CHAPTER TWO (1)

And so, nothing was resolved, but that was normal. Todd and Ryan gazed at the board in awe, neither of them pondering on what to do about the debt, nor about how to start selling Mitzi’s crop, nor about anything much for that matter – in reality, they knew very little what was going on in each other’s seemingly tiny mind and that was okay with them. They seemed both alone in a world of misdemeanor and felony: one living complacently through life, drifting on a thin, anarchic breeze accompanied by the after taste of Schwampagne and marsala, while the other forlorn in a jungle of skepticism deserted by mankind, believing himself better than the rest of the useless automatons that surrounded him. They floated in that unstable air together, yet so far, far apart.

“We should just smoke it all, Squirley.”

“You baffoon.”

 

CHAPTER TWO: Mitzi’s Harvest and Reality

 

Mitzi walked into his one-story house that evening after an intolerable day of work. Not much money tonight, just like last night, and the night before. He was always broke. His roommates had already retired to their rooms, and he felt like an island in the midst of a darkening sea; cold, futile, white… cold and white. I feel white, he thought, ahhh to understand symbolism.

Anyways, first thing’s first! I must check on my babies.

Matt entered his room and the smell hit him immediately: Mmmm, a skunk. No, a skunk in a wondrous forest – a pastoral scene of black and white flashing in a forest of green and oh the aroma! Nothing could go wrong here, not in my forest, thought Matt. He sat down between the budding weed plants (weed trees rather) and tenderly took a mister to their trunks. He knew paternity like no one else; how tenderly he would mist the trunks, how painstakingly he would adjust their photon intake. No soil for my precious Mary Jane, instead the two plants hung grotesquely suspended from the ceiling in oversized hydro-tomato vessels. The whole get-up resembled an engine: from the top hung the canister filled with the marijuana’s lifeblood (water – only filtered), but there was no suck, squeeze, pop, or wheeze. Rather, it was an organic machine in complex and deliberate flux – the lights would slowly dim as the day wore on, set to a perfect timing in congruence with the daily patterns of the sun mid-spring in Southern India – only the perfect climate for cultivating cannabis sativa.

At night, he would fall asleep to the gentle hum of the drip drip, a small suction noise, the flow of water subtly gurgled against its will through a cylinder, the wondrous workings of Nature in his very bedroom. The day was nearing when harvesting would begin, then one might see Matt’s oblong figure in silhouette – his almost monstrous figure by their pseudo-illumination. Yes, the harvest would begin soon.