One of the challenges of being a pot farmer is finding labor to help with trimming buds at harvest. You need a good pair of hands, and people who can keep their mouths shut. I had visions of blindfolding everyone before bringing them into my lair, but opted instead for hiring retired, old people who still want to serve a purpose.
One such person is Helen, from Redneck, Wyoming, whom I met during a road trip in 2011. She had just finished chemo for breast cancer and was eager to smoke what I had brought into her RV Park that summer. I listened with great enthusiasm about her stories as a Playboy bunny in the 60s, as we sat smoking around her fire pit, her handsome cowboy boyfriend doting over her every need. We became instant soul sisters and stayed in touch for over two years by phone and email. And then, one day she confided to me that her handsome cowboy boyfriend was caught receiving a blow job from the neighbor down the street. The neighbor it turned out was a dude.
I can only imagine what she must have been going through, having only recently lost both her breasts to cancer, and possibly along with it, her sexuality. And what about her cowboy? Was he always gay, or bi-sexual? Or just trying to get some lovin’ from anyone in small-town USA. To say the least, my girlfriend was hurt and confused.
“Come to Seattle next month and help me harvest,” I suggested. “My baby’s at God-college so you can have her room.” She went crazy-eyed when I handed her a joint in the arrival area of SeaTac airport. I dragged her ass all over the Seattle metro, getting my elderly Bunny high in every possible touristy place. She peed her pants when I showed her my secret garden. Helen was in heaven, and a world away from dick-sucking buckaroos.
Time for Work
I invited my spry 69 year-old friend Joe to help out on the first day of harvest. He’s been a member of the chronic crew since I chanced to meet him on my daily walk by the retirement center. I smoke out the two seniors on Grandpa’s Old Cough Medicine, and hand them trays of freshly-cut branches. They wear thin green latex gloves and each wield a pair of sterile pruning scissors. I draw the living room blinds, light incense, and provide trimming demonstrations. They are fascinated, curious and quick learners. Soon they become happy little trimmers.
And, as an added benefit, the two of them really hit it off while watching Louis C. K. on Netflix. It wasn’t long before Joe got out of his seat and moved over to Helen’s sofa, carefully balancing his tray in the process. He whispered something in her ear, as I left the room to go hang up the trimmed stems in the basement. Quietly, I snuck back up the stairs and peeked around the corner. They are gone. Then, I hear giggling sounds coming from my evangelical daughter’s bedroom! Oh no! Are they having geriatric sex? All that loose skin? Saggy balls? Christ!
I slink back towards the kitchen, making noise to alert the lovebirds that I am in the vicinity. They sheepishly return to their duties, like they had just been busted. They couldn’t stop grinning from ear to ear. Only half-joking, I said, “I hope you used protection”. “Why,” said Helen, “It’s not like we’re going to get pregnant.” “No, silly rabbit, because STDs are on the rise in your age demographic.” It was funny, and extremely awkward at the same time. They were both glowing.
They said their good-byes that same afternoon, wondering if they will ever see each other again. I took Helen to the airport a week after she arrived. Wouldn’t you know she smoked that joint down to the nub before stumbling out of the car, still smiling ear-to-ear. “Best vacation of my life,” she said.
So not only did I get my entire crop harvested, but also I managed to make two old people happy in every possible way. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to wash the sheets.