by Giano Cromley

It was a mile and a half sprint to the truck. During the twenty minutes it took me to get there, it's safe to say I experienced an onset of the Skeebers. I reached the truck and looked around to make sure no one had been following me. My legs and arms felt like rubber bands and I had a sour taste in my mouth. But I was in the clear. So I pulled a bunch of heavy-duty trash bags from the pickup and triple-wrapped the pot plants. Then I hid them in the bed of the pickup underneath a bunch of old tools and lumber.

I was halfway back to the pot field when I ran into Slate. He was walking casually, all cool smiles and church tune-whistling.

"I called it in," he said. "It's not our problem anymore." Then he looked at his watch. "Getting late. We ought to get back to the office."

When we pulled into the company parking lot I told Slate to go on ahead. I then transferred the garbage bags into the bed of my pickup.

Inside, Slate was standing near the water cooler, sipping from a big plastic mug. He was telling some of our coworkers about the pot field and how he'd reported it. He said it all with a look of real serious disgust, as if he couldn't decide which he hated more, the pot growers or the fact that he'd had to call it in to the government. Eventually our coworkers cleared out and it was just Slate and me standing at the cooler.

"You might want to get those scratches checked out," he said, his voice all Ward Cleaver-y.

I looked at my arms and saw just how badly I'd gotten nicked when I took my fall. The scratches were deep. Blood had leaked from them and clotted in brown streaks on my skin. My face felt pretty raw too. Only when I looked at it later in a mirror, would I see how badly it had been messed up – like I'd gotten into a wrestling match with a mountain lion. Suffice to say, I wasn't the prettiest guy in the world anymore. Not that I was ever Mr. Good-Looking to begin with.

"Any big plans for the weekend, Trigger?" Slate asked over the rim of his mug.

"Can't say as I do. Probably chill out."

"That's good," he said. "You just be careful now."

It was funny, but somehow over the whole pot field incident, we'd bonded. I think Slate looked at me the way you'd look at a son who you love, but who just does the wrong thing every now and again.

+++++

When I got home that night, I hauled the pot plants into the basement. They were green and moist, and I knew I had to dry them out before I could do anything. So I strung them from a ceiling beam with wire coat hangers and then just looked at them. They were beautiful, in a way. They hung down like three velvety cave bats, their tips almost touching the floor.

There'd be enough dope on those babies to last me a good long while. I'd have a monster stash that wouldn't run out for years. Because that was my plan. Completely selfish. I was going to keep that pot for myself, maybe share it with a few select friends when they came by – even though I didn't officially have any friends in Eureka yet. We'd crank up the tunes, fire up the grill, and bliss out. It was going to be like living the American Dream. At least my own personal version of it.

Of course I'd have to wait a while for them to dry out. Which was an arrangement I was cool with. But I couldn't deny that I still felt that case of the Skeebers jumping and flopping in my stomach.

The next morning, when I woke up, I noticed a distinct odor in my house. I hadn't expected my cave bats to be so aromatic. When I stepped outside, I could smell it on my clothes and in my hair. Even my breath smelled like it. I had to close my windows for fear that the thick, sticky scent would drift out into the street and completely blow my cover.

I spent the weekend locked inside my house. But I wanted to tell someone about my good fortune. I mean, how can you keep something like this to yourself? I considered calling Sherise down in LA. I even dialed her number once or twice, but then hung up when she picked up the phone. In the end, I decided she probably wouldn't share my enthusiasm for my little windfall. Especially since, when I left LA, it wasn't exactly on the best of terms with regard to our relationship. No, probably best to no tell her about the pot.

So I just strutted and fretted all weekend long. All by myself.

+++++

When you have that much pot growing around a place people get jumpy. Too much pot equals lots of trouble plus boatloads of paranoia. That's an equation worthy of any math book.

That next week at work I tried to lay low. Slate and I went out into the field twice. Things were fine between us. I acted completely normal and he listened to his radio shows and griped about this or that. It was only the days when I was at the office that I felt a little heat. Not directly. More like conversations I'd overhear in the lunchroom or in the hallway outside my cubicle. I determined to mind my own business and play dumb.

One thing I've noticed: being dumb is easy; it's a lot harder to play dumb.

But I kept my cool and I waited. And each day my cave bats got drier and drier. I could see their leaves turning gray. Crystals formed on the buds like frost on the morning grass. I started calling them my Little Bundles of Joy. I named them Patsy, Jude and Clementine. I started feeling bad for the day I'd have to trim them down and wrap them up and put them away in my freezer. But I didn't get silly about it or anything. I've learned it's best in life to avoid emotional attachments; they can really snare a guy if he isn't careful.

Also, my scratches weren't healing great. In fact, they weren't healing at all. If I'd've been smart, I would've put some peroxide or Mercurochrome on them right away. But in all the excitement, I'd totally forgotten about it. Pus started to form in the scratches, kind of yellowy and hot. I wore bandages to keep them hidden, even though it made me look like a mummy. And then they started itching like nothing you'd ever believe. It was a crazy, burning itch I could not shake. I'd squirm in my seat at work, willing myself to let well enough alone. That was some kind of torture, I can tell you. At night I'd get home from work, rip off the bandages and start scratching away like I was sharpening my nails on my own skin. Goddamn, that felt good. It was almost purifying.

Of course, my scratching only caused them to run with blood all over again. So I'd let them breathe a while, then wrap them up for work the next day. It was a cycle I could not break.

+++++

I think the whole thing would have worked out great except for one thing: my truck. That goddamn piece-of-shit Chevy. Why did I ever get that thing? I should have gotten a Ford. Any fool would have told me that. Maybe the fact that I had a Chevy is proof positive that I am an incurable imbecile. Who knows?

I was driving home from work in my Chevy a few weeks after my tumble into the pot field. All of a sudden, I heard this thumpa-thumpa coming from underneath somewhere. Then the thumpa-thumpa turned into this loud clanking for a few seconds and finally it turned into a grinding shriek. Metal on metal. Not good.

I pulled over and called a tow truck from the payphone at the gas station on the corner. The mechanic – who may or may not have been a shyster – looked at my rig and determined that it was my transmission. Excuse me? Transmission? How much is that going to cost?