Selling

Mark Barkawitz

February 2006

"How much, Marty?" Sarah Fields asked. She lived just down the block. She had come to his house to buy some pot.

"Twenty-five bucks."

"Is it good?"

"Wouldn’t sell you anything I didn’t smoke myself."

Sarah looked closely at the Columbian weed at the bottom of the clear baggie. The living room was dark with the curtains drawn on all the windows.

"That’s the last of it," he said. "You can have it for twenty. I give pregnant women a discount." He smiled.

She took the money from the pocket of her flowered muumuu and gave it to him. It was just about the only thing she wore now that the baby was almost due. She was a big woman anyway, almost a head taller than he. And the springy, black hair, which rose inches above her dark face, made her appear even more so.

He sat down on the couch and counted the money. There were a lot of ones.

"I’m glad I got this from you before you ran out." She put the baggie of weed in her pocket where the money had been. Leaving, she leaned on the door knob a moment. "I haven’t been feeling myself lately. I was just about to get a little wine from Sal’s Market to see if it helped any, but then I thought of you."

"You’d better not," he said. "You know you shouldn’t drink while you’re pregnant. Take a toke. It’s better for you. How much longer till the baby’s due?"

"Not for three weeks yet?"

"Boy or a girl?"

"I’m hoping for a girl. I already got Lamar and Joey."

"Yeah, I guess two boys are enough for anyone."

"Anymore likely to kill me," she said. "I better get back before they wreck the house. Thanks a lot, Marty."

"Take care of yourself, Sarah. And no booze. And don’t go smoking your brains out either. One a day. Just like the vitamins."

"Yes, doctor." She laughed and went out the door.

He looked at the money in his hand. Marty Hepp sold pot to his friends and other smokers he had become acquainted with on the block. Someone had to. But that was all he sold, no pills or blow or anything like that. He didn’t like any of that other crap. But pot he liked. And he was between jobs. So he sold enough to help pay the rent, monthly bills, and tuition down at the community college, where he had signed up for classes next semester. The rest he smoked. And he liked the neighborhood. The people were friendly. Just last month, when old Al and Rose, who lived next door, were painting their apartment, he and a few of the other neighbors had pitched in and helped. Al had lung cancer from too many cigarettes and Rose was a bit dimwitted, the result of brain surgery years before. So he and the others hadn’t charged them for their labor. He picked up the tray from the coffee table. There were a few buds and some loose pot on it. More than enough for a joint, so he crushed one of the buds between his fingers and sifted out the seeds. Taking a paper from the Zig-Zag pack, he rolled a jay and was about to light it when someone knocked on the door.

"Yeah?"

"It’s me–Lamar," his small voice answered from the other side of the closed door.

"Lamar? Just a minute." Lamar was Sarah’s oldest boy. Marty put the pot out of sight in the roll-top desk next to the TV, then opened the front door. "Hi, Lamar. What’s up, man?"

"My mom wants to know if she can borrow a couple a’ papers?" He was tall for ten and dark-skinned like Sarah.

"What kind of paper?"

"You know, rollin’ papers. My mom don’t wanna walk to Sal’s Market, and he won’t sell ‘em to me."

"Oh. Okay. Wait a minute." He pushed the door half-closed, walked over to the desk, and pulled a few papers from the Zig-Zag pack, though he wasn’t sure at all if he should give Lamar the papers. Little kids had big mouths, and he wasn’t sure how Lamar would feel about someone who sold pot to his mom. But he didn’t want Sarah walking to the store in her condition and having a miscarriage or something. So he went back and laid the papers in Lamar’s open palm. The boy’s long fingers closed around the thin, white papers like the legs of a crab.

"Thanks, Marty. See ya’." Lamar ran off the porch and down the street. It was just getting dark.

Marty closed the door, got out the joint, and lit it, then turned on the TV and sat on the couch, smoking.

The next day, he was up early because he had to drive down south to John and Casey’s house to pick up some more pot. He put the sixteen-hundred dollars he kept stashed under the corner of his bedroom rug into his pocket, made himself a smoothie for breakfast, and filled a thermos with coffee. Wearing shorts and beach flaps and with a joint in the pocket of his denim work shirt, he left the house. He climbed into his ‘68 Ford Fairlane and drove to the freeway.

Going the other way, into Los Angeles, the rush-hour traffic was bad as usual. Across the freeway the cars were already backed up. He was glad he wasn’t on that side. Going towards San Diego, there wasn’t so much traffic. At nine a.m., it was already starting to heat up and get smoggy. Typical September in L.A. He poured himself a cup of coffee, turned on the radio in the dash, and lit the joint. The news was on. It was mostly bad: bloodshed in the Middle-East, a hole in the ozone layer, raw sewage in Santa Monica bay, and the AQMD predicting a stage-two smog alert for L.A. county. He smoked and listened; his eyes glazed and became heavier with each puff. The world outside became softer–less real. As if someone had honed-down the edges.

Because he preferred the slow lane whenever he smoked (Life in the Fairlane, he often joked.), it took two-and-a-half hours to get to the Leucadia off-ramp in north San Diego county. He got off the freeway and onto the familiar streets–many without sidewalks–of the little coastal town. Back here, a mile or so from the beach, there were still green avocado orchards and hothouses filled with red and white and orange and purple flowers and even some billy goats in back yards. The condos were still all on the coast. It was almost noon and it was hot, but not oppressively, like in L.A. The sky was clear. No smog alerts down here. He turned the corner of a small street and pulled into the dirt driveway of his connection’s house at the end of the block. Primo, a large German shepherd, and Duke, a Dobie, came growling out to meet him. As he stepped from his car, the hair was already raised on their backs, even though they’d met him a few times before.

"Hi, Primo and Duke." He offered his hand for the dogs to sniff. "How you doing, boys?" The dogs wagged their tails when they heard their names called and recognized his scent. But they were still suspicious and moved stiffly around him. He patted both dogs. "It’s okay, boys." They accompanied him to the front door. The hair was still up on their backs, and Primo, the shepherd, walked in half-circles, eyeing Marty as he knocked.

"Hey, John, you home? It’s me, Marty. Let me in before your dogs eat me." From inside the door, metal clicked on metal as the dead bolt slid open. The door opened about six inches. John’s suntanned face stared back from behind the chain. His eyes, bloodshot, darted from Marty’s face to reconnoiter the area behind him. John shut the door, slid off the chain, and opened the door all the way.

"Hi, Marty." John shook his hand, pulling him through the doorway as he did. He locked the door behind them. He was wearing new, blue overalls with no shirt or shoes and he reeked of fresh pot. All the shades were drawn on the windows, as usual, so it was dark inside. There was a strong, piney fragrance in the house.

"Come in the back room." John led him to the door of a closed room and knocked. "Hey, lemme in, man. It’s okay."

The door opened and they walked in. Casey, the guy who’d opened the door for them, sat back down on one of the three, wooden chairs at a wooden table–the only furniture in the room–and began trimming one of the plants with scissors. Marty had seen him the last time he was here. He was John’s partner, barefoot and wearing swimming trunks, a typical So Cal surfer/seller. His hair was very blond and he, too, was very tan. There were pot plants hanging upside down in every corner of the room. Plywood covered the only window. A bare bulb on the ceiling lit the room. On the kitchen table with some dried plants were a triple-beam scale, another pair of scissors, and a large pack of zip-lock baggies. On the bare, wooden floor were more baggies filled with pot.

John locked the door, then walked over to the table and picked up a bud that Casey had carefully manicured, cutting away all the large, green leaves and uncovering the fat, purplish-green bud. He handed it to Marty.

"How’s that look to ya’?"

Marty held it up to the yellow light in the center of the room, then under his nose and sniffed its piney fragrance. He bit off a small piece with his front teeth. Chewy. Sticky. It was definitely good pot. Just how good would determine the price. "Have any papers?"

"Already got one rolled." John pulled out a reefer from the breast pocket of his overalls.

"I’d rather roll this one, if you don’t mind."

John laughed. "Sure, man. Still don’t rust anyone, eh? Papers are on the table."

"I buy for a lot of friends." He sat down at the table and began to break up the bud. It was sticky and hard to pull off the stem, so he used the scissors to cut it up. Taking a leaf from the Zig-Zag pack, he rolled the pot into a thin reefer. He lit it, took a hit, and exhaled slowly, tasting the sweet smoke as it blew out over his tongue and lips. He took another draw, then inspected the end of the joint. The resins were already starting to build up.

"Very nice."

"Dose a’ the good stuff," said John.

"How much?"

"Two."

"Two-thousand?"

"Yup." John smiled.

"You guys are killing me. I know it’s strong medicine, but two grand is a little steep."

"It’s dangerous these days." John took the jay from Marty and took a hit. He explained as he exhaled: "The Man’s bustin’ fields every day. We’re damn lucky we got this crop in. Right, Casey?"

Casey nodded. "We can’t grow much here, but what we grow is the best. Once you break it up, you can turn it to those friends a’ yours for twice that."

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