It is now the
middle of October, and in the past ten days, I haven't had time
to write in my journal. Unlike the preceding weeks in San Diego,
I've had no space for ruminations, rueful or other.
First of all,
I pulled my crop. Actually, amazingly, those mothers are
harvested. Not dry and clean yet, but once that's done, I swear
to God it looks
like I'll make close to forty pounds of high quality weed. I am
flat
floored. The weather did its thing, CAMP didn't catch me, rip-offs
missed me,
the deer avoided my patch, and Kiki, John and Reg had given the
ladies enough
water to make for a beautiful finish. Now if mold doesn't attack
the plants
drying in Brenda's shed, and if choppers with heat sensors don't
beam in on my
treasure, and if I don't get stopped on my way south to Marvene's,
I will have
sixty, maybe even seventy thou. Wow!
The second big
deal is that Kiki has accepted my proposal. More or
less. Provided I offer a dwelling a little more substantial than
my threadbare
tent. What she has accepted is that we are a pair, a duet, bonded
like geese or
wolves. That's her way of putting it. I'm still no naturalist.
So much for
the good news. On the darker side, stuff is coming down hard. Like
a Federal Grand Jury being formed in Eureka to facilitate pot indictments
and
prosecutions. There are also a lot of heavy threats to confiscate
land on
which weed has been grown. That means that we, the growers, will
have to become
guerillas in a serious way.
The forces of
Law and Order have announced that they took a hundred thousand
plants out of Humboldt this year, and they promise to do as well
or better next
year. That figure, according to their estimates, represents about
35% of the
crop in this county alone.
In translation:
millions of dollars, and endless hours of raiding and pulling,
results in 35% of the crop being seized in one county in one state
in the whole
country. This is eradication? What would it take to really wipe
out the whole
pot crop in the 'U.S.of A.'? What remains beyond me is why someone
hasn't come
to the conclusion I would if I were, say, the President, with those
figures on
my desk. "Hey, this is popular stuff! Why don't we legalize
it, and tax it like
tobacco or liquor, and pay off the deficit!"
The above is
a dream scenario. The reality is that they, all those guys who now
have lifetime jobs with the DEA or whatever arm is involved, insist
they need
more and more money and manpower to bring success to their venture.
Of
course. Oh yes, and by the way: the next step under discussion is
the spraying
of Paraquat all over the hell and gone of grower country. I have
a suggestion:
Agent Orange would be great. A better life through chemistry, as
the ads used
to say.
Brenda is leaving.
She's going to hang around the various capitals of Europe
for a while and try to enjoy her money. Well, maybe she won't enjoy
it all
that much, for a while. She is mourning Eagle deeply, and I know
she will for
some time. She asked me to go with her. That was what she had on
her mind when
she talked to me after the funeral, but when I told her what was
happening
between Kiki and me, she shrugged and said, in the really casual
tone that
means she's upset, "Well, hell, why don't you rent my house,
then? I think it
meets the standards of a decent dwelling for these parts...or whatever
it is
that Kiki wants."
My response
was measured. "Wow! That way, I could grow on your land, and
save
mine from confiscation. And they couldn't take it from you, because
you'd be in
Europe, and you obviously wouldn't know what was going on here..."
Brenda held
up her hand. "Whoa. Hey, let's be a little more subtle. You
and
Kiki go ahead and live here in my house, but you don't grow a goddam
thing on
the place except a veggie garden. Then on your place, you grow all
you want,
but you maintain the fiction that you've got a renter up there.
Like a single
guy named Jethro Cooz or something. You write up a lease, deposit
a small sum
from your sales in a bank account...say 1200, and call it your rental
property
account. Make sure it looks like you've got an honest to God rental
going. Fake
it with empty beer cans and dirty blankets and everything. Then
the only thing
you've got to watch for is that you don't get caught taking care
of the
plants." I ran Brenda's scheme through my head. Grandpa Funk
sure would be
proud of her. It was more subtle than my idea, and it would put
me in a more
protected place as a grower. I liked it. So we signed a lease for
her house
the next day. She put $500 in an account at the B of A, and told
me sternly,
"Don't ever be late with your rent, Larry. Or I'll kick your
ass out on the
road. $250 a month is a steal. I could rent it to any friend for
twice
that. Carve that in your brain pan in letters of fire, family or
no."
She's right.
So I hereby vow that I'll pay my rent on time. I'll also try not
to worry too much about my baby sister all alone over there in Europe,
maybe
drinking too much. Or skiing down a slope she's not ready for.
Okay, Funk,
enough. If she knew you were conjuring up mental torture games like
that, she'd barf.
So, in a screwy
way, my dreams are coming home to hatch. I better not count
them until they're all in one basket, like money in the bank.
Now, as my fourth
winter here moves in, and the storms start marching down from
Alaska, I'm writing the last entry in this journal. For the year,
maybe
forever. As Kiki says, change is growth. So for a change I won't
spend my
evenings scribbling in a notebook. I'll watch Sat-TV.
I'm sitting
on the floor in the front room of Brenda's house. (We saw her off
last week, with flowers and champagne, the works. But she made the
biggest
fuss over the bottle of Wild Turkey that Kiki gave her.) I might
mention I am
sitting on a bare floor. Kiki having refused to use any of Brenda's
things,
rugs included. She won't empty her own place, however. That's sacred
ground or
something. So she has laid down that it's up to me to supply suitable
furniture. She did concede to keep Brenda's woodstove, which is
puffing merrily
away at this very moment. So at least I won't freeze. Am I getting
pussy-whipped?
Whatever I am
getting, couplewise, I guess it will have to include a bed, a
table, and three chairs. No.., two beds. Got to have one for Rain.
(Do they
come with steel bars?) It's not enough that I pulled the best crop
ever, and
would like to rest on my laurels for a little bit. No, I've got
to go shopping,
blast my way into consumerisim and make like a papa bird bringing
sticks home
for the nest.
So starting
tonight, I'm going to study the Sears catalog. Kiki has warned me
I'm going to be shocked at the prices, but not to worry, because
we're pretty
well off. I guess it takes a heap of shit to make a house a home...and
not the
chicken kind I had on the mountain. Kiki says we can fill in the
gaps at flea
markets: old lace curtains, plant stands. What is this thing women
have for
curtains and furniture, anyway? Did cave women change the stones
around in the
caves to suit their fancy? Like Freud said, what do women want?
If anyone can
answer, my next question is: why?
Okay, I'll admit
I've still got some doubts. Will Kiki and I make it? Will I
pick out the right carpet? Will Spiro have to be housebroken? Will
I be able to
grow next year? Heavy questions. I think I'll adopt Kiki's approach
and think
about it tomorrow.
But enough of
this scribbling into the gloom of night. Our next
address...temporary of course...will be Mazatlan. After that, another
season in
the Humboldt County hills. Furnished.
Kiki is now
rubbing the back of my neck and making purring sounds. Sears can
wait. As another diarist or two has said: "And so to bed."
