somehow thematically related to the devil.
“Let me show you around,” Shannon grinned.
I followed her into the living room, as she turned on a lamp. This room almost looked like the interior of a log cabin with cherry-stained wood paneling, and a big fireplace against the center of the back wall. I took note of a poster, tacked onto the façade above the television, with another devil face and the caption, “Team Satan.”
“Interesting décor,” I glanced around the room.
“Thanks,” Shannon took a black denim jacket off and threw it on her couch, “but we need to finish the tour, I still haven’t shown you the best part of the house, yet.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
She grabbed my arm, pulling me, behind her. “The bedroom…”
* * *
Shannon grinded on top of me, as she rubbed her hands over my upper body and nibbled on the edges of my left ear. I was trying to get into the mood, and be sensual, as I rubbed my hand in circles around her back, but in truth, I was just going through the motions. I was, in full candor, a little distracted by a poster hanging upside on the ceiling, right above my head, which featured a naked depiction of a horned devil, holding a giant pentagram aloft, above his monstrous shoulders. The ripped demon’s bulbous, blood colored penis, and humungous, hairy, hellish red demon balls, were dangling down, at eye level to me.
“Is everything alright,” Shannon lowered her hand to my groin, “where did it, go?”
“I’m sorry, this is embarrassing.”
“I thought embarrassment, was your specialty?” Shannon served me with a taste of my own medicine.
“That’s embarrassment in front of a group,” I corrected her, “I’m terrible at one-on-one, uncomfortable interactions.”
“It’s fine.” She sighed as she climbed off of me and sat up against a pillow.
“I apologize,” I dissembled, “I’m just tired and worn down from the diet. I haven’t been getting enough protein. No carbs… no coffee… agghhh!”
“It’s ok,” Shannon lit up a cigarette, “I’m 35 years old, and at this point in my life, I’ve become accustomed to disappointment.”
“Say, I was just wondering,” I tried to change the subject by pivoting to something even more awkward, “what’s with the naked demon, on the ceiling? I couldn’t help but notice, that there’s a whole bunch of devil stuff, around here.”
“Well,” Shannon spoke slowly, as if stating the obvious, “that’s because… I worship, Satan.”
“Oh…” I wasn’t really sure, how to respond, “I didn’t realize that… I guess there’s still a lot that we don’t know about each other?”
“Yup,” Shannon shrugged, “I’ve pledged my soul to the prince of darkness. Is that a problem for you?”
“That’s… certainly… different.” I coughed, “I mean… I don’t really even believe in… the devil… or any of that… so… I guess… it doesn’t matter?”
* * *
Day 22
Lunch
Hearty Miso Soup with Spinach and Cashew Dip
Miso hungry, I bemoaned, as I literally beat my head against the dining room table, I’ve had it with this Godforsaken diet!
“Did you try that Don Cristo yet?” Alan tried to find common ground, “I mean, $135 an eighth is highway robbery, but I have to admit, it was pretty incredible.”
“No, not yet.” Barely acknowledging Alan, I continued to sullenly agonize over the sadistic pages of the Sacred, Doctrine of Slimness.
“Are you still angry about our talk yesterday?” Alan cut to the chase, “because this is only temporary, we’re all on the same team here.”
As I stared mean bullets at him, but in earnest, I was struggling to stay mad at Alan, who was leaning up against the kitchen counter, catching the glow of sunlight from the window in the red curls of his hair.
“You’re right,” I owned up, “I’m just feeling so weak, lightheaded, and depressed from calorie deprivation.”
“How are things with… Shannon?”
“Correct, Shannon.”
“Everything ok… with that?” Realizing he could be walking into thorny territory, Alan pulled back a bit, “If you feel like talking about it, that is? I don’t won’t to pry.”
“It’s fine…” I was at a rare, loss for words, “I mean… I guess.”
“Well, you’re probably, over complicated things.” Alan sat down across the table from me, to really focus in on my problem, “it can help to have an outside perspective. Do you like her?”
“I like… most… things about her.” I nervously tapped out an erratic rhythm on the table with my fingertips.
“I mean, she’s cute… is she smart?” Alan looked well-meaning in his attempts to help me arrive at simplicity.
“Yes,” I could not deny, “she is smart… and… very funny.”
“Well, I’ve got to say Gabe,” Alan guffawed, “from the outside looking in, that sounds pretty, perfect for you. I mean, what am I missing? Does she, have a job?”
“Yes,” I inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly, “and… she’s independently, wealthy.”
“Wow!” Alan got excited for me, “congratulations, man! It really appears that you might have hit a home run here and… I’m not really sure what your issue is… but if we’re being frank… I’m guessing, that the problem is… you?”
“Yes, yes… all of that may be true,” I admitted, “you’re right though, that there is… one… issue.”
“Oh really?” Alan’s curiosity was piqued now, “please do, then tell me about the detestable and hair raising issue, that somehow, trumps all of the great reasons you listed above, to justify turning your back on the happiness, that’s clearly, standing right in front of your face?”
“Wow… ok… well… how to phrase this?” I tapped on the table again with the tip of a ball point, and badly kept the beat, by clicking up and down, on top of the pen, “she… sort of… well… um… she… worships, Satan.”
“What?” Alan started cracking up laughing, “are you being serious right now?”
“Yes,” I nodded, “this is a true thing. She’s like, really, really into Satan.”
“That is pretty weird,” Alan warranted, “huh… not sure what to make of that?”
“And the worst part is… I couldn’t get it up, because she wanted to fuck, underneath a giant naked portrait of Satan, and his colossal, ruby-colored, cock!”
“That’s some twisted shit,” Alan acknowledged, “your situation is more complicated than I thought, initially.”
“I just feel like… a little bit… disturbed. Like… deeply, fucking disturbed.”
“I’ll bet.” Alan, clucked. At least, he saw the humor in this.
“If I survive this business and make it to retirement someday, I’m going to write my memoirs, and I’m going to call it, A Day without Problems, the Impossible Dream of the Cannabis Entrepreneur.”
“I feel for you man,” Alan was cackling still, as he looked over from the staircase and started climbing up into his room, “worships Satan… you have the worst luck, sometimes.”
If Alan had been attempting to cheer me up, it had backfired spectacularly. For as long I remained a slave to this satisfying-foods-fast, there was nothing I could do to take my pain away. No substance that I could turn to, which would give me the fix that I needed.
Eating was supposed to be a fun, and enriching affair, not something that gave you an anxiety attack, before each bite; an experience akin to going to the dentist.
For this reason, I wasn’t philosophically a fan of vegetarian meat alternative products. To me, these mock-up meats, were a lot like Christian Rock Music, a non-threatening knock-off version, of something that’s only enjoyable, because it’s bad for you.
You know, I noted, I’ve seen a lot of veggie products on the market, mimicking different meats like tofurky, veggie burgers, etc., but the one thing that I‘ve never noticed is- meat, knock-offs of vegetables. For instance, you never see a sirloin steak, that has been dyed green, and seasoned just right, to taste like soybeans.
At this point, I probably would have sold my soul for a slice of authentic NY pizza. The pizza in LA was abject garbage comparatively. To add insult to injury, there was actually a restaurant chain called, California Pizza Kitchen. When I had seen this, I was perplexed as to why anyone would possibly name a pizza brand after an area that’s infamously renowned for fucking up pizza? The only equivalent as egregious, that I could think of, would be a beverage company called, Tijuana Springs: Bottled Water.
I guess instead of pizza, I audibly sighed, I’ll just have, more tasteless tea. I dragged myself up from the table, and slowly shuffled into the kitchen to turn on the hot-pot. As I was passing the microwave, I saw the numbers on the clock start to spin.
Oh no, not again…
The numbers on the microwave stopped on 06:66.
“Ahhh!” I screamed.
I hit the “Stop/Clear” button, but nothing happened. I panicked and pulled out the plug, as the screen went dark. I plugged it back in and the microwave reset to midnight.
I was beyond freaked out. What is going on, in this hell-house?
There was no way I was still asleep, this time. I hadn’t taken LSD in over half a decade.
Does this have something to do with Shannon? Hana? Rosy? Is there something else?
I’m losing my mind, I realized, I need to think, rationally.
Ok, I broke it down, there’s really only a few possible explanations here… Explanation number one, is that demons are real and that I’m being haunted by the Bride of Satan? Explanation number two, is that I’ve gone so far off the deep end this time, that I’m beyond the point of no return? And option number three, is that after over three weeks of this insane, self-destructive, diet, I’m starting to hallucinate.
I’ll take door number three, I decided, it’s the diet, it’s got to be the diet!
It’s time… I took command of my destiny.
I put my iPhone down on the counter and turned the audio to speaker, before playing a song, I found inspirational, by the band, ACDC.
I reached into the cabinet and pulled out a paper cone from a plastic bag. I turned on the faucet…
* * *
“Yes… I’m let loose… from the noose… that’s kept me, hanging around…”
“Hey, what’s that smell?”
“Fuck you,” I shouted back upstairs, “I’m out, you son of a bitch!”
“…I’ve got nine lives… cats eyes… abusin’ every one of them, and runnin’ wild…”
I watched the opaque water, dribble into the pot and then eagerly poured the sweet, sweet nectar of the gods into a mug. I inhaled the aroma and then took a sip, savoring the second, the very first, sacred drop, crossed the threshold of my lips, flooding my tastebuds, and rushing my blood stream with caffeine, through my sublingual membrane.
“…yes I’m back… well I’m back…”
In that moment, everything came bolting home into my brain. My mental clarity and coherence, all of my acumen, and acuity, instantly turned on. I was like Popeye; ready to save the day after receiving a dose of spinach, and just in the nick of time to save Olive Oil, no less…
“…well, I’m ba-ah-ah-ah-a-ck… Ba-ah-ah-ah-a-ck…”
The soundtrack dramatically announced my return, “well, I’m back in black… Yes, I’m back, in black!”
The fog had finally lifted, as my path came into focus. I know, what I have to do…
Reborn from the ashes of my former self, and stronger than ever, I set the wheel of my future in motion, with a covert operation. Taking decisive action, I activated my secret weapon, which was… Reggie.
* * *
Day 22
Breakfast
8 Cups Coffee, with Cream and Sugar
2 Pieces Crème Brulee French Toast with Extra Syrup
2 Sides Bacon
1 Side White Toast with Melted Butter
1 Side Home Fries
“Jesus man, slow down, you’re out of control!” Reggie warned, after our waiter laid down an additional plate of chocolate chip pancakes, in front of me, “you’re going to have a sugar overdose, do you want to give yourself type 2 diabetes, before we even get to Gilroy?”
Reggie and I had stopped at a Denny’s in Coalinga about three hours into our journey. I went a little overboard ordering, but it was worth it, as I got a good, chemical pick-me-up going and had caught a buzz, from the food additives.
“It’s not pretty,” I replied, “but my body is just going through the re-tox process, and reacclimating my system, to the poisons.”
“It would still probably, be prudent,” Reggie pointed out, “to take your de-covery, one day, at a time.”
“So Reggie,” I deflected, “if this works out, are you open to doing this run, once every two weeks, or so?”
“As long as I’m still available,” he qualified, “I don’t mind getting paid to go to dispensaries, I fucking love weed!”
“Great,” I grinned, “that’s all I needed to know for now.”
“Do you have any sense,” Reggie gobbled down the last of his Greek omelet, “how many stops it could be?”
“That’s the thing,” I explained, “in order to make this work, and make it worth your while, not to mention, to justify paying you, we need to build up a big enough pocket of business, with large enough, bimonthly demand, to make up for the great disparity in distance.”
“Ok, what does this mean?”
“That means, we have to knock it out of the park to prove ourselves to Johnson and Alan.”
“Do you think that they’ve even noticed that you’re gone, yet?” Reggie chortled.
I checked my phone. 7:34am. “Any minute now…”
Madison had mentioned to us recently that Reggie had been laid off and was interested in getting some hours on the side with us for cash. We hadn’t taken him up on it yet prior to my call the night before, when I had solicited his assistance for a top-secret mission, that I told him could take up to the whole weekend. He agreed and as promised, sent me a text when he was parked by the curb out front with his lights off, at 2:30am on the dot.
Reggie and I had quietly and stealthily stuffed his Nissan Cube under the cover of night, packing it to the rafters, and stacking boxes in every square inch of space. With headlights off, we quietly pulled out at around 3, catching a narrow window of time to make our escape…
* * *
We got back on the road after breakfast. The first hour was particularly painful, and hard to stomach, as we continued on our path through ‘cowchuitz’, one of America’s largest bovine, factory farms, which stretched for miles along both sides of the interstate. The windows were no help in escaping the odor, as we drove past an endless sea of cows, jam packed into pens, standing around in their own shit, stinking up the environment and polluting the air with their methane burping, buttholes.
I got a text message from Alan around Los Banos. “Where are you?”
So, It begins…
I paused in thought, before coming up with the perfect strategic, and cunning response.
“I went out.” I craftily replied.
Alan would assume that I left somewhere with Shannon, or went for a walk, and would report this to Johnson for now.
I just bought myself, a few more hours! I chuckled.
“Hey,” Reggie broke the silence, “doesn’t ‘banos’, mean bathroom, in Spanish? Is the name of this city, the bathroom?”
“I took Spanish 1, my senior year in Santa Fe,” I plead ignorance, “I missed seventy-five percent of my classes, and I slept through the rest.”
“Is this town, just some desolate place on the map, to take a dump?” Reggie was determined to get the bottom of this road-side curiosity.
“Speaking of banos-es,” I butted in, “why don’t we stop there and use one? Then we can say, we took a leak, in ‘the bathroom’.”
“Speak for yourself,” Reggie retorted, “I’m going to take a shit, in Los Banos!”
“Well, that’s the spirt…”
My mind started to drift as Reggie stepped on the gas to try and outrun the cowschuitz smell. Part of me was still a little freaked out by some of the crazy stuff that had been happening in my life, but I wasn’t scared anymore, once I came to recognize that it all had a purpose. There was a reason I was constantly being shoved down to the ground… it was so that I would keep getting back up again. That was the real meaning behind the madness, to learn how to get blasted ad nauseum, by the bowel-movement bazooka, and then to dust myself off, and continue moving forward.
Moreover, I had a moment of clarity; it wasn’t just my purpose to succeed in spite of my suffering, it was to do so with humor, and to be able to synthesize whatever horrendous experiences I was having, in a such a manner in which I could laugh about it, and maybe even, lead others to do the same.
I can’t choose what challenges the universe throws in the path of achieving my dreams, I reflected, I can only choose, how I react…
We reached our first stop off Highway 9 in Felton, outside of Santa Cruz, just as the pot-shop was opening up at 11am. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I went in with my signature, cardboard box full of samples. I had never been to any dispensaries up north before, and for all I knew, they were already saturated with every kind of conceivable product. I was only able to do so much reconnaissance, from the limited menus, that a few of the stores had available on Weedmaps. This whole thing could be a waste of time.
Inside, I discovered a mixed bag of opportunity in that they were already well covered on desserts, though they didn’t have any vendor for infused drinks. They bought a case of each kind of Chronic Tonic, and we unloaded the loaded beverages from the back of the whip, before heading off to our next stop in Soquel, where we made another sale. We struck out though, on our third attempt at a cannabis collective in the city of Santa Cruz, that wouldn’t give us the time of day, and refused to even look at our stuff or let us talk to the buyer. This wasn’t all that informative, from a feedback point of view.
Afterwards, we hit the 17 to San Jose where I had lined up several sales calls throughout the city and suburban areas. Our first attempt on South Fourth Street was a huge success and I sold that store, eight cases of drinks, plus seventy-two various edibles. Remarkably, I had an even bigger, more monumental win at our next location, a dispensary called, Purple Elephant. They purchased twenty cases of drinks from us on the spot, clearing out more than two thirds of the inventory we had brought.
Even the desserts were flying now, and for the next few stops, I put a cap in place, two dozen of each SKU, per customer. I wanted to make sure I had enough inventory left to hand out samples, and we’d still just barely started this norcal route and hadn’t yet been to Sacramento, Vallejo, Oakland, Berkley, or San Francisco, in that order.
By the time we were ready to head out to Sac in the late afternoon, we only had samples, and no more products left to sell, period. When I got back in to Reggie’s Cube, I stared down at three missed calls from Alan and one from Johnson.
Reggie took a break to eat a taco outside the ride, while I looked at Alan’s name on my Caller ID, and mentally prepared myself, to pay the piper. I pressed the send button…
“So, you’re with Reggie, I take it?” Alan called me out immediately, “you know Madison works for us too, did you think we wouldn’t figure it out, eventually.”
“I knew, it was only a matter of time,” I revealed, “You guys are no dummies, I just wanted to get a head start.”
“You know I should be super angry with you, right now,” Alan laughed, “but I can’t help, but kind of admire your determination.”
“Thank you…” His good reaction, caught me off guard.
“Anyway,” Alan continued, “I was thinking about it, and I was running some numbers, and I think… we actually can, scale production, to make your plan work.”
“I figured that there was some way to drive it, if I just could prove that the demand is there!”
“Well how about that demand?” Alan asked eagerly, “how’s the reception up there?”
“Dude, you have no idea,” I beamed, “there’s virtually no competing drinks, anywhere. I saw Kush Town at one, out of twenty-three some-odd dispensaries, we visited today.”
“How many new accounts do you think, not to hold you accountable to anything, but just so I have some idea, of what to expect?”
“So far, I’d say around twenty-two for sure,” I ran some quick calculations though my cranium, “but it could be as high as sixty by the end of the day, tomorrow.”
“Holy crap!” Alan was scared, “that’s insane, you’re a total maniac!”
“Well, thank you, I appreciate the recognition.” I was elated with the result of this conversation, “oh… I’ve got a call on the other line, I have to take this, I’ll shout you back, later…”
“Hey…” This was going to be a difficult conversation, “Shannon… how’s it going?”
“I haven’t heard from you, since you left the other night, is everything ok?”
“Look,” I paced anxiously passed the Chipotle Mexican Grill, on The Alameda, which was actually the name of the street, “I don’t think this is going to work.”
“What do you mean?” Shannon was upset, “I don’t understand, is it something, I did?”
“No… you… didn’t… do anything.” The eggshells shattered on the pavement underneath the soles of my sneakers.
“Well, I must have done something, because two days ago, everything was fine?”
“Listen…” I didn’t know how to let her down gently, “it’s not you… it’s Satan.”
“You want me to choose between you… and Beelzebub?” Shannon was torn.
“I would never do that,” I abstained from the running, “I’m not asking you, to change who you are, or trying to convert you over to the other side, or anything like that… anyway, I’ve come to conclusion that at this point in my life; my job is my wife, and my mistress… and I just don’t think I can commit, to a relationship, right now…”
* * *
Day 27
Dinner
One Heaping Helping of Fear
Two Tablespoons of Terror
A Dash of Delusion
A Generous Pinch of Self-Implosion
I walked into the office and observed a look of concern on the faces of two older looking Armenian men.
“Hi, I’m here to rent a space.”
I’m definitely, not planning to hide drugs, in this unit. I played it cool.
“It might be a pretty long wait.” One of the men, whose name tag read, “Mike,” sat behind a computer screen. They were both staring at the silhouette of a lady in a dim elevator on their security monitor.
“Well, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job or anything,” I snarked, “but, I’ve got to observe that I seem to be the only customer in here…”
“The powers out,” Mike looked really stressed, “this poor lady is trapped by herself, in an elevator on the sixth floor. We have no way to reach her. She has no idea what’s going on. There’s almost no light. Freaky, huh?”
“That’s… totally terrifying.” I shuddered at the thought.
Strangely though, I felt like I could completely relate to her predicament. I emphasized with the feeling of being trapped, clueless, alone, and helpless, as you search in vain through the pitch-black picture for answers, or a sign of some sorts that you can’t see. This poor woman’s waking nightmare, seemed to be a perfect allegory, for my life.
“Jesus,” I felt a chill down my spine, “how long has she been in there?”
“It’s been almost three hours,” Mike was sweating bullets, as the timer was ticking on a potential lawsuit, that was starting to froth, and boil over, “we’re still waiting for help.”
My God, that would probably be enough, to break me, for good! I could only imagine. I guess this Public Storage location, might be possessed, after all…
All of this only seemed fitting, now. Hanson had explained to me on the way over, that this building, which happened to be the closest Public Storage to our house, and the first one to pop up online, was actually, believe it or not, supposed to be… haunted. Furthermore, Hanson reported, it was allegedly the site of grisly murders, and was possibly the inspiration for the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror. We didn’t have the luxury of being picky, so I told him to go full speed ahead anyway to the foreboding looking storage building, which was 13 stories tall. The address no less, was 3636 Beverly Blvd, and spooky numbers were not lost on me after my recent experience in losing my mind to the tune of spontaneous, numerology.
Hanson was still waiting for me in the parking lot with his car chock-full of all the contraband I could fit from out of our house, which I scooped up in a mad, frenzy, a short while earlier. I had become driven by fear and panic, as I had sought to clear out our residence, while I was waited on pins and needles to hear back from Alan. I had no confidence in his approach, and now, I was preparing for the very worst possible outcome to come raining down on us all…
* * *
Mid-Afternoon Snack
One of Cup of WFT
A Hearty Portion of Panic
Sprouted Seeds of Destruction of your Choice
As I watched, the two attendants helplessly stare at the woman trapped in the elevator, my phone rang, and I saw that it was Johnson calling me.
Johnson, finally…
Mike took one more stab at quality customer service as I was about to walk off for good and take the call.
“If you’d like,” Mike offered, “I can write down your name and number, and you can reserve a space now, for when the power comes back on?”
I looked between Mike’s face and one of the squares on the bottom left hand corner of his security monitor, where I observed the feint outline of the woman trapped, in the void, on the 6th floor.
“No thanks,” I smiled in spite of my circumstances, “I think I’ll just find, another location.”
I walked outside and answered my phone.
“Hey Johnson, the health department is at the kitchen!”
“I know,” Johnson was in the loop, “I just got a call from our lawyer. Alan was arrested, and he’s being charged with a felony. We’re waiting for him to post bail.”
“Oh my God,” I took no comfort in being right, “I tried to stop him!”
“Fucking idiot, went down there to talk to the cops,” Johnson took a swing at the dead horse, “how stupid, was that?”
“I don’t know,” I was despondent, “do you remember in college, when I wrote that short story for Bill Potter’s class?”
“Sure.” Johnson had a pretty solid memory considering he was drunk through most of college, ‘Choose your Own Existential Adventure’, right?”
“That’s correct. There were all these different paths that you could take but
no matter what choice you made, each decision, led to a brutal death or some kind of horrifying and tragic, outcome.”
“So?” Johnson had already lost patience with me, “what’s your point?”
“Don’t you see the eerie, resemblance,” I tied things together for him, “to our start-up, story?”
“Where the hell are you, anyway?” Johnson wasn’t in the mood, to search for meaning.
“I’m at a Public Storage unit.” I gave him the skinny.
“Why?”
“I’m hiding our drugs, and paperwork.” I instantly regretted saying these words out loud, as it occurred to me, that they could have tapped our phones.
“Again,” Johnson ridiculed me, “I ask why?”
As I circumvented the parking lot, I was boggled by the hard time I seemed to be having, communicating this concept to people.
Appears pretty elementary, to me…
“Because” I put my tolerance to the test, “they might come back, and search our house.”
“I think you’re, overacting.” Johnson wasn’t on high alert.
“I think you’re, underreacting,” radioactive, I retorted, “this has been one wild batshit, crazy fucking month, and we can’t take anything for granted anymore!”
“Well…” Johnson was solemn, “I guess, it’s all over now, anyway.”
“What’s over, the diet?”
“No…” He was taken aback by my naivety, “I mean, the business… Canna Catering.”
“You and Alan can both quit, but I refuse to stop.” I stood firm.
“That’s easy for you to say,” he turned the tables on me, “I’m still trying to beat a felony, Teddy got popped, Andy’s buddy Bill… just about everyone pretty much, but you; has had to pay a hefty price, for your dream. You personally have been lucky, but the rest of us, haven’t shared your good fortune.”
“I wouldn’t call it good fortune,” I fought back, “I keep losing everything I have, like the Greek king Sisyphus, spending an eternity in agony failing to ever get the boulder to roll all the way over the hill.”
“At least you haven’t lost your freedom,” Johnson hoisted his javelin of guilt, piercing my Achilles, “I can’t speak for Alan, but I’m pretty sure I know how he’ll feel, when he gets out of jail. He’ll say that we’re finished… kaput.”
“We’ll see…” I was stubborn and prepared to die on the cross.
“Sorry dude,” Johnson spoke to me for a second on a human level, “I know how much the company means to you, but unfortunately, we’ve reached the end of this story.”
“Maybe your story,” I was obstinate and grew enraged, “but that’s not how my story, turns out!”
“Sure bro, whatever you say…,” Johnson wasn’t going to argue with me now, “we’ll talk about it later when you get back to the house… it’s going to be a long, long night.”
I had a lot to process as I put my phone in my front pants pocket, and stood silent and motionless for a moment in the parking lot. Maybe it was, me, this whole time? I started to face the music. Am, I the one… who’s cursed?
I imagined a voodoo doll bearing my likeness being violently punctured, and repeatedly pinned in the groin. It seemed like everything in my life was under some dark spell.
My business, friendships, girlfriends, even the fucking, Public Storage unit I tried to rent, turned out to be marked by misfortune.
As I slowly walked over towards the car, I tried to somehow pull my composure together, so that I would be cognizant enough to carry on to the next Public Storage location.
I can, do this… I coached myself, to keep my legs moving. I can do this…
“Hi bitch,” Hanson sneered, as I got back in the passenger seat, and buckled up, “what took you so long? Did you rent a unit, in the devil building?”
Ok… my mind was racing, as I searched in vain, for the light at the end of the tunnel. Where do we go… from here?
To Be Continued…