Rigo because he needs a friend who is close to him. But I don’t think they get into the best shit together.
“Hey have you ever thought about what you would do if you died?” Peter abruptly asks. “If I died I would cold kick it with Grandpa Kai all the time. We would go bass fishing in Canada, like in remote lakes where no one visits. Wildlife of all kinds wandering around and not scared of us. Blue skies, clouds, whatever, I wouldn’t care.”
“I would sit next to a waterfall with Joni Mitchell and sing all day and then eat nachos and skate a pool.”
“I’ll skate the pool with you.”
“Cool.”
“But let’s wait a long time until we die,” he says.
“But not too long, because I don’t want to ever feel trapped in my body and just waiting to die. I don’t want to live past seventy-five, eighty tops.”
“Me neither.”
“So why am I here with you talking about your big awesome trim job?”
“I almost forgot! We need someone who can be an actual liaison. Take product to Los Angeles and present to our clients. You’d have to trim for a month first though, just to get to know the plants. Actually, I should just let Rigo tell you about the job.”
“What’s the pay?”
“More than you’ve ever made. Like four hundred a day to trim, more to transport and sell.”
“This is so fucking cool!” I yell, and reach out to high-five him, like the dork I am. A warm wash rolls over my body. I imagine using a machete to lop the top off a giant bottle of champagne. I have no particular passion for or against marijuana but if it means good money, I am fully onboard to be the new pothead in town.
There’s a knock at my bedroom door and Pete pokes his head in. He stayed over last night so we could watch movies.
“How are you doing, my dude?” I wipe my eyes and pull my comforter up. “Come sit.” He climbs on my bed and leans against the wall.
“I’m good.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“Your couch is amazing. It’s like sleeping in a pile of creamed corn.”
“Yummy.”
“I’m so stoked we’re going to work together.”
“Me too. Do any women work there?”
“Trim crew is all women. They’re better at it and easier to work with.
“You’ll get no arguments from me on that,” I say.
“I’ve heard a couple bad stories though.”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard a place north of us was robbed and the guys kidnapped one of the trimmers. Kept her hostage, did fucked-up shit. Cops found her dead.”
“Ew, ew, don’t tell me shit like that! I won’t be able to get it out of my head until the day I die peacefully in my sleep. Do you guys have security?”
“It’s not necessary, we’re super remote. There’s not even really a driveway up to the farm. You have to have an off-road vehicle to get up there.”
“I see,” I say, fighting off images of the kidnapped lady.
“So what are we doing tonight?” he asks.
“I don’t know, let me think about it.”
“Cool if I use your computer?”
“Yeah. Put on some coffee, okay?”
That night we drive to a bar. We’re both silent, staring off into the foggy night and thinking.
“Wait, how was seeing Oliver?” I ask.
“So good.”
“How did he seem? Like, drug-wise?”
“He’s trying to get it under control, especially with this big opportunity. He had to tell the crew he was going to quit. Which has to be pronto if we’re heading up next week.”
“Do you think he can swing that?”
“Hope so.”
We’re going to meet Irma and Oliver at this bar called The Wreck Room where our friend’s soft rock cover band is playing. I park on Mission Street, and we walk up to the bar. There’s a guy with a very pronounced brow, kind of troglodyte-looking, checking IDs. He stares at my picture, then up at me, then back down, like I would want to scam my way into this crappy bar.
“This you?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“This isn’t you, this looks like your older sister.”
“I don’t even have a sister. Can I go in?”
“This isn’t your sister?” He points at Irma.
“I think you’re just detecting a general gayness among us.”
He waves us inside.
We walk into the bar, which is long and narrow, and impossibly dark. As we get near the back, I see there’s a slightly wider area with tables and chairs, and a small stage. The people in Smooth Nites always look like the ’80s spilled all over them from a giant paint can. I see Donna, the lead singer, who has huge, black crimped hair and a black dress with a billowing white ruffle extending from her right shoulder to her left hip. She looks unstable in the best way. Then there’s Bob, who sings with Donna. He’s in faded pegged jeans and a turquoise tank top with big armholes and a cartoon of a surfer on the front. It says “Totally Tubular!” which I like a lot. The best is how the people of Smooth Nites always give 110% when they’re performing. There is the visual goofballery of their clothes but the music is well played.
I see Irma down the bar, drinking a pint of beer and talking with an older guy in a fedora and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. Not super-old, maybe like mid-fifties. It seems kind of random, but what do I know about her life, really? She’s one of those people who will mention to me that she’s been seeing a girl for six months and it will be the first I’ve heard of it, even though she calls me her best friend and we see each all the time. I don’t mind.
Wait, maybe the fedora guy is the hot tub guy. She told me there’s a man who she meets at The Wreck Room for drinks then goes back to his house to sit in his hot tub. He always has piles of coke and speed sitting out on a table. Anyone is welcome to the hot tub and the drugs, provided they are naked and female. Any kind of female can plop down on his leather couch and have at it. He also has various vintage guitars that Irma can play. He says he loves seeing her small woman fingers on them. What is the feeling when he sees them? Small fingers strumming, little digits pushing
