Green

I had moved to Hogtown with slightly less than a quarter ounce of weed, and it was steadily dwindling fast. This was before it was legal. Long before. Under usual circumstances I would have saved up to buy a considerable amount before moving to a new city, but a month before I moved, my connection Bicycle Andy had decided he was a dealer and didn't like that. Or, rather, his girlfriend Ivana had decided he was a dealer and she didn't like that. She didn't like me either. The two might be related. 

Bicycle Andy and I didn't talk too much in the last month before I moved, and as a result didn't bring a considerable amount with me when I moved. I brought whatever I had left. Which wasn't much. 

I kept my eye open at Taggs for a possible fellow pothead, but nobody seemed particularly hip. Byron in giftware seemed particularly square.

One day I was walking down Queen street, daydreaming, when some back part of my brain, a part built for business, rarely used, noticed someone I had just passed had whispered “Green” to me as she walked past. 

Skidding to a halt, I turned. She was short, sporting a backpack, and looked vaguely homeless. She was also walking away. I could see her mumble to other people as she passed by; others she ignored completely. I must look like a pothead, I thought to myself with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. 

I didn't want to walk up behind her to ask about it, so I watched her closely. As she reached Spadina Avenue she crossed the street and then began back my way. I jaywalked across Queen and stood casually on the sidewalk in front of Tiki. 

She took longer on this side, since two people stopped and seemed to buy off her. That seemed like a good sign. When she finally walked toward me, it was impossible to tell if she recognized me from three minutes earlier. Her face was completely impassive. In fact, she barely looked at me as she mumbled: ‘Green. Hydro.’

‘How much?’ I asked. 

‘Dime bag is twenty.’ she said, blandly. Her eyes scanned the street around us. 

‘Dime means ten.’ I told her. 

‘Thanks for the edification.’ she said. ‘But it's still twenty.’

As some wise asshole had once said: beggars can't be choosers. 

‘Alright. Gimme one.’ I told her. For all I knew she was selling oregano. Or catnip. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that I wasn't going to get anything off whatever she was selling. But I had no other leads, so ... yeah. 

She nodded her head toward a nearby parking lot. ‘Come over here.’ she said. My paranoia raised its ugly head. I had seen her sell to a couple of people just down the street, they hadn't had to wander off into a parking lot. Or had they even bought? I hadn't seen her pass anything over. 

Blowing air out through my nose, my mind deliberated safety and financial security over getting high and listening to Mingus. Mingus won out. 

I followed her into the parking lot, but I was wary and ready for anything. There was no way she was seeing money before I had anything in my hand. My paranoia, however, was unwarranted: she had four tiny plastic bags filled with green in her hand before I had even stopped walking. ‘Whichever you like, they're all the same price.’ Each bag had tiny green pot leaf symbols stamped all over it. The content inside looked exceedingly green. Like way too green. Almost fluorescent. I was used to a much browner and duller product. But, when weighing other options ...

I handed over a twenty to her, and took the baggie which looked like it was holding the most, though they likely all weighed the same. ‘Thanks.’ I said. ‘How can I get in touch with you if I like this stuff?’ I asked.

‘I'm usually around this area.’ she said, and wandered over toward the Silver Snail. 

I looked down at the little bag. It was so ridiculously green. No way it could be real. 

When I got back to my place I pulled the case containing my record player from beneath the bed, set it on the small table in front of the window, and unsnapped the latches. I placed a Mingus record on the turntable, Tijuana Moods, and set down the needle. 

I pulled the bright green whatever-it-was from the plastic and split into three. If it was good, I wanted more than a single bowl out of it. 

Stuffing some into my pipe, I lit it up. Mingus bopped on the vinyl. I exhaled out the window. It wasn't the best weed I'd ever smoked, but it wasn't catnip.