Just the smell of pot and I need a sugar hit. Somethings don’t change. The vending machine’s good, it’s down the hall past the bearded millennial a the desk who checks your Department of Health card and a picture ID. So bring your ID’s and correct change. I lean over to brush off the crumbs falling from my Wonder Bar. Don’t worry, I see the glass bowl.
After security, there’s the Greeter. Her fringe and smile and long hair everywhere are like my nieces or when I lived in the mountains. F-l-o-w-i-n-g.
“Do you know what you want, or would you like to speak with a consultant?” Above her is chalk board listing of the varietals in stock: Ghost Train Haze, Master Kush Indica, Distillate Strain Durban Poison, Vape Pens, Edibles, and Infused Lotion.
The air in New Time Dispensary is thick with pot dust, and I smell mint, mint always does it, I know a sneeze coming. Pete, the man behind the counter, is smiling. Teeth a testament to modern orthodonture, his black t shirt with a marijuana leaf printed over the heart chakra fresh from the dry cleaners.
I’m on the customer side with my good arm in Michaels work jacket. The rest of jacket is sort of falling off my back, and then I have the giant orthopedic sling I have to wear for seven and a half more weeks.
Michael helped me into an old t shirt when we got home from the hospital four days ago. He kissed me and almost crying said he was glad I didn’t die. Which you don’t from a rotator cuff repair but anything can happen at our age. This morning I put an old flannel on top of the t-shirt. I don’t have on a bra but I didn’t ask Michael for help with the buttons, he’s got that tone on today.
My new Personal Pot Consultant, Pete, asks, “How can I help you today?” His hair is like the kids by Berkeley Music School, wavy long and high with product on top. How does he keep it like that? Mine is already flat.I think it’s regular aerosol hairspray, which I swore off in the 80’s.
“Well, I used to smoke, I mean, I grew pot and gave it away. I was busted once, actually, years ago, not to worry about me, Pete, I know my way around pot.”
Twenty minutes later, I ask Pete,“What’s best for pain?”
Then I walk back to the car with a small ball plastic bag embossed with a with a green marijuana leaf.
“How did it go?” Michael asks from the drivers seat.
“Oh, it’s fine,” I say.
“That’s all?” he asks.
The pain is a hot knife in my shoulder. I don’t think about how I appear and pretend I’m Michael and remember nothing. Then I say,“Ya, that’s enough.”