Going to Chaos
With Maui heating up, especially for yours truly, I had to consider going to Chaos. Talk about desperate. . . To set the scene, my prospective partner Tom has just found an ammo box full of cash, enough to finance a new adventure and then some. We’d struck a deal: If he found some money (two million bucks had washed down our gulley during a flash flood), I’d check out Chaos, considering doing a major grow there. I was stoked when Tom found some dough, not so much with fulfilling my end of the deal.
I’m telling you, Mikey, Chaos is a great opportunity. No one is growing pot back there.”
“Too busy making moonshine?”
“It’s a different culture.”
“I bet. One I wouldn’t fit in.”
“No offense, but fitting in isn’t one of your strong points.”
Tom was right about that. Although I did fit in well at Grateful Dead concerts, with my long hair, good vibes, and cool attire, I rubbed the Establishment the wrong way. I blamed it on the pesky drug laws that kept us apart. Also, on their uptight worldviews. Something I hoped to change with my philanthropy. My long-term goal was raising world consciousness, ending war, and legalizing pot. Like a beauty contestant, I wanted world peace. Unlike baffled beauty contestants who majored in cheerleading and cosmetics, I had a viable plan. Well, a plan, anyway. It wasn’t my first plan. That one involved being the world’s first tone deaf god of rock. It hadn’t worked out. Especially after creepy free-lance journalist Gerry Rivers (now calling himself Gerardo) got editor Jann Wenner to put me on the cover of Rolling Stone. Usually that’s magic for a musician’s career (just ask Dr. Hook), but in my case the headline said: Meet Señor Bueno! World’s Worst Musician! The smarmy subhead demanded: Move over, Yoko! You’ve lost your crown!
That pissed me off. Did they have to use exclamation points?
I needed a reality check. “Come on, Tom, you really think we could grow high-quality buds there?”
“Lucky and I did.”
I’d never seen that pot and I had my doubts.
“Tell the truth, how good was it?”
“It was the best around.”
“You mean the best around Stinky Hollow? Where no one else grows?”
“Doesn’t mean it didn’t get you high.”
I’d heard about those buds from Lucky. I couldn’t remember him comparing them favorably to Kona Gold. Then again, Tom and Lucky, inexperienced growers at the time, didn’t know what they were doing. The results were inconclusive.
“No offense, Tom, but I can’t change the world with mediocre buds.”
He smiled. “With you involved, how could they not be great?”
Ah, Tom knew how to stroke my ego, always an effective move. I felt the lumps on my head smoothing out with the bloating and I smiled back. Modest though I was, when it came to growing pot, I was an egomaniac. All the best growers were.
I showed humility. “You’re probably right, but I’d have to give up this cool house and go somewhere I won’t fit in. Or enjoy.”
“If you work on your personality, things will go easier for you.”
“Why does everybody say that?”
Tom just laughed.
“Culture is one thing,” I said, “but environment is another. Chaos is a festering hellhole of heat, humidity, and swamps. Also, alligators, poisonous snakes, and more mosquitoes than Hawaii. Some funky stuff, too.”
“I thought you hadn’t been there.”
I smacked my head. “Shit. It’s really that bad?”
“Only if you’re outside. Indoors, it’s, uh, well, it’s somewhat better. . .unless you don’t have air conditioning. Except for the snakes and gators, it’ll remind you of Happy Valley.”
Another hot and humid place full of venomous bugs and one I did not wanna be reminded of. You never saw so many centipedes. Despite the promise of venomous bugs, I remained unenthusiastic.
“I suppose you have something better lined up,” said Tom. I detected sarcasm. Also, skillful use of his psychology degree.
“Um. . .”
“Or isn’t raising world consciousness important anymore?”
Talk about peer pressure.
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