Roaring like an enormous dystopian portal, the air-conditioning funnel suspended from the ceiling above me, is the last buffer of white noise shielding me from the din of what today will be. The Phoenix Convention Center is a behemoth white space, and yesterday, the first day of this cannabis conference, it was full of clanging, union workers at this time– furiously bolting together thousands of yards of pipe and drape for over four hundred booths. Today, the final day, I can’t help but notice, it's scattered with a smattering of hungover vendors, including myself, teetering to our booths, toting coffee and bagged breakfasts through an obstacle course of discarded and pointless schwag littering the carpeted walkways from yesterday’s onslaught.
"Hey. Good Morning, Stephanie."
“Good morning, Armando.” I exhale, with a smile as the Director of Marketing for our licensee Mellow Dispensaries, arrives pressed and dressed. Definitely a gym rat, his suit fits him well as he hands out a fistful of coffees and bagels to his team of merry millennials who are immediately engrossed in revamping their mammoth four-square booth that is complete with a second-story lounge and full-scale, high- tea party showcasing our products. “It’s been a busy five days. I hope your team is happy with the launch of our products?”
“Yes, everyone is pleasantly surprised by the response to the Mad Hatter products. But I mean, seriously, who wouldn’t want coffee infused with pot? It’s a no brainer.” He smiles.
I nod at the compliment, taking stock of our display within their booth. “I’d like to believe that we have the show stopper here, because it’s over the top.” I say to Armando as he removes his suit coat. “You guys have done a wonderful job.”
“I know. But it’s not,” he admits. “The cannabis industry has gone Vegas style.” Acquiescing, he adds, “Even these six foot long, Rococo chandeliers hanging over a twenty foot long, high tea table, are overshadowed.” Jerking his head towards his notorious competitor, the largest company in Arizona that owns twenty dispensaries, he admits, “When we designed this booth, we thought it would be the bomb. But a mini- Ferris wheel? Free arcade games? An actual replica of their flagship store? It’s like a movie prop. It’s ridiculous.”
I look over at the fake street in front of their store façade, complete with a life-sized, traffic light always on green, lined by a dozen flag poles waving old glory and watch as a parade of scantily clad women prepare to writhe up against them to a thumping bass all day, shaking my head.
“They’re offering free tattoos again,” he states dejectedly. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take,” he adds, while his immaculately combed hair subconsciously surrenders. We both watch silently as a dozen or so ink slingers set up in a corral of mirrors and magnifying glasses perched above a maze of barber’s chairs surrounding the flag poles. “Hundreds of people waited in line for hours yesterday for the chance of a spontaneous tattoo.” He shakes his head.
“Spontaneous tattoo? I ask, as their music takes over. “Who does that? It takes me hours just to choose the perfect nail polish, never mind something permanent.”
Armando laughs. “Yeah. Just be glad we’re not sharing the aisle with them, because it was mayhem over there yesterday.”
My eyes still captivated by the spectacle, I yawn. “It was a late night. What time did your posse finally leave the bar last night?” I change the subject, but his huge, wake and bake bloodshot eyes linger behind me distractedly. Turning my head, I see Laure walking towards us, and hide a smile. “You two didn’t meet yesterday?”
“No,” he responds instantly.
“Well, this is Laure.” I introduce them, “Laure, this is Armando.”
“Hey, nice to meet you, Armando.”
I continue, “We’ve known each other since our college days.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” The thirty-something smiles, shaking Laure’s hand, taking inventory of her fit and tanned olive toned presence.
“Laure’s my remote assistant. She flew out from San Francisco to work the event with us.”
With a nod from her dark, ringlet head, she brushes him off. I note her Jersey assessing. He doesn’t stand a chance.
Faced with yet another defeat, Armando turns towards his team, and under his keen eye, the faux Louis the XIV Lucite furniture is back in its place once the wall-to-wall, plush, red carpet has been thoroughly vacuumed.
On autopilot, Laure and I get to work changing out dozens of flower arrangements on the table that didn’t make it through yesterday, regardless of the unyielding air conditioning. The three foot high, tiered table, the centerpiece of the tea party, is now swarmed by licensee staff replenishing novelty baked goods onto a mountain of empty silver platers. The booth instantly transforms into a ritual of decadence worthy of Antoinette herself. “I gorged myself yesterday.” I confess to Laure. “But I have my eye on a couple of pink truffles that got away from me.”
She laughs, then states questioningly, “It’s almost eighty-five degrees outside, and it’s only a quarter past ten.”
“I know, for the first of December, it’s crazy weather,” I add, snipping the ends of white roses.
“It’s supposed to be a hundred freaking degrees today. How is that even possible? Jesus! Why would anyone live here on purpose?”
“Bring it down, Jersey.” I wink amusingly. But from the corner of my eye, I see Remy barreling around the corner headed straight for me. Fury clearly written all over his handsome face; his athletic stature normally smooth and casual, is markedly rigid and primed. Oh, no. “What’s wrong?”
Head shaking with silent conversation, he takes my hands, and pulls me out of earshot. “I want you to leave. I want you to leave right now,” his angry, blue eyes demand.
“What?”
“You need to leave,” he reiterates.
“What are you talking about?”
“Steph.” He levels me with his gaze, “H.S. is here.”
A shiver floods my spine before I ask. “Where?”
Shifting his weight, his face hardens, “In the reception area with a gaggle of suits.” The blue linen shirt Remy’s wearing involuntarily bulges at his shoulders and chest as he subconsciously prepares for conflict.
I freeze for a moment. "I knew this could happen." I just hoped it wouldn’t.
“I want you to leave. Will you do that for me?” he repeats, his jaw tight, flexing with strain. “Laure can handle this,” the tone of his voice, beyond serious and contestation breaks my heart.
Instantly, every ounce of forward momentum we’ve made in the last six months from our incident at the park– is gone in this single moment. My husband transfigures before my eyes. Frightened, as his infamous Zen calm evaporates, I’m suddenly afraid of what he might do. Leaving is not an option. “If you could just . . .”
“What? Forget?” his voice loud and abrupt, dissects me.
“No.”
“Forgive?” He takes a step back, the look in his eye ungovernable.
“He wins if we alter our lives, Rem.”
Pausing for an inescapable moment, he captures a tear welling in my eye, then explodes, “Dammit Steph! I am not asking! I will not subject you to him!”
“I will not hide.” I hold my ground.
His fists clench while a visceral struggle flashes across his sharp Danish features. He then pulls me into his strong arms, our bodies easing in unison for a moment, as we both exhale. My hands stroking his sun-bleached hair, like tendrils running past his shoulder blades, gives me time to think.
“Okay, you two, get a room,” Laure calls out teasingly, attempting to hide her discernable concern.
“I’m fine,” I say locking eyes with my spouse. “You need to be fine too.”
Kissing my forehead, ignoring the immediate world around us, I see he’s already made an alternative plan.
“Attention vendors,” a strong male voice commandeers the sound system, “the doors will open in ten minutes. All packing materials must be cleared of all walkways. Speakers, please check in at the atrium for scheduling.”
Resigning himself to a different tactic, Remy storms off without another word towards the atrium in brooding silence, while I prepare for the worst.
“Hey, you got this, girlie. Everything’s going to be fine,” Laure interjects. We catch one another’s eyes for a moment like sisters anticipating the other’s feelings.
I straighten my black wrap around dress noting, we could be sisters. With our dark complexions, hair, and root-beer-colored eyes, we look so much alike. My Greek heritage and Laure’s Italian ancestry are mere lines on a map in a history of co-mingling. But it’s growing up in New Jersey that’s bonded us for life, like surviving boot camp. And we all know that Remy and I would not have survived the park last year without her. She may be five inches shorter than I am, but she is no less fierce. I’m thankful Remy suggested she join us here in Phoenix.
With an eye on everyone around me, Laure and I quickly commandeer the ladies’ room to primp our conference gear before the event opens. Looking in the mirror I confess, “I’m a little more disheveled than usual with H.S. running feral.” Straightening my bowler hat, and wiping a few scuffs off of my white Doc Marten boots, I add, “I’m going to need to flex some unfamiliar muscles today.”
Laure gives me a wink, but I feel her strength as we return to our booth.
The first wave of spectators arrives with a level of excitement and curiosity that wipes my slate clean. Smiles on, we handle each inquisitive attendee with kid gloves, handing out CBD samples of our THC products. The lounge upstairs is serving our drinks in hot and iced forms, and a cigarette girl dressed as Alice is handing out coupons and merch swag to all that partake.
“This is fabulous!” Laure whispers in my ear.
Lunch comes and goes without a break and hardly registers. The flow of bodies streaming through the booth, a river of humanity, becomes both exhilarating and a comforting form of camouflage for me. “We’re running out of samples,” I mention to Laure, while she looks under the table at our stash of empty boxes. Then I notice a wave of suits turning the corner heading our way, and clutch the table. Laure pulls herself up to her full height of five foot four like a self-defense mechanism; squeezing in next to me, she’s ready for battle. But the suits come and go with no more than a glance, and luckily, I don’t recognize any of them. “False alarm.”
“Jesus,” she exclaims, shaking her head. “Why don’t you go take a moment, girl?”
“Yeah, I think I will. Listen, Remy will be on stage in a bit. I’ll come back, after his lecture.”
“Sure, honey, no prob.”
Walking away from the booth, I immediately feel the vulnerability of being captured in the public throng. Heading for the bathroom instinctively, my chest constricts. I follow the overhead signs, as there is no way to see beyond the crowd directly in front of me. I’m in a sea of cannabis culture, and each booth I pass has a hawker yelling out, drawing people in with freebies. Spin a wheel and win a myriad of branded yard sale items, enter a raffle and win a cannabis tour, free magazines, free tattoos, dinner with Woody T. Harrelson. It doesn’t stop.
Finally reaching the safety of the tiled bathroom immediately relaxes me. Closing the door to the same stall I visited this morning, finding comfort in minuscule routine, I take a moment to collect myself. But the screaming onslaught of flushing toilets is all I hear; warm sweat collecting under my eyes and the back of my neck is a forewarning as panic sets in. Staring at the floor strewn with discarded tampon wrappers and wadded toilet paper the world is in abstraction before I realize that maybe the reason I haven’t seen H.S, is because he’s afraid of us. Now, that is something to think about. Calmer, my shoulders inch down, as the knot in my throat subsides. With a last look in the mirror, resettling my hat over my almost black hair feeling bolder, mascara unscathed, my courage returns.
In the main lecture hall, I find a seat, always impressed by the ticket purchase power my husband affords us, suppressing a smile. The thirty feet high beige mobile, component walls and throngs of banquet chairs squealing around on the linoleum floor are a crude, behind the scenes look at the reality of running a highly regulated business amidst the smoke and mirrors outside.
Scanning the crowd in front of me, I can easily decipher between the eager newbies looking for tips on initial execution and veterans checking out the competition, before I’m reminded of how different this all was a decade ago. Conferences were vetted, thirty vendors at the most, and although all of us were in the trenches, we had a common foe, we were all in this together. Today, the mom and pops are practically a memory, and the billion dollar headlines have made it less of a comradery. It’s difficult to keep track of who’s who with big corporations gobbling up entire regions of small businesses, only to mark them up, and move them on before quantifying their equity with stock options. “I’m not a child,” I remember telling Remy while we discussed a healthy threshold for profit margins, “I understand the basis of a free market and capitalism, but I will not ignore the foundation of ethics and idealism for economics.”
Readjusting my legs under my seat, a tall well-dressed man takes the stage, “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for joining us for the 2019 Phoenix Cannabis Conference. I am pleased to introduce our keynote speaker. Most of you may know him as the co-founder of The Mad Hatter Coffee and Tea Company, but he is more than an entrepreneur. He is a pioneer, applying science and manufacturing techniques to simplify homogenization and engineering transmission devices for home friendly self-care. This man is also a champion of small business and a tireless advocate for fair and safe regulation within our industry. He is the founder of the ACSC, the Alliance for Cannabis Safety and Control. I am proud to introduce Dr. Remy Beroe.”
I am as tickled as Remy is cringeworthy of his doctorate title, which he never claims, as the room ignites with applause.
Entering through a side door, my husband’s narrowed and now liquid, blue eyes quickly assess the crowd with confidence and a disarming smile. “Good afternoon,” he takes the podium. “Thank you for joining me today. Over the next hour, I’m going to touch upon several aspects of this venerable industry and show you how to prepare your business or business plans for the future.” His smile fades, before he continues assertively, “Whether you are a novice or a veteran of this industry, everyone in this room should be asking themselves one question.”
The screen behind him glows with the words - CAN YOU SURVIVE?
“That’s right, not how do you thrive, but can you survive the onslaught of conservative legislation that is spanning the globe as we speak?” Effectively challenging the room, his long hair runs across his chest as he enjoys the disruption he’s created. “California, the birthplace of personal medical use, is proposing a zero-tolerance cannabis bill for underage kids. Zero-tolerance,” he confirms with questioning brows. “Governors are abolishing cannabis programs with one swift signature as we speak, and regulations have never been more restrictive with no surrender in sight. Add that to the fact that Canada is legalizing cannabis as a federal mandate, along with our present political climate, and the writing is on the wall,” he states, while comfortably donning a blue, shark-skin suit like a rock star. “We need to revisit how quickly the conservative voices of our local and federal governments today are affecting our business practices for tomorrow.” He pauses, “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying kids should have access to cannabis. I’m sure, none of you smoked pot in high school.”
The room erupts with laughter.
“What I am saying is this . . . the prohibitionist stance the U.S. government and state regulators are taking towards cannabis as an industry will continue to cause delays in growth with reprehensible access to banking and financial rhetoric that will affect research and development in ways we will not even comprehend until years from now when Israel, Canada, and Germany have surpassed our great ideas.” He takes a sip of water, one eye on the still room of close to three hundred. Hands firmly weighted on each side of the podium, he refocuses, “The risk and level of investment we as business owners are subjected to is off the charts! There’s no safety net!” He pauses, “As an innovator of technologies, I have personally experienced this– cannibalism.”
The room chuckles.
Smiling, but clearly unamused, he continues, “Our new product for example,” turning towards the screen behind him, an image of his prototype Insta-Dose takes center stage, “a wristband that allows transmission of cannabis for end-of-life patients or chronic pain sufferers through a phone app that regulates and allows absorption directly through their skin was developed on my dime. I put the research in. I built the prototype. But the FDA won’t allow a patent because it’s a Schedule 1 substance, and I don’t want it categorized as a pharmaceutical treatment.” His voice pitches, “So, I watch while Israeli teams of researchers, backed by U.S. funding, develop my invention for patenting outside of the U.S.,” his throat strains, “They are biding their time to beat me to market– here.” He wraps his knuckles then explodes, “With my tax dollars!”
Uh oh. Quickly surmising the audience is reacting as uncomfortably as I feel. I hold my breath.
“I cannot state more emphatically that you are on your own.” His eyes scan the audience, deliberately ignoring the notable pushback. “There is no other industry in the world, more highly regulated than cannabis, including nuclear waste,” he adds abruptly, challenging any naysayers. “Oh. The numbers are there, and several companies across the country are making serious cash, but are you willing to run the gauntlet?”
Readjusting his stance, he propounds, “I am aware of a legislative bill proposed in the state of New Mexico that would ban any gun with over a nine-round clip capacity, for obvious reasons.” The room turns sober. “Do you know why that bill will fail?” He shakes his head, glaring at the captive audience. “Because Smithson and Westoni refuse to manufacture a gun that holds less than nine rounds per clip. Large capacity, automatic weapons are their biggest sellers. And New Mexico would be the only state with that restriction.” Stopping short, he painfully states, “It is counter-intuitive to free enterprise.” Taking another sip of water, blue eyes glowing over the rim of the glass, the audience is riveted. “That statement has never been applied to the cannabis industry, and we’re not killing people! This is not free enterprise! he explodes. “For a national company to survive in cannabis, we have to license with partners within each state, and create multiple, unique business plans and products for each state we are licensed in, as every state has absurdly varied regulations.” His hands wave around wildly, “Oh, you may have a team of investors whispering sweet nothings in your ear with visions of financial opportunities, but they are exactly that. Nothing!” Licking his lips, he asks soberly, “How many of you are investors?” Not one hand acknowledges his question. “There’s a reason for that,” he almost mumbles, pointing to the screen behind him that lights up again. “This is a template for a start-up business plan launching here in Arizona with estimated numbers for a vertically integrated cannabis company. Note the cost . . . tens of millions of dollars.”
A lot of heads bob in the audience.
“This is a reality.” He nods, provoking the front row. “In today’s climate, you can triple these numbers out the door, without question.”
Antagonized, the crowd murmurs with descent.
“Do you want to talk about timelines?” The screen changes behind him to a calendar for launch that he gleaned from our friend Miles Venery. “This is a boots-on-the-ground timeline from one of our colleagues in Nevada. As you can see, they are two years and over fifty million dollars in, with absolutely no ground made.” He pauses, “They haven’t even launched yet.” Licking his lips, he lets that soak in, as a hand flies up in the air. “Yes,” Remy acknowledges the interruption, of a sixty-something in a striped, button-up, “you have a question?”
“I’m sure we’re all aware there are risks in the cannabis industry,” the pale, Germanic mid-westerner, recently retired to the desert belt states, standing up like this is an AA meeting. “But seriously, it’s just another business. I come from the world of finance and running businesses, no matter what they are . . . it’s just a formula. If they can’t make it happen with fifty million dollars, they’re doing something wrong. These seem like scare tactics.”
Remy grins, honing in. “So, your question is?” His surfer nonchalance, distinguishing him from any other speaker or cannabis CEO within five hundred miles is boyishly deceptive.
The man stutters.
“Look, I can stand here and literally, blow smoke up your ass. If that’s what you want?”
The crowd laughs.
Seizing the moment with a devilish grin, his eyes now fiercely bright blue, Remy responds, “Seriously, this is not any other business– period,” he almost growls, pointing his finger at the newbie, “And frankly my friend, the more you know about traditional finance, the more handicapped you will be.”
The man sits down.
“This is a witch hunt!” Slamming his fist against the podium, the sound echoes against the walls. “If you’re naive enough to base your financial projections on the half a dozen positive developments in cannabis over the last year,” he exclaims, desperate for another heckler. “You’re missing the fucking point because there are three times that in challenges that will rear their ugly heads in the same amount of time! There’s no algorithm for that rate of return in this arena! If you want peace, plan for war!”
Oh no. Recognizing his favorite quote from John Wick, he finds me in the crowd. Locking eyes, I nod slowly hoping to calm him.
Everyone around me is glued to their seats out of fear as he changes his tactics, “Listen, if you were a shoe company, you could make your shoes anywhere in the world and distribute anywhere in the world, using materials from anywhere in the world at the cheapest prices. The gift of free enterprise, right?” Everyone nods. “In cannabis, it’s the complete opposite. You must cultivate, manufacture, and distribute within individual state lines if you want to make a profit. And every single day,” he appends, his voice rising again. “Someone on a local committee somewhere, feels the need to place further restrictions on the paradigm. In Colorado, for example,” he refers to a manifest for tracking seed to sale cannabis that displays on the screen while the lights dim. “Every time a cultivator, extractor, manufacturer or even a retailer moves their own cannabis products between their own facilities,” he emphasizes, “they must bag and electronically re-tag each product with state-approved barcoding. Then they are required to scan and load it onto a state-approved vehicle that must travel a state-approved route within a twenty-four-hour period from one destination to the other. And mind you, every tag, costs money, and every time you enter this information into the state tracking program you are paying someone to do it.” Letting the weight of that transparency sink in, he pushes, “Not even nuclear waste is controlled to this extent. NUCLEAR WASTE!” The veins of his throat protrude as he unsettles everyone and anyone who’s had the audacity to doze off. The room is mute for a moment before the screen changes to a revised business plan that’s smaller with a longer timeline.
“To survive,” he catches my eye and adjusts his collar, “you need small goals. Even if you have millions, you need to scale back, watch the market, walk the gray lines, and be creative because you probably won’t have a bank account, credit cards, or simple lines of credit. Which means– hard money.” He looks at the heckler, “Don’t assume you know everything. Read the signs. And most importantly . . . don’t panic.” Smoothing his jacket, the room is transfixed.
I exit quietly, the weight of his struggle heavy on my heart as the stress of his anxiety upsets my stomach. The reality of constantly fighting against corporate monopolies that are out of our league, has been a real challenge for Remy, and the sole reason we decided not to partner with Miles. And his anger and resentment for the company that literally tried to kill us last year and the regulatory committees that stand in the way of our success under the guise of moral protection; is coming to a head, I feel it.
Miles and Horace have been an amazing support group, mentoring Remy in ways I cannot connect. Miles, always the voice of reason, and Horace, never not stunned by an incredible idea; have both been simultaneously feeding Remy’s strengths while attempting to tame a harbored anger towards government, capitalism, and more specifically, H.S. But is it enough?
Thinking back to the real tipping point when the FBI claimed, they had “no recollection of any event at the park last year,” even though they had two agents on the ground with us, my fingers clench. Remembering how every news channel, except Horace’s, ran with incidental stories about a silly group of American tourists who accidently trespassed on a Latin American island during a military training exercise. Really? Who does that? My body tenses just thinking about it.
Crossing the main thoroughfare, the Trichome Industries billboard sized sign above the maze of arcade games, and tattoo chairs before me is a conundrum. I just can’t figure out how a public space like this could be sterile. Slowing down out of curiosity I notice binders next to each tattoo chair, like ordering a birthday cake at a bakery, the large book contains 4 to 6 choices of generic tattoos per page. Thumbing through, there is an assortment of hearts, friendly and cute animals, infinity marks, and tribal band tattoos. While perusing the impersonal imagery, an intimidating, if not handsome, Thor-esque, thirty year old with an enchanting smile walks up to me.
“Would you like a tattoo?” he purrs.
Hmm. It seems so, bad boy. But no, I don’t want a tattoo. Although, I could see myself wanting to explore the darkness of it all.
Baring shockingly white teeth in a knowing response, he asks, “Is this your first time?” His full arm sleeves bulging out of a Dickie’s button-up, dappled in vibrant colors are a story. Not just an ornament, they make me wonder how he could spend his day stamping strangers with these imitations.
“I’m late for a lecture,” I respond, walking away.
His voice calls out from behind, but the crowd consumes me.
“Hey, Stephanie.”
“Oh. Hi, James. How’s it going?”
“Great! But I saw Remy this morning, and he looked pissed.” James’ dark eyes accentuate his bushy questioning brows like a caricature, as he asks, “Anything I should know about?”
I’m positive he read Remy correctly, but this is a private matter. “No, nothing you should be worried about.” Memories of sharing an infusion kitchen with him that was as big as a closet in Colorado when we were all starting out flood my mind. I like his punk style; it reminds me of my New York City days.
“Good, there’s enough bad news floating around here today.” He straightens his black, skinny-tie, and pops a tic tac nervously.
I’m sure they’re infused. “Anything I should know about?”
He lowers his voice, his Chef Blais pompidou jiggling, “There’s a cannibal running around Phoenix.”
“I’m sorry. A what?”
“A cannibal.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. I’m serious. They found a fourth victim in ten days this morning, not far from here; poor bastard.”
“That’s . . . gruesome.”
“Wait, it gets worse. The killer’s removing flesh while they’re still alive.”
“Ok, that’s . . . eww.”
“I know.” He reaches down, realigning the brightly colored boxes of gummies, tic tacs and tinctures displayed on his table haphazardly. Distracted by the next wave of curiosity seekers, he adds, “Well, I know Remy always has his ear to the ground, so if there is something I should be aware of, let me know Stephanie, ok?”
“Will do, James.”
I pass a couple of other people I know, but can’t talk myself into stopping. I don’t need any more bad news. Grabbing a cookie from the concession stand, I shovel it in my mouth making my way back to our booth. From a distance, Laure is a queen bee in a hive. I barely make it through the crowd surrounding her, when a camera crew shows up.
“Hi, I’m Clare Rubane, from the News Network. Can you tell us about your company? What are you doing here?”
Smile on, I begin, “We specialize in artisanal, infused, coffee beverages and are launching our products here in Arizona through Mellow Dispensaries.”
“So, your cannabis-infused coffees and teas are available for people twenty-one and older to purchase here in Phoenix now that it’s legal?” the enthusiastic reporter asks, her singsong voice, spiced by a hint of posh, British nuance.
“Yes.”
“Are you the owner? Can you tell me your name please?”
“I’m the co-owner. I’m Stephanie Beroe.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“My husband and I started in Colorado in 2007, so, about twelve years.”
“That is impressive.”
“Thanks. Please, head up to our lounge and enjoy our products.”
She runs her delicately, manicured hand across her neck, and a black-attired, cameraman immediately pulls the camera down from his shoulder. “That was great. Thank you. Do the products upstairs have cannabis in them?”
“No, I’m sorry, just CBD. We can’t serve cannabis in here.”
“That still sounds fun. Thank you.” She walks away with an involuntary entourage of stargazers following closely behind. Once the crew is safely upstairs leading the gaggle of onlookers, the walkway in front of our booth is almost empty as the conference halls are now full of speakers and their audiences.
Happy with the outcome of the interview, Laure turns to me, “So, how did Remy do?” she asks.
How did Remy do? “He did great,” I respond.
“Mind if I take a break?”
“No, honey. Go ahead.”
“Thanks, doll.”
With an hour to go, I pull up a chair and give my dogs a rest. Through the waning crowd, I easily see Remy walking towards me, his body at ease, brings a smile to my lips.
“So, what did you think?” he asks, planting a kiss on me. I notice he’s calmer than before, but still dissecting the crowd.
“I thought you were great! Dynamic, honest, and interesting.” I pause. “Very passionate.”
“What does that mean?”
“What? You were passionate.”
“In a good way?” He squares his shoulders.
Quickly thinking this through, I offer, “I believed every word you said was heartfelt. Everyone in the room would agree with me.”
His eyes purse while estimating my statement. “You think it was too much?”
“No. But there were moments you were a bit . . . intense.”
“Steph, you’re either with us, or you’re against us,” he proclaims, surprising even himself. “I’m going to walk around some more, and see what I can pick up.” Turning away, he’s obviously, insulted.
“Remy.”
A glare is my response.
I quickly change the subject, “We had a camera crew here. You just missed them. They led an entire crowd upstairs.”
“People are such sheep.”
“Not everyone.” I smile, flirting.
“Seriously?” His tone turns contentious. “Have you ever listened to Tim Ferriss’s podcast?” he asks looking around annoyed.
“You know I don’t listen to podcasts. Who's Tim Ferriss?”
“He wrote, 4 Hour Work Week.”
“OK.”
“People actually, need to read a book to figure out they should be working less, but smarter? And this bozo takes all the credit?”
“Are you high?” My patience grows thin.
“That’s not the point.”
“What is your point?”
“People are sheep, Steph. Throughout history, they’ve committed the most heinous crimes against each other.” Looking down at his cell phone, he proliferates, “Every day there are more stories about unimaginable things. We’ve led innocent people into ovens, off cliffs, into biological warfare, atomic war! When does it end? When does it fucking end?” Jaw clenched, his eyes narrow.
I notice the list of things he didn’t declare and decide not to bring up the serial killer as he slips his phone into his jacket pocket, before turning away.
“Wait.”
“I need to make a phone call.”
Remy walks past Laure as she returns confessing, “I’m glad this is almost over, my feet are killing me. Besides, I’ve got a date!” She grabs her bag from under the table, “I’ll call you after I get home tomorrow.”
“Have fun.” I don’t ask for any details because I know Laure is dating Tyler, H.S.’s son. Our actual arch enemy’s son! I mean, I like Tyler, but it’s just too close. And I can’t be too excited if she’s got a date with someone else either. “Thanks for all your help, Laure. It means a lot to me.”
She smiles and gives me a kiss on both cheeks, before heading out.
The male voice returns over the loudspeaker, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the conference will be closing in five minutes. Please head towards the exits.”
I’m relieved knowing, not only will I be sitting down to a proper meal within an hour’s time, but I also don’t have to pack anything up; one of the perks of being handled by an organized licensee. My phone buzzes with a text from Remy:
Meeting Tony from R&D, going over last-minute prelims for their launch. Looks like I won’t make dinner. I changed our flights tomorrow, we leave early, five a.m. There’s an issue in the New Mexico kitchen I have to oversee.
So much for dinner.