The whirr of the motorcycle is an antioxidant, my entire body responds to it involuntarily decompressing. I see Remy at the top of Gravel Pit Road speeding towards me; my instincts move to autopilot. But I can’t help but wonder, if I hadn’t had this silly device on, would this have been necessary?
“What happened?” Notable concern all over his face, he revs the gas, surveying the small cliff-faced cul-de-sac, eyes squinting against the dawning light.
“Nothing. The music just stopped.”
“You didn’t see anything?”
“No.”
“No people?”
“No.”
His jaw grinds, vigorously scrutinizing the ravine, “Hop on.”
Throwing my leg over, I wrap my arms around his chest and we head down the snow-covered road towards home. The sound of the spiked tires is hypnotizing, but the cold wind on my face is a wake-up call. I catch my breath trapped in the horrific truth that we both know H.S. is biding his time. It’s simply a matter of when.
Without a word, once we’re home, I strip off my cold, wet clothes and head for the bathroom with my eyes down. This is not a conversation I want to have right now. But after I take a quick shower, Remy is strategically waiting for me in the bedroom talking on the phone. I sense his turmoil from the threshold. Poised, sitting up against the headboard, the morning light softens his face for a moment before he hangs up mid-sentence.
“Did you just hang up on Burgess?”
“He was rambling.”
“That’s harsh.”
Tossing his phone on the bed, I brace myself for nothing short of a passionate interrogation. “I’m not sure I want you walking alone anymore,” he states.
Here we go. “That’s the whole point of the hike, to be alone.” I adjust my towel.
“Danielle runs every morning. Why don’t you go out with her?”
“Ah. Because Danielle runs, and I walk. Besides, I need time to myself, and I don’t want to talk to anyone that early in the morning.” Especially Danielle. “I don’t even want to see anyone that early in the morning.” Especially Danielle.
Readjusting his pillows as I pick through a pile of clothes from yesterday, as he offers, “What about me? What if I walk with you?”
“Rem,” It’s hard not to cave. Sitting down on the bed next to him, I focus on his now ice blue eyes as I state honestly, “I will not live in fear.”
“Dammit, Steph!” he explodes.
Pulling back instinctually, the conversation immediately shuts down.
“I’m sorry,” he states quickly, aware of my affliction. “I get it,” he reevaluates. “It’s your thing. I’m just . . . I’m trying to protect you.”
“I know you are, and I love you for that. But we have to live our lives.” Placing my hand on his chest, I repeat, “We have to live our lives, Rem, or they win.”
Nodding with that thought, lips pursed, he looks far away; far enough away, not to see the eyes staring back at him. The sun streaming through the window drapes across my back in an attempt at distracting comfort. Getting up, I notice a handwritten letter addressed to me, it’s open and sitting on the suitcase next to his side of the bed, “What is that?” I ask jerking my head.
“Nothing. A political solicitation. They’re writing personal letters to try to win over voters. Can you imagine?” he responds off-handedly, slipping the envelope into his back pocket.
“From out of state?” I scrutinize, then decide to leave it. There’s already too much turbulence.
His phone rings, and he jumps up and walks out the door without so much as a nod.
Grabbing my coconut moisturizer, I sit down on the rocker across from our bed lost in thought. Spreading the white cream from my toes to my thigh I notice, my hands are shaking. Staring out the window half an hour later, feeling confined, I’ve procrastinated long enough. Not exactly dressed to impress, but at least I’ll be warm in long underwear, jeans, two sweaters, a hat, and fingerless gloves, the complete opposite of my previous California office gear of a bathing suit bottom and a tank top for sure.
While walking up the creaky old stairs of the back hall to our offices, Remy’s voice fills the cavernous space above me. At the top of the landing, I pause, absorbing the intent of his words.
“Our previous Nevada licensee lost their license for non-compliance fifteen days after not being able to handle a recall of their vape products. In fifteen days, they were forced to sell! That put Mad Hatter out of business after a two-year rollout. Two years and millions in the hole, they were finished. Shut down without appeal! I told them they should work for the Department of Energy.” He pauses, “They submit their own non-compliance reports, after the fact. The world only knows what happens at nuclear facilities based on what they confess to! Have you ever heard of something so unbelievably stupid? And here they were chasing down every vape cartridge in the state of Nevada because the lab report was faulty, and the dosage was under the allotted ten milligrams!” He stops abruptly. “What the fuck!”
My eyes close before I turn left quietly into my office. Always go left.
The Nevada debacle was a big deal. One of our biggest territories, it took a year to find our new licensee, plus another four months training, to be where we are now re-launching. Two steps forward, three steps back, seems to be the natural cycle of things. Climbing on top of my yoga ball, I take another useless deep breath and decide to send a quick email over to Horace and Miles for backup. Maybe, they can channel some of Remy’s anger that I seem to be on the other side of.
Preparing myself for today’s headlines, all I see are dreamer families being deported back to countries where they’ve never lived, women and girls protesting inequality, plane crashes, and another school shooting. As I stare at the faces of the victims' parents, my heart breaks. None of this makes sense! A tear falls onto my desktop as the breaking story about the explosion in Phoenix takes center stage.
The gruesome video of the still uncontrollable fire, glowing oddly green, is allegorical. The world is going backward, engulfing itself in darkness from ages that preclude civilization. Closing my laptop, I take a moment. Walking over to my window sill I stare out, the view of the gentle hills surrounding our valley is unhindered and filled with long golden shadows. But my mind turns towards H.S. in the park, his hands around my throat pushing me into the sand, while another darkness filled my vision, extinguishing all that was good in my life.
Heavy tears suspend in the corners of my eyes. My hand to my throat, I take empty breaths. I know why this is all so painful. Life is still, no more important now than it was a thousand years ago, or even a hundred years ago for that matter. We just can’t seem to move forward, or we don’t want to. Placing my hand gently over a cricket in the window, I deposit her into a geranium on my sewing-table desk while Remy strolls in without a care in the world.
“So, whatcha doing?”
“I shouldn’t read the news.” I blink out the tears.
Identifying my disjointedness, he confirms, “No, you shouldn’t. I’m disgusted every day. It’s like ancient Rome out there. Instead of gladiators, we have streaming television distracting us twenty-four hours a day. They raise taxes, cut social programs, and over-regulate our lives because no one is watching! Nobody cares as long as they have WIFI. It’s the end of society and democracy as we know it!”
Realizing he isn’t helping, he stops abruptly and redirects me to the right corner of my desk. “Come here.” Bundling me into his arms, he asks, “Do you have enough light in here? Are you warm enough?” He gets up and throws another log into my woodstove, before offering, “How about another cup of tea?”
“I’m fine.” Bolstering myself, I ask, “Do you have crickets in your office?”
“Crickets?” He shakes his head no, holding the mock-up of CiviliTea in his hand, standing among a wreckage of packaging print outs on the floor. “What’s the feedback on this from our licensees so far?” He hands it back to me with a gentle smile.
“Well, everyone has agreed to donate one hundred percent of their proceeds after cost to the ACLU.”
“This is a success story.”
“Yes. Yes, it is. I think a lot of people are tired of complaining and are ready to do something. I know I am.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“You should be.”
He comes in for a much-needed kiss, but Danielle knocks on my door. “Good morning,” she calls out from the doorway, awaiting an invitation.
“Good morning, Danielle. How are you today? There’s coffee on the table.” I nod over to the silver set, sitting on the table below one of my husband’s paintings of a spindly, lemon tree imprisoned in a tiny terra cotta pot. It still manages to offer prodigious fruit regardless of its circumstances. I keep it near for inspiration, and know Esmé reinforced that thought when she sent us the real lemon tree that’s also struggling in its new environment downstairs.
“Thanks, Stephanie. Would anyone like anything?” she asks, smiling and pouring herself a cup before sitting on the couch across from my desk.
Remy and I both decline.
Danielle is stunning to behold in Lu Lu Lemon floral leggings and an eggshell cable knit turtle neck. Long-legged, her sable skin glows with or without light, setting off large, golden-flecked, exotic eyes. Her tightly cropped hair, which would be boyish on anyone else, defines her strikingly sharp features and long-limbed body, which is X-game fit. On top of that, she’s smart, whip smart, and expels a constant no-nonsense, don’t mess with me attitude that I’m sure, enabled her to survive being captive at the park for as long as she was.
“It’s beautiful out there today. I saw a small deer on my run this morning.”
“That’s cool. Where were you?” Remy asks.
“Right up behind your house.”
He raises his eyebrows at me like see I told you. But an awkward chill runs down my spine. Hopping off my desk, he inquires, “So, what’s on our plate for today?” Then plops himself down on the couch next to her, ready for action.
“Well, I hope you’re medicated this morning.” She flashes him her bright smile. “Because you’re going to love this.”
I know she’s only talking to Remy, because I’m not going to love this. Danielle rarely jokes, and when she does, I rarely laugh.
Ignoring my silence, she begins to lay out our call with our licensee in Nevada, “As you know, the launch has been bumpy between their infantile team systems, and lack of communication between department heads. Either too much inventory is being made or not enough and they won’t listen to reason.” Her honest frustration is appreciated by both of us as she continues, “To make matters worse, now that recreational twenty-one and older use is coming into play, the regulators are clamping down even harder.”
“We’ve seen this all before,” Remy breaks in. “Burgess and I believe the alcohol lobby is getting the better of the regulatory boards. It makes sense. Alcohol has been the legal kingpin since Vegas’ inception, and now legal cannabis is a threat since public companies can’t invest in them.”
“It seems the regulatory board agrees with you.” Danielle hands both of us a sheet of paper containing a long bullet list, then she turns serious, “While they’re scrambling to regulate recreational use, they’ve decided to change the regulations of medical usage to match recreational regs, except for dosages.”
Wait. “What does that mean?” I ask. “Do they even have recreational regulations out yet?”
“Nope. Although, they’re throwing around some crazy ideas.”
“Like what?” Remy inquires, readjusting his legs.
“Well, for the time being, they don’t want any color or imagery that’s sensational.” She air-quotes, “Or descriptive words on the packaging, like coffee or tea.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask, my brows transcendent with visions of our verbose, stylized packaging streaming through my mind.
“It means any product you want left on the shelf at a dispensary has to be white labeled immediately with a simple description and very little imagery or color until they figure all of this out.”
I blink.
“They have new compliance language for the packaging, too, and of course, everything has to be preapproved before it goes to print.” She looks at me dryly then repeats, “Every SKU.”
My mind races through the thirty-three SKUs we have in that market. “And this is temporary?”
She nods.
“Great! That should only take three months to redesign and print! Jesus!”
“What about the medical products that are on the shelves already?” Remy inquires.
“It has thirty days to sell or be destroyed,” she sounds-off like that’s not incendiary before continuing, “The biggest caveat is that you can no longer use the word “mocktail” for your cannabis-infused drinks,” whipping this out, she closes her mouth in anticipation of my response.
“What do they want us to call them? They’re mocktails for Christ’s sake! A mock cocktail: margarita, cosmo, daiquiri - no liquor! We designed them for the Vegas market!” I look to Remy for backup. Nothing. Where the hell is he? Remediating my frustration, I jump up from my yoga ball.
“You can’t call them cosmo, daiquiri, or margarita either, it can’t sound like alcohol,” Danielle adds, as though I didn’t hear her the first time. “They suggested you call them fruit drinks.”
“Fruit drinks! That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard!” My temper flies as they both annoyingly underreact. I walk out the door and cross the hall into Remy’s office. I know that the Nevada dysfunction will work itself out. With time, rash nonsense usually does. My concern is Remy! Where the hell is he? Catching myself, I turn around as Danielle has followed me in with Remy finishing a sentence on a conference call to the Nevada team that is now in full swing.
“I’m sure Stephanie will have a mock-up templated for you to run by the state within twenty-four hours.”
I feel his stare. I’m incumbent in the deep-set window sill, I say nothing and agree to nothing, my legs swinging with disdain. The CEO at the other end of the speaker phone, is scrambling. I feel for him, sort of. I mean, what did he expect? The cush, corporate position he was lured away from by the seduction of cannabis cash could never have prepared him for this. But at least he still has his benefits and a salary, regardless of what they sell or don’t sell of our products. Disenchanted, avoiding both their eyes, I’m drawn to an image pinned to the wall behind Remy’s paper-free, behemoth desk while they’re talking. I read:
1800 People Killed in Fatal Highway Tanker Explosion!
The print out is noticeable because there’s nothing else but a cannabis newsletter, pictures of surf breaks and a couple of drawings tacked to his wine-cork bulletin board that spans the length of his stainless-steel doctor’s desk. Notes scrawled in pen below the article are too far away to decipher as the call comes to an end.
Standing up, Remy leans against his desk, facing me, inadvertently blocking my view, “So what do you think?”
“About what?”
“Danielle, would you give us a minute?” he requests, as all six feet of her leaves the room with effortless grace.
I brace for conflict.
“What’s going on, Steph?”
Taking a deep breath, the dam breaks, “I don’t know. Where should I start?” I point towards Danielle closing the door. “The world’s gone crazy! And there’s nothing I can do about it!” Angry tears fall as Remy slides next to me in the window seat. Placing his arm around my waist, he holds me for a moment, my head surrendering to his shoulder.
“Maybe we’re jumping in too fast, too soon?” he states rhetorically, his head on top of mine.
“I just want to be able to go for a walk and not feel like I’m being stalked. I’d like for us to go to a party and not have a gun put to your head! I’d like to run a business like a business! Is that too much to ask?” I feel the veins on the side of my neck bulging.
“Listen. These are just coincidences. There’s nothing to be worried about,” he claims, “We both thought coming out here with all this space would be good for us, a chance to put things in perspective.” Much quieter now than this morning, he continues, “Maybe, it’s just too isolating.”
My ambiguity is not Remy’s fault. Why am I acting like a child? “I love being here. This was the right choice for us.”
“Maybe you’re taking on too much.” His calm, now hazel eyes match his thermal sweater perfectly as they swarm with thought, penetrating the board behind his desk.
“You heard Danielle. I’m going to spend the next two to three months reconfiguring- temporary packaging.” I air quote.
“She can help with that.”
“I’m good.”
He stands up, shifting his weight, “Sweetie, I know you’re an amazing multi-tasker. You can’t even sit on a beach without getting a tan.” He smiles, and I laugh. “But seriously, Steph, you don’t need to take all of this on by yourself.”
My head nods with recalibration.
Kissing me on the forehead, he wipes my tears with his thumbs, “I love you.”
“I know. I love you too.” For a moment, I’m at ease, before I walk back into my office. Clicking my calendar, there’s no shortage on my to-do list. I figure I have 10 days to nail all of this new packaging before it needs to go to print, and since we’re leaving for California in 2. I better get my ass moving.
Plowing ahead, I open the first file from Nevada for review, but Remy’s voice distracts me from across the hall, “I’d be ignorant if I were to say, not to partner with investors outside the paradigm of cannabis, with our lack of access to traditional banking, we all need to be creative. Companies like Kultivation Industries have given biased access of hundreds of millions of dollars to a select consortium of cannabis groups in Canada and the U.S. But they’re not just investors, they’re investor partners, which means they now own a majority stake in the cultivation, manufacturing, and retail dispensaries in twenty-nine legal states, as of today. A monopoly has taken over under our very noses!” Paper shuffles for a moment.
Hopping off my yoga ball, I walk across my office floor now scattered with print-outs of packaging mock-ups, and pour a cup of now lukewarm tea from the serving tray.
Picking up again, Remy continues with dangerous calm, “Why is the protocol for cannabis transportation in some states similar to that of nuclear materials? How is that even possible? Nuclear waste. What danger does a truckload of pot possess to the public?” He pauses. “The munchies?” Paper shuffles again. “When you see the impact of a radioactive disaster, like the one in Phoenix, it’s mind-blowing. Why is a recreational drug being treated as a class seven material? Why is a plant that has been proven to cure cancer, Parkinson’s, epilepsy, and an array of other conditions, while treating a multitude of symptoms without any side effects, manifested for transportation and tracked seed to final sale?” Pausing for a moment, my attention becomes fixated on his words, “There has never been evidence of a fatal overdose of THC or cannabis in its natural form and yet the marijuana pill Marinol has been cited for causing at least four of more than 11,000 deaths from seventeen different FDA-approved substitutes. The hundred million dollar question is no longer why marijuana is a schedule one, but why drugs like Marinol are schedule three and easily available to the public? Why do we need a chemical substitute for an organic substance that can be sustainably grown?” The tone of his voice changes, causing the hair on my arms to raise as he continues, “Because they can’t patent a plant! That’s why!” The angry silence that suddenly encumbers my office, chillingly brings to mind– our previous motto of keeping a low profile, don’t be the tallest dandelion in the field.