After only a few hours of sleep Bruce awakens with a feeling he usually associates with beginning a day when he has something exciting or risky planned. In fact, it's the beginning of an end of summer holiday weekend and he has nothing planned.
He gets up from his bed in the dark and puts on water for coffee. Then sits down in front of a long wood table and gazes out through an oversized window. Predawn light stirs in through trees and scribbles dark lines onto walls in back of him. Outside, a sullen mist hovers between the first line of tree limbs and the earth. Bruce smiles, enjoying the way the wildly overgrown landscape sits free here. And continues to smile as a soft ray of light prisms through a crystal hanging in the window and cuts a rainbow across his face and bare shoulders.
God, how he loves this place. It's easy, unobtrusive fix with the land, and intentionally simple, lighthearted layout. His private and personal oasis, secluded, simple -- non-threatening to any thing or any one -- and yet at the same at odds with everything else that’s going on out there.
Bruce closes his eyes and prays that his simple actions taken here at odds with the prevailing flow might somehow fuse with others in order to stop what's going on and allow for something different and better to happen. Or, if his actions and wishes are not enough to help provoke change, then he hopes his prayers will reward him with Grace: a smooth, fortunate, unnoticed life. Bruce closes his eyes and mumbles a Lakota prayer for the skill and luck to be able to become invisible when the circumstances warrant.
On that note, he tells himself that it is time to turn his prayers into action and take care of business before the sun comes up any further. Then he smiles in a way that is an answer to his own thoughts. A self-contained smile that just hovers on his face. He had not provoked its appearance by practicing some rigorous spiritual exercise, nor did it appear after something unexpectedly fortunate happened. It had simply shown up one day; coming on its own, in its own time.
The smile mirrored a profound change in the tone of the voice that moderates Bruce’s inner-feelings and dialogue. Its appearance reflects an ongoing internal process of allowing a distinctly more accepting and accommodating voice to replace a plethora of persnickety self-critical ones Even though all the voices are still stubbornly vying for his attention, the softer one is becoming dominant; hence, the smile.
Bruce looks up grinning, knowing that this newfound smile often disarms others. They don’t know if he is smiling at them, with them, or at something or someone else entirely. Accompanying the smile is a willingness on the part of Bruce to be alone in order to understand these kinds of things about him, which only further perplexed people close to him.
`Though perhaps they are just concerned about you,' this new voice of moderation tells him, ‘or envious of it.' Bruce peers out the window at the sky brightening and the voice advises him to get to work and not to worry about what other people are thinking. It doesn't matter.
Bruce likes that, so he nods his head agreeably and smiles at nothing like one would to a perfect sunset or new lover.
The small house Bruce is residing in is the former servant’s quarters for the main house on this five acres of land set near the top of a hill. The thought of the word servant rocks Bruce’s imagination. It’s hard for him to comprehend how people could have agreed to be called that, or why others would want to do so. Bruce fancies himself a historian of the anecdotal bent. He learned from the present title-holder of the main house that the land and house were originally owned by a small family who founded a textile factory outside of Philadelphia. The people who lived where he does now took care of the family’s meals, cleaning, and children. So in Bruce’s mind they were workers, hired hands, not servants.
The person now occupying the main house is a friend of Bruce who recently divorced a successful businessman after he ran off with another woman. She received a generous settlement and put it into acquiring this place. She invited Bruce to rent the small house on the property in order to have a man around – she’d been living here alone with two teenage daughters – and to also have someone here whom she hoped would take an interest in the property and help her tend it.
Bruce took a strong interest in, and liking, to the property – but as it is. Between lulls in her dysfunctional relationships with other middle-age divorcees, and after her daughters were asleep, she’d come by the servants quarters and help herself to Bruce, sliding around and gulping on him. Afterward, she’d invariably prod him to try to do some ‘landscaping’. Bruce tried, but could not bring himself to do anything more than pull a weed here and there that was choking a flower.
‘Hell,’ Bruce protests, gazing out the window at tall grass intermingling with same-sized weeds, ‘I make my living – such as it is – from weeds…’.
On that note, Bruce decides once again that it’s time to get on with what he got up so early to do. For some reason he hasn’t quite figured out yet, there’s a section of false flooring in the main room of this small house with an earthen storage space below it. The main room of the house includes its kitchenette. Bruce is aware that people in this neck of the woods prided themselves on preserving fruits and vegetables from spring through winter, so he guesses that it was used for storing jams, preserves and blanched vegetables. Whatever its original purpose might have been, the underground storage space that remains cool and moist year round, and is hidden from view, suits Bruce’s present needs impeccably.
Bruce lifts up
a few four-foot floorboards and lifts three large
multi-ply garbage bags from the bottom of the
two-foot well. He sets the black baggies down and
then scoops a handful from each and sets them down
neatly and separately into three small piles on a
table below an undressed window facing east. Then
he secures the bags, returns them below the floor,
and puts the boards back in place.
Bruce twiddles a stick between his fingers. He
doesn't enjoy smoking this stuff himself -- unless
he’s headed somewhere like a planetarium to
stargaze or to an endless jammy Grateful Dead
concert – places where the point is to lose track
of yourself. So from among his purchases it is
only the Mexican that he’ll smoke regularly; and
it’s the cheapest and most plentiful, so that
works out.
He pulls a stool up to the table and sits in front
of the piles. He looks down at them casually and
notes with mild satisfaction how the morning light
brings out a bright and lively amalgamation of
colors. They look almost as though they are still
alive and growing. Bruce hears the coffee-water
gurgling so he reaches over and pours it into a
porcelain cone filled with freshly ground coffee.
Earlier, it had been too dark for him to make out
which blend of coffee he was selecting. He closes
his eyes, puts his face over the cone, and
breathes in deep through his nostrils. His face
squeezes in when he detects a slightly bitter
aroma and a moderately strong bean. He guesses
Kenyan. Opens his eyes and the label on the
coffee-jar closest to the cone confirms his
appraisal. `All right,' he mutters judiciously,
`olfactory glands working a.o.k.'
Bruce returns his attention to the piles on the
table, shakes his head to get rid of the last of
the morning’s cob-webs, blows his nose, and closes
his eyes while lowering his face just above the
first small pile. He braces himself on the table
with his arms and breathes in deep and long
"Uhmmnnnn," he moans favorably. It doesn’t smell
strong, or odorous. Even good Mexican that’s been
harvested too early could ferment in transit and
end up smelling like unwashed feet or a skunk.
That would make it hard to sell, or hold on to. If
he had to store it for a while waiting for the
smell to dissipate the whole batch could dry out
and become worthless. He leans back and averts his
eyes, feeling with his fingers if buds remove from
stems too easily, or cling too stubbornly.
Neither. More good signs. It's just right for what
it is and what he paid for it. He’s satisfied with
his decision to buy as much of it as he did, five
kilos. He’s got the perfect place to keep it fresh
and sell it off slowly and steadily over the next
few months or so. That will provide him with the
base income he needs to pay his everyday bills and
also anchor his other ventures – provided that
it’s not been tainted.
Bruce looks forward thoughtfully. For a variety of
reasons – from the DEA spraying crops in Mexico,
to Mexican smugglers trying to hide its odor from
drug-sniffing dogs at the border—it’s not uncommon
these days to find pot from Mexico tainted with
paraquat, strychnine, or ammoniated water. Bruce
cups his hands over his mouth and plunges his face
into the pile again. Then he raises his head back
up and sighs relieved. No trace of the tart
telltale aromas of chemicals that could literally
make your eyes water. If it did have chemicals in
it, he'd first try to stick it back to the seller,
who without a doubt would accuse him of being
wrong, paranoid, or something worse. Or he’d have
to sell it at a discount being up-front about what
he thinks is in it. That would be a drag, telling
people he's got something really good only its
been sprayed by poisons. He’d then end up taking
all the inherent risks that go along with carrying
it around, and settle for just getting his money
back. It's a comfort to not have to deal with
that.
So far, so good.
Bruce brings up a brief case from under the table
and takes out a battery-powered eyepiece. Pushes
the first pile aside and turns on the eyepiece to
inspect the second pile. He picks a stem from the
pile and then instinctively looks behind him to
make sure no one is coming up the walk to his
front door. Then he holds it up between his eyes
and the windows. Bruce cat-whistles at it. It’s
has the same unreal qualities of an airbrushed
photo of a beautiful body; an almost too perfect
blending of color and symmetry. This techno-pot
comes straight from the boys and girls at Berkeley
or M.I.T. Hydroponic sensemillia. A weed that
grows without touching earth, and doesn’t produce
seeds.
'Wild shit -- and it sure is beautiful to look
at,' Bruce remarks to himself, twirling the stem.
It’s chock full of colorful, sparkling, robust
buds. Plump brownish-green buds rest on the upper
portion of the stem, followed by reddish fern-like
hairs in the middle, and more clusters of smaller
silver-green buds at the base. Three or four
good-sized clusters on each stem. Bruce guesses
it's a hybrid of Panamanian Red and high-altitude
Mexican.
“HIGH TIMES center-fold quality!” Bruce whispers
aloud excitedly. Feels a winter coming along that
will be much easier to get through than the last
one. He puts the stem down on the table and
scrutinizes a few buds with the eyepiece. Each has
THC crystals sparkling off its tips. And the
clusters containing the buds are firm and intact.
Bruce can tell that it has not only been grown
expertly but packed with tender loving precision.
As well it should be for its price. Bruce had to
pull credit to bring it in. But if it is as good
as it appears, then it will be well worth doing
that for.
This kind of herb was not only potentially very
profitable, but fun. The aficionados Bruce sells
to will be delighted to get it, and it’s a point
of pride for Bruce to be able to cop it for them.
Bruce fondles another smaller stem in the palm of
his hand and looks at it fascinated. Then he puts
it back down on the table and wonders whether or
not to roll one up right now and smoke it. He of
course smoked some before he purchased it, but he
was in a rush and could only tell that it got you
very high and tasted great -- two qualities he
knew would insure him of making at least a very
good profit from it. But if it is a rare truly
excellent – if it smokes as good as it looks --
then he could name his price, and get it.
Bruce is excited by that prospect and intensely
curious to find out the quality of its
smokeability, but restrains himself from lighting
one up until he finishes checking out his one
other purchase.
He takes a cuticle scissor and carefully cuts one
small bud from a stem of the sensimilla and
massages it between two fine French rolling
papers. Then places the joint in the lip of one of
his sneakers When he finishes his inventory he’ll
go for a walk around the property and smoke it.
Though his mind can’t help jumping ahead to the
people he knows will love this if it turns out to
be as good as it looks: artists, musicians,
professors, trust-fund hippies. His best customers
-- the ones who always paid in cash and were also
the least likely to be watched or hassled by the
police.
That thought brings up an unpleasant feeling of
exclusion in Bruce but he just lets it just drift
off for now. He takes a sip of coffee, lets out a
breath, and stares in awe at the third and final
pile. He smoked a little of it, too, yesterday --
and then almost couldn't do anything else. This
herb had no competition or fluctuation in its
quality, unless it had been mishandled. And Bruce
can tell just from looking at it with his naked
eyes that these fine specimens had not been. He'd
seen a batch-up job once and it was as easy as
spotting the only American at a Japanese tea
ceremony.
Bruce leans forward and traces with his eyes the
fine twine looped intricately around a single
light-as-air bamboo stick. Holding in place one
perfect dark brown bud of herb. Bruce knows they
are supposed to come all the way from Thailand,
though he has no way of knowing if that's true, or
not. It seemed hard to believe that such an exotic
specimen could manage to move illegally from the
Far East to the backwoods of Pennsylvania and end
up here in almost perfect condition. Was
inscrutable.
And not that
difficult to come by, Bruce remarks to himself
looking up. He remembers the first time he came
across it, a few years ago. At that time it was
very exotic, and very expensive. Now it was
selling for about the same price as the best of
the homegrown American. Though people still
expected, and desired, to pay the old high price.
Was like trying to sell them Cadillacs for the
same price as a Chevy. Bruce stopped trying, and
just accepted the occasional windfall as good
luck, good karma, whatever. He bought a dozen of
the sticks and the sale of them will allow Bruce
to pay back his credit on the American right away
and relax behind the Mexican and not have to
hustle it. Makes Bruce feel about his Thai sticks
the way some people felt about their gold bars. A
hedge and safety net against the unexpected.
Bruce twiddles a stick between his fingers. He
doesn't enjoy smoking this stuff himself -- unless
he’s headed somewhere like a planetarium to
stargaze or to an endless jammy Grateful Dead
concert – places where the point is to lose track
of yourself. So from among his purchases it is
only the Mexican that he’ll smoke regularly; and
it’s the cheapest and most plentiful, so that
works out.
Last winter during a dry spell Bruce re-built the
engine of a friend and colleague’s van in order to
get some much needed cash-flow going. The friend
paid him with a couple kilos of blond Lebanese
hashish. Bruce still has one of the kilos hidden
within the panels of his own van. Like the Thai,
it was packaged exotically and expertly -- branded
with the image of a dragon and sealed in
lightproof red waxed paper. It would stay fresh,
sell itself, and either hold its price or go up in
value, depending on what else was around.
`Money in the bank,' Bruce assures himself. He
figures that all together, if he lives simply,
which is his way, he can live off these scores
through the winter and well into the spring. And
that’s a relief.
With his own immediate needs virtually met, Bruce
ponders about all this exotic stuff coming in from
the East and what it has to do with the crazy shit
going on now with America in Southeast Asia. Bruce
has also witnessed a substantial increase in the
amount of harder drugs, like heroin and opium –
things Bruce doesn’t mess with himself --
circulating in cities in the last few years. What
surprises Bruce is how obvious the connection
seems to be, and yet how no one is putting it
together or even questioning it.
`Well,' Bruce concludes dour, `that shit's beyond
my ken, and not much I can do about it anyway.'
And he does not want to let his mind drift into
the banks of contentious arguments and posturing
people were indulging in these days over the war
in Vietnam. Especially on this last weekend of the
summer.
He reminds himself on a more upbeat note that he
had refused to commit himself to any plans for the
weekend. And he's glad he did that and was firm
about it. Otherwise, he would end up either
ducking people and being alone uncomfortably, or
hanging out with people he really didn't want to
be spending time with. Now the weekend is free for
him to do with as he pleases. And business is just
about over. All he has to do now is try the
American exotic and discern if it is truly
excellent, or not.