Thanksgiving was sad without Otter around, and Rabbit was understandably subdued. Marge put together a nice spread anyway, with traditional pumpkin pie instead of the usual clowny brownies. Marty empathetically imagined his father, picking at a pasty piece of pie at Denny’s under fluorescent lights, and ogling the waitresses. Mike’s dog, Keno, pulled the turkey off the table before it was put in the oven, but fortunately Marge was glued to the TV, and they had a chance to cover up the situation. Mike washed off the carcass discreetly, and turned the chewed side to the back where it couldn’t be seen while cooking.
“The oven was ready, so we put the turkey in for you, Marge,” Mike announced (with slightly too much enthusiasm) as they returned to the main room.
Marge looked at him oddly. “Um, thanks.” She went back to the parade in New York City on the TV.
“Can we watch some football?” Mike inquired entreatingly.
“Shhh! This is the best part.” It was the Snoopy blimp advertising a life insurance company.
“C’mon, let’s go outside,” Marty suggested, “It stopped raining.” There had been a bit of drizzle that week, but not enough to turn the yard into a swamp just yet. The redwoods smelled fresh and spicy, as they always did before they got too much rain. The creek was up a few inches from its summer low, and Marty knew that soon it would be a raging torrent again. A blue jay hopped from branch to branch, and yelled at them for invading his space without bringing him something to eat. Keno cautiously ventured out from behind the shed, uncertain if Mike was still mad at him. (He wasn’t.) They tossed a football around for a bit, then split some firewood, returning inside with arms full of logs to find the TV unguarded, so they switched it to one of the bowl games.
Marty recalled his experiences playing football, and wondered why it was so preeminently popular in America. It basically made guys smash into each other as hard as they could, with the intent of demolishing their opponent. Then they acted like they were sorry when he couldn’t get up. It was no different than the gladiators of Roman days, he decided, except we have cuter cheerleaders. The whole debacle was fabricated as an excuse to broadcast commercials that made you buy things you don’t really need. On TV, the fans in the stands were going crazy, dressing in costumes, painting themselves in team colors, and living and dying for their favorite players. Marty now considered it all just a ruse: a child’s game for the amusement of the masses, to keep them from running outside and shooting each other because their neighbors were different.
Back at school after the holiday, Chas and Iggy were buzzing about The Wall, a new album by Pink Floyd. It was their best since the seminal Dark Side of the Moon, which was one of the greatest rock albums of all time. The rumor was they were also making a movie as an accompaniment to the record. The themes of isolation and alienation were profoundly affecting to Marty. It was rock art on a grandiose scale. Sometimes he felt like a cistern into which poured artistic floodwaters from several directions at once.
“We don’t need no education
We don’t need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the classroom
Teacher leave them kids alone”
The holiday season brought many new opportunities to buy things, and in order to buy things you needed money, for which you had to trade your life in measured increments of time. Marty realized that, in effect, he was investing the time of his life when he spent his money, and must choose wisely. Would he really trade the equivalent of two hours of his life for that pair of shoes, which he might wear a couple times before tossing them in the closet? Marty chose to trade his life for books and records, which were his life. They were bricks he used not for walls, but for foundations and bridges on which to expand his awareness. Oh, and he also traded for pot, to enhance the expansion and application of said awareness.
One crisp day, he wandered through the park-like redwood forest, down to the little cabin overhanging the creek, to score some weed from Paula. He wasn’t home, so he sat on the dam and watched the water pour through the chute.
“Hey man, what’s up?” Chas sat down beside him. He had also wandered down to see if he could get some herbs from Paula, who was out of town.
“What?”
They walked away from the dam so they could talk. Marty told his friend how things were with Michelle, and Chas listened, and that was what he needed most: someone to listen sincerely to his point of view. Chas repeated his former advice that he should give up and find another girl, and Marty predictably ignored him. He just wanted to be heard – he didn’t care to make his lot any better. He felt as if he’d done all he could do, and it still wasn’t enough to win Michelle’s heart.
“Hey, why don’t you come with me and my dad to work today?” Chas offered with a gleam in his eye. “I think you need a change of scenery.” He told Marty his dad was a contractor, and was building a house in Corte Madera, way up on the hill with a killer view. Marty figured it was better than moping around the Rusty Bucket Sanitarium, so he shrugged and followed him back to his house. His family lived up on Spring Road, about a half mile from the creek by road, but a trail up the ravine cut that distance considerably. His mom had recently moved out, leaving his dad with the three kids for the time being. As the oldest son, he was taking it pretty hard. Marty consoled him sincerely that he knew how he felt, and the best he could do was look after his younger siblings. Parents were beyond hope of rehabilitation. He bugged Chas to tell him what sort of work they’d be doing, but he wouldn’t offer any clues, saying only, “Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”
His dad was big and tall with a wide, stern face and wavy gray hair, and a no-nonsense attitude that bordered on rudeness. He extended his customary, gracious welcome to the hippie forest boy. “What the fuck is he doing here?” He glared at Marty with thinly veiled hostility, as if a drag queen had walked into a redneck bar.
“Well, you said we needed help, and Marty’s very responsible.” Chas was looking at him sidelong, reminding him wordlessly to keep his mouth shut and let him do the talking, so Marty went along with it. “He practically runs the pet store in San Rafael.”
“What, are we robbing a bank or something?” Marty joked with incredulity, trying to lighten the mood.
Jersey (that was his name) wheeled around and pointed a thick finger at him. “Are you a narc?” He had a commanding stare that demanded an answer.
“What? No!!” Marty protested with vehement surprise, “I hate narcs!” He wondered, what the hell am I getting myself into?
Jersey paused and exchanged a meaningful glance with Chas, then pointed at two metal toolboxes. “Bring those.”
Chas raised his eyebrows and grinned triumphantly at Marty, as if he’d passed a test. “What’s going on?” Marty whispered urgently as they headed for a battered Ford F-150 pickup.
“Just be cool and watch.” Chas whispered back, “You’ll love this. Trust me.” They put the toolboxes in the back, and hopped in obediently, while Jersey backed all the way down their long, steep driveway. Marty expected they’d be going to the house in Corte Madera, but the old Ford puttered east over the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge instead, exiting in an industrial area near the railroad tracks. Jersey pulled into an abandoned storage shed and stopped, getting out right away.
Chas pulled some coveralls from behind the seat. “Here, put these on.” They were slightly dirty, and embroidered with “Champion Metal Works” on the back. Jersey was pulling one on over his other clothes, so Marty did the same. He got three hard hats and goggles out of the back and passed them around. The three of them now resembled a matching team of construction dorks. “Are we welding or something?” Marty mused out loud, looking around the empty shed for some equipment.
“Yeah, something like that,” Jersey laughed sarcastically as he slapped a magnetic sign on the door of his truck that was identical to the patches on their coveralls. “Get in.”
Oh, Marty wondered, this isn’t the shop? Then why did we stop here? Jersey pulled back onto the main road and drove a few more blocks, winding through a maze of rusty tin warehouses until he got to the rustiest one of all, which also had a now-familiar sign hanging crookedly from its eaves. Chas instructed him that they were to carry the toolboxes and other gear directly inside, with no talking, and no looking around. By then Marty was so damn curious, he would have walked in there naked if they asked him to! What was in that building? Jersey and Chas had been grinning at each other conspiratorially the entire way, and he was pretty sure this was not what it appeared to be. He grabbed the toolbox and a small ladder, and followed them around the dilapidated warehouse to the back, where a heavy iron door on rollers was secured with several huge padlocks. Jersey pulled out a ring of keys, unlocked them one at a time, and clattered the latches open. With a mighty pull, he rolled the corroding door open just enough so they could squeeze inside. He quickly closed and locked it from inside, and it was dark.
The first thing Marty noticed was a faint but familiar smell. No! It couldn’t be! Chas switched on a light, and Jersey pulled open the inner door. A warm blast of moist air, intense light, and cannabis resin washed over them like a tropical wave. Omigod! It was an indoor pot farm! Tall rows of leafy green plants receded down the length of the warehouse, basking under brilliant, gleaming lights. Chas busted his gut with glee, and Jersey hooted at the hippie boy’s slack-jawed reaction, and they all exchanged high-fives. Yeah!! Marty couldn’t believe what he was seeing, with his eyeballs double their size. The whole thing was an incredible ruse! The uniforms, the “Champion Metal Works” sign, the truck… Chas walked over to a tape deck and hit a switch, and instead of the rock & roll Marty expected, loud industrial noises blasted from speakers throughout the building. The dilapidated old warehouse was a sophisticated indoor pot farm, brilliantly disguised as a machine shop! Marty’s mouth continued to hang open in admiration and astonishment as he gaped at Jersey, who was grinning slyly like the coyote who got the chickens.
“This is fucking awesome!” was the only thing Marty could think of to say.
“See? I told you!” Chas was delighted with his friend’s reaction.
He showed Marty the ropes – or hoses – and mostly it was a matter of turning on the faucet and checking the irrigation lines for leaks. The Cannabis sativa specimens sat in large planter boxes made of salvaged plywood, with a network of drip irrigation hoses leading everywhere. The exhaust fans were rigged with furnace filters soaked in motor oil to mask the smell, and the electricity for the lights was about the same as a normal machine shop would use. Marty couldn’t believe the attention to detail. The plants were very happy-looking specimens, and as his initial excitement wore off, he could sense their satisfaction with the growing environment. The air was perfumed with more than the scent of resin – it was infused with peace. All the humans felt this strongly, as they lost their tension and slowly matched pace with the orgy of photosynthesis all around them. Even Jersey was smiling and whistling above the clang and clatter of the recorded industrial din.
“Sure man, but this is a short-term gig.” Jersey lit a cigarette, “I gotta pay off a note on my house, or I’ll lose the whole fuckin’ thing. This is just a way to get some quick cash, then I’m done.”
Marty nodded, unconvinced, thinking it would be a terrible waste of a good setup if he did that. Chas was very pleased with himself, and kept saying, “I told you.” All the way home, Marty was plotting on how he could turn their shed at home into a money machine, given his almost unlimited access to aquarium lights and compost from the pet store. It was a thing to ponder. Only problem was, a fellow could get 5-10 years in jail for growing pot in those days.
While Marty invested his spare time at the factory farm, Christmas was fast approaching, and the mood became festive in journalism. In contrast to the holiday spirit, Marty was cynically outspoken as the “token misfit” of the microcosmic society in the classroom. One day, Michelle overheard him noting sarcastically what a coincidence it was that Jesus was born at the same time as the pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice, as a way of usurping the traditions of another religion.
“Don’t you know that Jesus Christ was born on Christmas?” She interrupted indignantly, and Marty thought she was joking, egging him on, so he countered with another witty retort.
Michelle’s face got unexpectedly red and angry. “Well! I won’t sit here and listen to you say bad things about Christmas!” She spun quickly on her heel and tossed her ponytail, stiffly returning to her desk and complaining to the other ladies of the court about the degenerate jester in the corner. The needle on Marty’s popularity gauge fell all the way to the left and buried its head in shame.
The jester’s entourage suddenly decided they had urgent things to do, and left him alone in his shock and anguish. What did I say? Marty wondered, was she one of those “Jesus people” that Chas was always railing about? He felt terrible. The last thing he wanted to do was to disrespect anyone’s beliefs – especially if it made Michelle mad at him. Should he get up and apologize? The ladies of the court were all staring at him accusingly… he felt his cheeks getting hot with contrition. He opened his briefcase to block their cold stares, and pretended to work while trying to keep from passing out with remorse.
When the bell rang, Marty subtly moved his books and briefcase into a position that partially blocked the door, and when Michelle sailed by – pointedly looking the other way – he had to say something, anything, so he sighed, “Michelle, I’m sorry. That was in poor taste, and I didn’t mean to offend you.” The other ladies nodded curtly and left them alone. Sincere honesty was the right card to play, and he was rewarded with a smile that made the star of Bethlehem look like a cheap ornament.