Green Harvest Quest
“I went into the woods because I wished to live deliberately…”
— Henry David Thoreau, Walden (1854)
TREASURE MAP
It’s 2:30 p.m. on Tuesday, and I’m drinking alone in a dive bar. Not because I’m an alcoholic, but rather because I’m unemployed (okay, maybe I’m a little bit of an alcoholic). The point is: I’m in a rut, and day-drinking has become one of my favorite pastimes. So, that’s why I’m in a dingy bar in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon, drinking Modelo Especial and listening to “That Was a Crazy Game of Poker” by O.A.R. on the jukebox for the third time in a row.
But it’s time to go now. I have business to attend to. Chug my beer and leave. It’s a short drive to Carlos’ apartment, so I don’t give a shit that I’m tipsy. I don’t know how Carlos affords his apartment since he too is unemployed and makes his living as a drug dealer.
Carlos is a sketchy guy — but he’s got a quirky charm, so I don’t mind. I’ve been buying weed from Carlos for six weeks now (we were introduced to each other by an acquaintance after my old drug dealer got arrested for trying to buy three hundred fake Viagra pills from an undercover cop for God knows what reason). Although medical marijuana is legal here, there’s still a booming black market. I wonder what Carlos will do when they finally legalize it for recreational use. Carlos doesn’t seem like the type to work nine to five. No, he’d probably just start selling coke instead as a middle finger to “The Man.”
Two guys (who are wearing hoodies even though it’s summer) are leaving Carlos’ apartment when I arrive. People are always going in and out of Carlos’ apartment. He’s a popular guy. Good for him.
“What’s up, dude? Come in.” Carlos leads me to the living room and gives me a plastic bag containing a quarter ounce of weed. “You’re lucky you caught me when you did — this is the last of it.”
I pass him a wad of cash. “Thanks.”
“Friend of the Devil” by the Grateful Dead is on the stereo.
Carlos procures a blunt and motions for me to sit with him. Dread sinks in when I realize I’m going to be stuck here for the foreseeable future. I don’t mind smoking with Carlos, but I’d rather just go home and get stoned alone. I don’t feel like socializing these days. I just don’t see the point.
I don’t know what to say, so I try to make small talk. “Those are bad luck, you know?”
“What’s bad luck?”
“White lighters. They’re bad luck. Everybody knows that.”
Carlos lights the blunt anyway. “No way, dude. Today’s my lucky day.” He takes a long drag on the blunt, then hands it to me.
“Oh, really?” I puff on the blunt, cough, pass it. “Why?”
“You like that shit, dude? This strain is called ‘Malayan Civet.’ Potent shit. It’s sativa.”
“Civet? Isn’t that what they put in perfume?”
“No, dude, I think it’s, like, an Asian weasel.”
“It smells like perfume.”
“No, I’m telling you, dude, it’s — ”
“Who cares. Why’s it your lucky day?”
“Oh yeah. It’s a wild story, dude.”
“What happened?”
“My Drunk Uncle died.”
“Drunk Uncle?”
“Yeah, mama said the poor bastard drank himself to death. Got too drunk and fell off a camel at the petting zoo. Or something like that. She didn’t wanna talk too much about it.”
“Wow. Well, I’m sorry about your — ”
“Anyway, the drunk fucker is dead, and mama’s the executor of his estate. This morning, she asked me to help her sort through all his shit.”
“Oh yeah? Any cool shit?”
“Tons of cool shit, dude.”
I see where this is going. Carlos must’ve inherited a million bucks from his Drunk Uncle. Or maybe he found a Fabergé egg hidden among all the junk. If that ain’t the American Dream, then I don’t know what is.
“Like what?”
Puff, puff, pass.
“So, I went in his attic looking for shit to pawn — I’m sort of tight on cash right now — anyway, I found a scroll stuffed inside a bong — like a message in a bottle, dude. Guess what it is.”
“No.”
“Just guess.”
“The Declaration of Independence?”
“Seriously, dude?”
“Just tell me.”
“It’s a treasure map.”
“Treasure? Like pirate treasure?”
“Magic Carpet Ride” by Steppenwolf comes on the stereo next.
“Yeah, dude. It’s a map of my Drunk Uncle’s farm — this big hog hunting property called Buzzard Ranch. It’s, like, a million acres or something like that. And apparently, there’s a secret weed farm hidden on the land.”
“Why does your Drunk Uncle have a hog hunting property, and — more importantly — why is weed growing there?”
“My Drunk Uncle grew weed. Lots of it.”
“No shit? So, it runs in the family — selling drugs.”
“Whatever, dude. So, will you help me or not?”
“Help you what?”
“Harvest the weed, dude.”
“Harvest?”
“Yeah, dude. We can leave tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning? I don’t know, I’m kind of busy…”
“Bullshit. You’re a bum just like me. You should be proud of it. Besides, what else have you got to do — sulk inside that shithole you call a bar?”
“I’ll pass.”
“Come on, dude. I need your help. You’re the only person I know with a truck. How will I transport the weed without a truck?”
I roll my eyes. Of course. The truck. When you own a truck, there’s always somebody who needs to borrow it. I’m used to it by now.
“We can split the yield fifty-fifty. How’s that sound? Hell, we could even go into business together if you want…”
“I need a job, but not that kind of job.”
“A job’s a job.”
“How do you even know the weed farm is there at all? Maybe the plants died. They won’t survive long on their own.”
“Have some faith, dude.”
“What’s your plan anyway?”
“We can park at the hunting lodge and hike from there. It’s thirty miles there, and — ”
“Thirty miles?”
“ — when we find the weed, we’ll harvest all we can carry and return later for the rest.”
“Show me this map.”
The map is crude but legible. The route follows an old fence until it reaches a forest. On the final leg of the hike, the sprawling savannah gives way to denser foliage. A red “X” marks a spot deep in the interior woodland of Buzzard Ranch. I flip the map over — there’s a note on the back: If you’re reading this, I’m dead. I’ve lived a life of many secrets. I lied about investing in “Bitcoin.” My wealth is from growing marihuana. This map leads to my secret stash. Finders, keepers. Godspeed…
“Who knows if it’s even legit? What if it’s, like, an elaborate prank he set up when he was blackout drunk or something?”
Carlos shrugs. “That IS something he would do…”
“I don’t wanna go on a wild goose chase.”
“Want any more of this?” asks Carlos, offering me the blunt.
“I’m good.”
Carlos performs a party trick known as “Wu-Tanging” — he inhales the roach and swallows it whole. This is cool when you’re sixteen, but now I think it’s psychotic and juvenile. I don’t know why Carlos insists on doing it every time we smoke a blunt (but he does).
“Already Gone” by the Eagles comes on the stereo next.
Before I leave, Carlos says, “Promise me you’ll think about it.”
“Think about what?”
“The map.”
“Oh, yeah. Look, I don’t know if it’s a good idea…”
“Nah, dude, it’s a great idea.”
“I gotta be real with you — it’s a dumb idea.”
“It’s a fun idea, dude.”
“It doesn’t seem fun — it seems dangerous.”
“Exactly! It’s safer if we go together. You know, like, the buddy system.”
“Okay, fine,” I say to appease Carlos, “I’ll think about it.”
“See you tomorrow, dude.”
I’m drunk and high, driving home. “Dance Hall Days” by Wang Chung is blasting on the stereo. Windows down, the crisp summer wind blowing is in my hair.
Lazy summer — a hot, lethargic mood persists. Being unemployed during summer is a magical, bittersweet thing. It’s like you’re a kid on summer vacation again. The downside is having too much free time. It drives you crazy. I feel like I’m caught in a rusty bear trap — and soon I’ll have to gnaw my leg off to escape…
I’m driving too fast but don’t care and swerve into the parking lot with reckless abandon and park crooked in the spot and drop my keys when I stumble out of my truck.
Inside my apartment, there’s a twenty-gallon aquarium housing a school of brilliant tetras. They don’t have names — there’s just too many of them. I haven’t counted in a while, so I’m unsure how many are currently in there. I sprinkle fish food into the tank and watch them eat. These guys are my little buddies. I got them one day when I was drinking alone and wanted some company. When I get too stoned, I talk to them and ask them what they think about LIFE, THE UNIVERSE, AND EVERYTHING. They have some pretty fucked up opinions on the matter.
No food in my apartment. Ice cold Diet Coke for dinner. I’m not hungry anyway.
Bong hits.
Can’t sit still — do some push-ups while The Texas Chain Saw Massacre plays in the background.
Another bong hit.
Stare at the lava lamp on my nightstand for an hour without moving…
More bong hits.
By now, it’s past midnight. I should write. Stare at the blank document on my computer screen. Nothing. Slam the laptop closed.
Upon losing my job, my plan was to capitalize on the downtime and finally get around to writing the “GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL.” I’ve been writing a manuscript for a while now but haven’t found the gumption to finish the damn thing. I’m just too depressed to write — it’s worse than writer’s block.
Unemployment should be a writer’s dream come true. Working life makes writing difficult. You must carve out time for yourself — even if that means staying up until 2:00 a.m. It’s tortuous, but I do it anyway — because I love it.
They say college is the best four years of your life — that you’ll make lifelong friendships there. Bullshit. There’s nothing special about the friends you make in college (or any friends at all for that matter). I’ve lost touch with my college “friends.” Even my fraternity brothers and lacrosse teammates are just distant acquaintances now. Turns out many of them were fair-weather friends or just not real friends at all. How did this happen?
In hindsight, I can see how I neglected those friendships to my own detriment. Friendships are fragile — they’ll wither away and die if you’re not paying attention. I took those friendships for granted. At the time, I was self-absorbed and unreciprocating. It didn’t help when I had a severe manic episode after graduation (can you blame them for distancing themselves from me?). Everybody went their separate ways and drifted apart. I fell off the grid, became a stranger to them (and to myself). I tell myself this is all just a normal part of growing up — friends come in and out of your life like a revolving door, and you can’t do much about it. Time marches onward. The days pass slowly, but the weeks pass fast. Sometimes I think about my old college buddies and remember the stupid fun we had and wonder how they’re doing now and if they’re as lonely and jaded as me.
Nowadays I keep to myself. The Loner Stoner. It’s easier to just do my own thing. You get used to being alone. It’s not so bad. I don’t need any friends.
Of course I’m apprehensive about Carlos’ proposal. It’s crazy. What if we get lost and die out there?
But lately, I think it would do me some good to step out of my comfort zone. I’m in a self-destructive spiral, doing all kinds of pathetic bullshit to occupy my time. Anything to avoid the uncomfortable truth of my present situation.
Carlos is right. I’m too lazy to fill out job applications, and I can’t write — it’s not like I have much going on.
Furthermore, I love the outdoors. Always have. When I was employed, I never had time for camping. I was a paralegal at a big, fancy law firm downtown (you know the one). I worked long hours, reading lots of boring legalese and writing lots of boring legalese. The high-stakes, detail-oriented work was enough pressure to drive anyone to madness. The grinding monotony made me feel like I was walking underwater. So goes the Kafka-esque existence of the average office drone.
Plus, I sure could use the money I’d make from selling the weed. I’ve never sold drugs before, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m living off my meager savings for the time being and can already feel the desperation creeping in. I have bills to pay (and it doesn’t help that I’m spending all my money on weed). I can’t live like this forever…
Besides, I want to know if it’s true. Is it a real treasure map? Is there really a mythical weed field lost deep in the wilderness? These questions capture my curious imagination…
Fuck it — I’ll go.
GREEN HARVEST QUEST
It’s difficult to maintain friendships as a Working Adult. Everybody’s tangled up in the Grand Bullshit we think is “LIFE.” Nobody said it was going to be like this, but what did I expect? I don’t know — but not THIS. Everything is so fucking BORING. It makes me SICK. Is it ALWAYS going to be like this? THIS is LIFE? I can’t believe I have to do this bullshit for the rest of my LIFE…
Where’s the Thrill? Where’s the Action? Where’s the Beauty? Where’s the Magic? Where is God? Have you seen Him? Me neither.
Why did I lose my job? It doesn’t really matter. All that matters is I couldn’t take it anymore. It was a relief when they fired me. Fuck that job. Who wants to “live” like that?
LIFE is out there waiting for you if you’d only go looking for It. What are you waiting for?
During the drive to Buzzard Ranch, I’m struggling to hold a conversation with Carlos. I realize I don’t really know him that well. Typically, I visit Carlos’ apartment to buy a sack of weed, and the whole interaction lasts no more than ten minutes. Sometimes he invites me to stay and smoke with him, and it’s always uncomfortable. It’s weird hanging out with him outside that context. Better get used to it — there’s a long journey ahead of us.
My truck speeds down a dusty country road. We’re smoking a joint with all the windows rolled up to keep the smoke in. “2am” by Slightly Stoopid is playing on the stereo.
“I mean, come on — ‘Opium den?’ — even Chinese crack-houses sound fancier than ours! Can you believe it?! And the thing is — ”
“Carlos — what the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying, dude…”
“Who cares if China has better trap-houses? It’s not like — ”
Red and blue lights…
“ — oh SHIT!”
A state highway patrol cruiser…
“Hurry — ditch the weed!”
Carlos frantically rolls down the window and tosses the joint out the window, waving away smoke with his hand.
“We’re fucked!”
“Just be cool, dude.”
I pull over, and the cruiser does too. A state trooper exits and comes to my window. His badge says: “SGT. ARMSTRONG.” He lowers his aviator sunglasses and asks, “What do we have here?”
“Uh, just driving?”
“Right.”
Sgt. Armstrong examines my license for too long — I’m worried he’s going to say something about it. Finally, he hands it back to me. “Know how fast you were going?”
“I wasn’t speeding, I just — ”
“Save it for the judge! Now, where y’all headed?”
I consider lying, but say, “Buzzard Ranch.”
Sgt. Armstrong’s demeanor changes. “Why…?”
“We don’t have to tell you,” says Carlos.
“Shut up, dude,” I say, elbowing him.
“I suggest y’all drive somewhere else,” says Sgt. Armstrong.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Are you being funny with me, boy?”
“No, sir.”
“…And more importantly… what’s that SMELL?!”
“Uh… nothing? It’s nothing. We, uh… ran over a skunk…?”
“You’re talking crazy, boy.”
“Look, I can explain, we just — ”
“You think I don’t KNOW? Y’all been smoking dope! I can tell by your glazed over eyes and that stupefied look on your faces. Well? How — do — you — plead?”
We say nothing.
“Be straight with me now, shit-bird — if I search the vehicle, am I gonna find any WEED? Any PIPES? Any GRINDERS? Any other WEIRD drug paraphernalia?”
“You can’t search us, dude. You don’t have, uh, what’s it called? Probable cause, dude,” says Carlos (even though it’s not true).
“I’ll give you a god-damn cavity search if I feel like it!”
“Chill out, dude.”
“‘Chill out, dude’ — oh, shut the fuck up! You HIPPIES are what’s WRONG with America today! Get a HAIRCUT and a JOB!”
“Are you gonna arrest us or what?” asks Carlos.
“Shut up,” I say.
“Watch it, amigo,” says Sgt. Armstrong.
“Or else what?” asks Carlos.
“You know what a .44 magnum can do to a man’s face?”
Carlos shuts up.
“Give me ONE good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you bozos between the eyes like dogs and leave your bodies on the side of the road for the vultures and crows.”
Long, tense silence…
“You think this is a joke? I’m not being fuckin’ rhetorical — give me a reason to not kill you hippies!”
I speak up: “Because bullets aren’t cheap…?”
“Both y’all — exit the vehicle with your fuckin’ hands up…”
Desolate road — I haven’t seen another car for miles. It’s just us and this psychopathic pig out here. Nobody will ever know we’re dead — they probably won’t even find our bodies once the vultures and crows are finished with us.
“I SAID OUT OF THE VEHICLE NOW!” Sgt. Armstrong reaches for his waist and unclips his holster and grasps the pistol and —
“All units be advised — armed robbery suspect headed westbound on County Line Road.”
Sgt. Armstrong freezes.
“Be advised suspect is driving a white Honda Civic. All units respond. Do you copy?”
“Son of a BITCH!” Sgt. Armstrong holsters his pistol and radios back, “Copy that. On my way.”
Deep exhale. I can breathe again.
“Looks like it’s y’all’s lucky day. I’m letting you filthy potheads off with just a warning this time. But I’m telling y’all — stay the HELL away from that place. Ain’t nothing to see at Buzzard Ranch — you hear me? I better not catch y’all anywhere near that godforsaken place.”
We nod in agreement.
“Now get the fuck out of my sight before I change my mind.”
As we’re driving away, I ask, “What the fuck was that all about?”
“Close call there, dude.” Carlos seems amused by the situation.
“We almost died. We’re not even on the trail yet.”
“Nah, dude. That redneck pig wasn’t gonna kill us. Most he would’ve done is beat us black and blue and steal all our weed.”
“Gee, thanks — that makes me feel a lot better about it.”
The road comes to a dead end, and the only way to go is down a hidden driveway. I can’t see where the driveway leads to because it’s obscured by a grove of girthy oak trees. I follow the winding, gravel driveway until it ends.
“Welcome to Buzzard Ranch.”
“Whoa…”
The hunting lodge is a McMansion with the rustic veneer of a log cabin. Rich, knotted pinewood and slabs of rough, gray stone. In front of the cabin is a small duckpond with a fishing dock. Judging by the overgrown crabgrass and dandelions, the landscaping hasn’t been maintained for a long time.
“My Drunk Uncle won a shit load of money in a bogus personal injury claim and bought this place. Or at least that’s what he told us.”
The front door is passcode protected. Carlos thinks for a moment, then types “0–4–2–0-#” into the keypad on the door, unlocking it. “Just a lucky guess, dude.”
Inside, there’s cobblestone fireplace with a (tacky) bearskin rug on the floor and creepy taxidermy mammal heads mounted on the walls. Carlos points to a taxidermy jackelope: “My Drunk Uncle used to fuck with me and say those things are real.”
“Aren’t they? I thought they are?”
“Shit, dude, I don’t know, maybe they are. Wouldn’t surprise me.”
Hanging above the fireplace — a gigantic reproduction of The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch. I gaze into the painting, and it gazes back. I get this feeling that it’s an omen of what’s to come, and maybe this is a sign we should go back, and —
“Dude, what are you staring at? Let’s go.”
I shudder and turn away from the painting.
We find the kitchen and raid the walk-in pantry for Cheetos, Fritos, and Doritos. Venturing farther into the cabin, we discover a cozy study with mahogany bookshelves full of leatherbound books.
“Don’t mind if I do…” says Carlos, examining a minibar in the corner of the study. Carlos opens the minibar and looks through the bottles of pretentious aged liquors.
While Carlos is busy looting the bar, I’m riffling through drawers on the other side of the study. There’s a snub-nosed revolver in one of the drawers. After some hesitation, I take the gun along with a box of bullets and hide them in my backpack. It seems necessary to have some protection. Just in case. And Carlos doesn’t need to know…
Buzzard Ranch is a massive hog-hunting property, spanning tens of thousands of acres of untouched wilderness. I don’t think there are any bears or mountain lions here, but I’m unsure…
We’re traveling light. Rather than frame packs intended for long-distance backpacking, we’re carrying regular school bookbags. Minimal gear, maximum munchies. We don’t want to be weighed down, and the calories from the food will serve us better in the long run than anything else. Or at least that’s what we tell ourselves.
We must hike fifteen miles today and fifteen miles tomorrow to reach the weed farm. Difficult, but it’s doable.
I’m an avid outdoorsman. Or at least I used to be before corporate “life” sucked up all my time. I’m an Eagle Scout, so I have a broad knowledge of outdoor skills. For this reason, I’m confident in my ability to navigate the wilderness. I’m not a survival expert by any means, but at least I know what I’m doing. I know I’m capable of surmounting this challenge, but I still have my doubts…
“Look — there it is.” Carlos points to the trailhead, which starts behind the hunting lodge and follows a rickety fence.
The terrain is a sprawling and perilous scrubland. Vast fields are broken up by sparse patches of thorny trees. It’s almost like the treacherous landscape is this place’s way of deterring unwanted visitors. I once heard a legend of a curse the natives put on this land in retaliation for the increasing presence of pioneers. I wonder if it’s true. Probably not.
Probably.
But at the same time, you can’t help but appreciate the natural beauty of Buzzard Ranch. Expansive fields of magnificent wildflowers abloom with brilliant shades of blue, purple, and yellow extend beyond sight. Gentle, rolling hills cascade into vast swaths of wide-open flatland where you can see for miles ahead. An imposing limestone formation juts out of the ground, towering over the landscape like an ancient, megalithic structure from another time.
It’s quieter out here. The air is fresher too. The omnipresent smell of pollen is intoxicating. I feel alive for the first time in a long time.
There’s something magical about the sublime beauty of nature that makes you wonder if maybe God is real after all. I’ve read many books but never the Bible. I heard it starts out slow and doesn’t get good until the end. There’s something in the Bible about how Man has Dominion over Nature and “every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.” This is often misunderstood as meaning Nature should bend to Humanity’s Will. But that’s not how it works. My interpretation: we’ve been endowed with great responsibility to act as careful stewards of Nature. We only get one Earth, and we only get one Life.
“CHEW MAIL POUCH TOBACCO” is painted on the exterior of a rundown barn.
“Let’s check it out, dude” says Carlos.
I look at the collapsed roof and ask, “Why?” but Carlos is already cutting across the field to the barn. I follow him, yelling, “Wait up!”
It’s dark inside the barn except for thin rays of light coming in through holes in the roof. I don’t see Carlos anywhere. It smells like shit in here.
“Carlos?”
Nothing.
“Carlos?!”
Still nothing.
“Carlos, this isn’t funny…”
I venture farther into the barn to a row of stables in the back. I walk past the stables, checking each one for Carlos. This one’s empty… and this one… and this —
“GOTCHA!”
I scream, fall backward, prepare to die.
“Chill, bro — it’s just me!” Carlos steps out of the shadows.
“Not funny.”
“Sorry, dude.” Carlos gives me a hand. “Let’s go. There’s nothing to see in here.”
“Yeah, it’s a shithouse. Besides, we gotta keep our pace.”
“¡Vamos!”
Carlos is telling me about this science experiment from the sixties where they wanted to know if it was possible for humans to communicate with dolphins, so they gave a woman LSD and made her jerk off a dolphin three times a day, and the dolphin was named Peter, and she fell in love with Peter because he was a sweetheart and a passionate lover, but their love became a national scandal, and the experiment got shut down over it, and she was forbidden from seeing Peter ever again, so Peter drowned himself in his tank — and THAT was the inspiration for the old TV show Flipper.
I’m telling him how it reminds me of Romeo and Juliet when we come to our first obstacle — an opaque wall of long grass. The only way to go is through. Luckily, my cargo pants protect me from the razor-sharp sawgrass. Carlos, however, is wearing shorts. By the time we’re out of the long grass, his legs are covered with thin lacerations and bloated ticks. Carlos borrows my knife and uses it to remove those nasty, little fuckers and gets blood all over his legs, but he says he’s okay, so we continue walking, and now he’s telling me about this other experiment where the government gave lab rats cocaine and made them listen to smooth jazz.
Mile seven — the trail narrows between a thin corridor of oak trees and old fence posts. It’s so tight here that we must walk single file, so I go in front to lead the way and —
The ground collapses…
— a deep pit opens in front of me…
Wobbling to maintain balance, I lose my footing and —
Carlos grabs my shirt, pulling me back away from the ledge at the last second.
“Thanks.”
“No problem, dude.
It’s a covered pitfall trap — the kind the Viet Cong used to build. We look down into the pit and see it’s full of sharp, wooden punji sticks. If Carlos wasn’t here, I would’ve suffered a slow, agonizing death by impalement (and vultures and crows would eat my dead body).
“Booby traps? Really?”
“My Drunk Uncle sure was a paranoid bastard!”
“I could’ve died!”
“But you didn’t. Just pay attention, and we’ll be good, dude.”
“What do you MEAN you didn’t bring any water?”
“I don’t know, man…” I say, “I just forgot — you were rushing me when I was packing.”
“I thought you were, like, an outdoorsman, dude?”
“It’s been a while.”
“You’re lucky I brought extra water.”
“There’s gotta be water around here somewhere.”
“I don’t think so, dude. It’s the dry season.”
“Dry season?”
“Yeah, Buzzard Ranch dries up in the summer. There won’t be any rain. Other than flash floods — but we shouldn’t have to worry about that.”
The sun sets against a vivid pink and orange sky.
“We should stop and set up camp before it gets too dark.”
“Good idea, dude.”
I don’t even own a tent (I doubt Carlos does either). Bringing a tent would weigh us down anyway. We’ll just have to rough it for the night. Build a rudimentary shelter using a waterproof tarp. It’s not much, but it’s summer, so we don’t need much — just basic cover from the elements. We should be good for tonight — it’s the dry season.
I first met Carlos only six weeks ago, but after today, it feels like I’ve known him for a lifetime. Six weeks doesn’t seem like a lot of time to get to know someone, but buying weed is an intimate experience — especially when it’s illegal. You really get to know someone when you break the law together. Besides, friendship isn’t about who’s been there the longest. It’s about something else. I’m not sure what though. Are Carlos and I friends? I don’t know.
CAMPFIRE
I was thirteen when I attended my first Boy Scout summer camp. A whole week spent learning outdoor skills and sleeping in a tent. When I had downtime, I’d sneak away to sit by the lake and scribble in a notebook, writing fiction. I wanted to be the next Stephen King. The story I wrote was about a psycho killer stalking a campground (and was a total rip-off of Friday the 13th, which I was obsessed with at the time). I even sketched a few (bad) drawings to accompany it. Nobody cared when I shared it with my friends around the campfire on the final night, but I was proud of my story, nevertheless. I don’t have the notebook anymore; the story is lost forever. Which is for the best because it was amateur and derivative (and it was probably creepy that a weird, lanky teenager wrote it). I don’t remember what it was titled. Maybe it was “CAMP BLOOD” or something schlocky like that. But I do remember sitting by the lake and writing and wishing I could do this forever.
And I got poison ivy on my balls.
Hypnotic campfire — we’re mesmerized by its dancing flames. Crickets and tree frogs chirping. Big, brown bats flutter across the sky. Somewhere an owl calls out into the night.
“Check it out, dude.” Carlos procures a bottle of Wild Turkey from his backpack. “I took it from the lodge.”
“Very nice.” I consider telling Carlos about the gun but decide against it. I don’t know why.
Carlos takes a heroic swig from the bottle.
“Holy shit, take it easy!”
“Here — drink some.” He passes me the bottle.
Hesitate, brace myself, then drink — gag. “Take it.”
We pass the bottle back and forth as we talk.
“You’re sunburnt bad, dude.”
“That’s what my white ass gets for not bringing sunscreen.”
We’re shooting the shit when Carlos hits me with a question that catches me off guard, and I briefly despise him for it.
“So, how’s the job search going, dude?”
“Oh, yeah… It’s going, uh, ya know…”
“Doesn’t sound too promising.”
“Not really.”
“You’ll find something. Everybody’s hiring. People just don’t wanna work anymore these days.”
“Maybe I’m one of those people.”
“Oh. Well, what about the book, dude? You said you’re a writer?” I’m surprised Carlos remembers this. I must’ve mentioned it to him in passing.
“Yeah… it’s, uh, coming along…”
“Right.”
“Writer’s block is a bitch. But I think I’ll have some inspiration to finish it after this.”
“You better, dude. And I wanna be the first to read it.”
“You bet.”
“So, are you gonna write a book about us?”
“Who the fuck would want to read that?”
“What about you? Why’d you start selling drugs? Just curious.”
“I don’t know, dude. Did a semester of college. Hated it. Dropped out. Bought a motorcycle. Crashed it. They say do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life. So, I started selling weed and haven’t looked back. Don’t need a degree for that. You did college, right?”
“Yeah. I majored in English. Stupid, right? Anyway, I used to be a paralegal.”
“Is that, like, a lawyer with a parachute?”
“Uh, yeah? Sort of.”
“That’s fuckin’ dope, dude!”
“It’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”
“Neither is being a drug dealer. Everybody’s job sucks. That’s just life, dude.”
“Describe your sex life with a movie title. I’ll go first — Fast & Furious.”
“Give me a sec, dude, I’ll come up with a good one.”
“Toy Story.”
“That’s good, dude, I like it!”
“The Shining.”
“I don’t get it…?”
“Home Alone.”
“Okay, dude, I got one…”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Predator.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“Yeah? Well, it’s a fucked-up prompt, dude.”
“Blow.”
“Why me…?”
“What?”
“Why me? Why’d you ask me to come here with you? We barely know each other. Why not ask one of your friends?”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“What are you talking about? People are always visiting you.”
“Nah, dude. Those people aren’t my friends.”
“Some of them must be…?”
“Nope.”
“So, why me then?”
“I can tell you’re different.”
“Different? Oh, come on. How would you know? We’ve only known each other for, like, six weeks.”
“Shit, I don’t know, dude. But I’m right.”
“You’re too tense, dude. I can tell because of how much weed you buy. It’s a lot.”
“It’s not that much, is it?”
“Yeah, dude — it’s a lot.”
“I don’t think so. I’m not tense, I just need a job.”
“You’ve got the rest of your life to work, dude.”
“True. But I do need to get a job…”
“What’s the rush? Being unemployed is awesome.”
“Yeah? Well, being broke fuckin’ sucks.”
“Money — it’s always about money. You don’t need a job for that, dude. There’re other ways to make money. Just look at me…”
“Look — Carlos — I’m not gonna sell drugs with you. Period.”
“Why not?”
“Are you kidding me? I’m not doing it because it’s fuckin’ crazy! I can’t live like that!”
“Well, I do, and I’m doing fine.”
“Yeah, but we’re just different.”
“Different? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, I just — ”
“We’re both just dudes, dude. And so what if I’m a drug dealer? At least I know what I want out of life. You just get stoned and sulk in that shithole bar and talk about writing the Great Fucking American Novel but never actually do and then bitch about it when you’re unhappy.”
Wow…
“I didn’t mean it like that, Carlos…”
Carlos takes a big, long drink of Wild Turkey. “Whatever. It’s all good, dude. Sorry for being harsh, but you gotta hear it from somebody.”
“You’re right.”
“I know. You’re welcome, dude.”
After an awkward silence, I ask, “How much do you make selling drugs anyway?”
Carlos looks over both shoulders like he’s worried about being overheard even though we’re in the middle of nowhere. He leans in and whispers, “Six k last month.”
“What?! That’s double what I used to make!”
“Think about how much we could make if we joined forces.”
“Hmmm…”
“You got a girl?”
“Nah, not really… You?”
“She loves somebody else.” Carlos throws back the bottle and takes a long drink of Wild Turkey.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Carlos finishes the bottle of Wild Turkey and tosses it aside.
“Do you think it’s really true?”
“What?”
“The map. The weed. All of it.”
“Yeah, dude, I believe it’s real. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know. Just seems too good to be true.”
“You wouldn’t be out here if you didn’t believe it was real…”
Buzzard Ranch nights are darker. It’s just me now — Carlos is passed out from drinking too much Wild Turkey. I’m not tired yet. The campfire is reduced to a pile of glowing red embers and ash. The Voice of the Night whispers sweet, strange songs…
Thinking about how many miles we’ve come and how we’re only halfway there even though it feels like we’ve been hiking forever. Why are we even doing this in the first place?
Much uncertainty. What if the plants died? What if the police got there first? Worse — what if it’s all bullshit? Wouldn’t that be a sick joke. Carlos’s Drunk Uncle is taunting us from beyond the grave. I wonder if I have a drunk uncle and think I do because everybody has a drunk uncle.
Part of me wants to wake up Carlos, pack up camp, and continue hiking through the night until we reach The Weed. I’ll believe it when I see it.
Long day ahead of us tomorrow. Piss on the campfire and crawl under the makeshift tent. Attempt to sleep, but the wistful howls of a hundred coyotes keep me awake. Buzzard Ranch nights are darker.
I don’t know what time it is. The low, ambient croaking of treefrogs drowns out everything like disorienting white noise. Carlos’ snoring sounds like a drunk howler monkey.
Tap… Tap… Tap-tap…
A low rumble of thunder in the distance.
Tap… Tap-tap… tap-tap-tap-tap-tap —
Listening to storms is peaceful in a strange way. Who doesn’t love a good storm?
Carlos awakes to the sound. “What’s going on?”
“Rain.”
“What?”
“Rain. I think we can wait it out.”
“Rain?” Carlos jolts up. “Oh SHIT! We gotta get out of here, dude!”
“What? Why?”
“Flash floods.”
“Flash floods?!” I shout, but thunder overtakes my voice.
“We gotta get to the high ground!”
“This is a fucking grassland — there isn’t any high ground!”
“Wrong.” Carlos points to a lone elm tree nearby and —
A bright bolt of lightning streaks across the sky, striking the tree…
“Are you serious?”
“Come on, let’s go!”
We grab our backpacks and crawl out from under the tarp. A powerful gust of wind knocks Carlos off his feet — he falls face first into a mud puddle — I turn back to help him up.
Carlos goes first up the tree.
“Faster!” I say, looking down at my boots, which are submerged.
Our wet clothes weigh us down as we scale the tree. I can barely hold on to the slippery bark but muster the strength to hold on. The rain grows stronger. The floodwater below is a foot deep now.
“I thought you said this was the DRY season!”
“This IS the dry season, dude!”
The wind shakes the tree, almost throwing me off
Above, Carlos pulls himself up onto a sturdy limb.
I’m almost there now. I reach for a branch and —
It snaps…
— but Carlos grabs my forearm, helps me up onto the branch with him.
The mighty elm tree’s canopy offers sparse shelter from the elements. We’re soaking wet, perched on the branch like miserable, waterlogged birds. A bright flash ignites the sky, followed by a crash of rumbling thunder, and the storm picks up.
“Can it get any worse?” I ask.
Another crack of thunder, then a relentless fury of hail. Pebbles of hail pelt my face — we must shield our heads with our backpacks. A grapefruit-sized piece crashes through the canopy, almost hitting my head.
Gradually, the hail stops, the wind settles, the rain steadies. The thunder stops too, but silent flashes of lightning persist. The floodwater below is waist deep.
“This sucks,” I say.
“Eh, it’s not so bad, dude.”
“No. This sucks.”
“We’ll dry out.”
“Still sucks.”
“Okay, you’re right, dude — it sucks balls.”
“How long will the flood last?”
“Beats me.” Carlos slumps in the crook of the branches — soon he’s snoring again. I’m too wet and shivery to sleep.
I reflect on everything that’s occurred so far. So much has happened in the past two days. Funny how I got here — I was just trying to buy weed, but now I’ve been pulled into a strange quest of epic proportions. It’s like something out of a fantasy novel. I can’t stop thinking about treasure maps, lost weed, and drunk uncles…
Uncomfortable silence when the rain stops. The sky is an ominous shade of pale green. Eerie stillness in the air. In the distance, a tornado tears through the countryside. I’m worried it’ll come this way, but it keeps its distance and blows away beyond the horizon…
We’re at the mercy of Nature out here. Man vs. Nature. This is what America is all about!
Since its conception, America has always been a land of fearless exploration, bold risk-taking, and Rugged Individualism. That’s why camping and other outdoor sports are still so popular in our modern, technological society. Camping, hiking, hunting, fishing, etc. are all expressions of the rugged, self-reliant American spirit within us all.
We romanticize archetypes from when America was an agrarian country — the Cowboy, the Pioneer, the Pilgrim, the Mountain Man, the Homesteader, etc. This fascination with young America persists throughout the zeitgeist. Teddy Roosevelt. Lewis and Clark. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. The Oregon Trail. Little House on the Prairie. The Wild, Wild West. Cowboys vs. Indians. MANIFEST DESTINY.
Despite the countless creature comforts modernity offers, something in us instinctively yearns to return to the primitive.
THE WEED WIZARD
The aftermath of the flood is an apocalyptic scene. What was once our campsite is now a ruined, mushy quagmire. Hunks of driftwood and other debris are strewn around. There’s a duck wallowing in the mud nearby. The ground squishes below our feet. Carlos gets his foot stuck in the mud but manages to yank it free.
The superstorm washed away our makeshift tent. My sleeping bag is on the other side of our campsite.
That’s when I realize we’re fucked. The map is destroyed. Carlos left it on the ground in his sleeping bag. Now it’s totally illegible. The ink is running, and the paper is falling apart.
There’s no cell signal out here — we’re unable to call for help.
“We’re royally fucked. Royally FUCKED!”
“We’re gonna be fine, dude.”
“No. We should cut our losses. We can turn back now and maybe get out of here alive. We can come back another time when we’re more prepared.”
“No way, dude. We gotta keep going.”
“This is stupid and dangerous.”
“Sorry, dude, but we’re in too deep now. Past the point of no return.”
“This is all your fault!”
“How?!”
“You left the map out in the rain! How could you be so careless? Now we’re going to die out here in this fucking wasteland!”
“I think we’re going in circles. I remember that rock.” That’s the first thing Carlos has said to me since I yelled at him hours ago.
The sun hangs high in the sky, burning down on the barren landscape. Buzzard Ranch dries up by noon, leaving no trace of a superstorm. Despite the cruel combination of heat and humidity, we trek onward…
We’re hiking through a boulder field when I spy a distant, isolated patch of green amid the sea of brown grass. “Wait up.” I think it’s a mirage, so I remove my binoculars from my backpack. Steady my arms — focus in on the green spot…
“What is it?” asks Carlos.
No…
“What is it, dude?”
It can’t be…
“It’s an oasis!”
“A what?”
“Water! Come on, let’s go!”
We sprint to the oasis. The soil gets boggy as we get closer. We splash through the marsh, pushing our way past the cattails and reeds. I can smell the putrid white flowers of pear trees.
In contrast to the surrounding arid terrain, the oasis is blossoming with diverse plant life. Below the canopy of tall trees, there’s a thick undergrowth of ferns and honeysuckle. At the center of it all — a crystal-clear pond with beautiful water lilies. It’s like we’ve stumbled upon the Garden of Eden.
We rest here, drinking handfuls of fresh water. I splash cool water on my face. We remove our boots and sit at the pond, soaking our achy, blistered feet.
“This hits the spot,” I say, dipping my feet in the water.
“It’s the simple things in life, dude.”
I hesitate before saying, “Hey… sorry about earlier.”
“What?”
“Sorry for yelling at you before. It’s not your fault the map got wet. That was stupid. I don’t know why I said that.”
“Don’t worry about it, dude.”
As we venture further into the wilderness, things only get stranger. The deep interior of Buzzard Ranch has a primordial atmosphere. The trees are full of cicadas humming their otherworldly, ambient white noise. The deafening thrum of cicadas is inescapable, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
“BONG HITS 4 JESUS” is spraypainted on a decrepit school bus up ahead.
“I wonder what’s inside, dude.”
“Stop,” I say, “Are you crazy?”
“Just a quick peek.” Carlos forces the door open and ascends the stairs into the bus. I follow him.
The windows of the bus are blacked out with trash bags. Inside is pitch dark — we can’t see to the back of the bus.
“Come on, Carlos, let’s get out of here.”
Carlos looks around. “See, there’s nothing to — ”
“WHO GOES THERE?”
Without thinking, I draw the pistol and fire a warning shot in the air. A thin ray of light shines through the bullet hole in the roof of the bus. “I’ll shoot! Now show yourself!”
“What the fuck, dude?! You have a gun?!” says Carlos.
“I said show yourself!”
“If you’re going to kill me, please make it quick.” A silly, old man emerges from the shadows with his hands up. He’s wearing a tattered, green coat and has a long, scraggly beard. He’s frail and unthreatening.
“Kill you?” I ask, lowering the pistol, “No. We’re lost.”
“Lost — is that right? All the way out here?”
“Yeah. We were, uh, berry picking and got off track.”
“Berry picking?” Carlos whispers, “That’s the best you could come up with?”
“You’re here for the weed, ain’t ya?” says the man.
“How do you know about the weed?” asks Carlos.
“Why wouldn’t I know about it? I live here.”
“Right…”
“They call me the WEED WIZARD! I live off the land — that’s my SQUATTER’S RIGHT! Now please, be my guests.”
The Weed Wizard lives in squalor inside the old school bus. He shows us around his odd living space. Miscellaneous trinkets everywhere. Shopping carts filled with empty beer cans. Too many piss jugs to count.
“Please — stay for lunch,” says the Weed Wizard. He retrieves a portable camping stove and cooks us Spaghetti-O’s. We eat them right out of the can using plastic sporks.
“Thanks for your hospitality,” I say.
“I don’t get many visitors out here.”
“Oh really?” asks Carlos as if he’s surprised to learn this.
“I came out here to escape society, but I do miss it sometimes. Nice to have some company every so often.”
“What were you escaping from?” asks Carlos.
“The government. Creditors. My Psycho-Bitch-Ex-Girlfriend. My god-damn bookie. All the bullshit.”
“How long have you been out here?” I ask.
“Five years. Four years. No, five years. I think.”
“How do you like it?” asks Carlos.
“Livin’ the dream. Livin’ large. Livin’ like a god. I hate the word ‘homeless.’ I prefer to call it ‘OUTDOOR LIVING.’ And it’s not so bad once you get used to it.”
“Outdoor Living?” I ask, “Isn’t that what they call the garden center at Walmart?”
“Do I look like a Walmart shopper to you?”
“Care for a shmoke?”
I’m apprehensive about accepting drugs from a feral hobo (especially one who calls himself the “WEED WIZARD”). For all I know, it could be laced with PCP. Hell, it probably IS laced with PCP…
“Sure.”
“That’s the spirit!”
“So, this is weed from my Drunk Uncle’s crop?”
“All I know is that it’s from the valley.”
“The valley?”
The Weed Wizard sparks the joint, French inhales, blows out smoke rings.
Carlos is up next in the rotation. He holds his breath in for as long as possible.
“Careful now, buddy,” says the Weed Wizard, “This shit’s the most potent strain of grass I’ve ever smoked — and I’ve smoked lots of grass. Too much of this stuff, and you’ll NEVER be the same again…”
Carlos chokes on his cough, tears streaming from his bloodshot eyes, and passes the joint to me.
It’s not like any weed I’ve ever smoked before. After a single puff, I know I’m toast… I feel toasted — roasted even! Feeling toasty — like a slice of warm butter melting on toast. Toast from coast to coast… Wait — what the fuck am I talking about?
What’s that — ?
I look over my shoulder, but nothing’s there…
This is “WEIRD.”
I make the mistake of staring at Carlos for too long, hyper-fixating on his face. The longer I stare, the more reptilian his face becomes, until he completely morphs into a grotesque lizard-man. It’s fucking DISTURBING…
I don’t like this.
“What’s wrong?” Carlos flicks his long, forked tongue.
I’m unable to look away. His scales shimmer, changing colors like a neon chameleon.
“Do I look stoned, dude?” asks lizard-man Carlos.
“We’ve got bigger problems right now…”
“Are my eyes red? I don’t wanna look stoned in public.” Lizard-man Carlos bears his serrated fangs and licks his lips. “Dude, are you okay?”
I blink — Carlos’ face reverts to human form. Thank God.
“Is it too obvious?”
“What? Oh, yeah. Who cares? It’s just us here.”
“Who’s here?”
“You, me, and — ”
I look around, but the Weed Wizard is gone…
Oh no…
“Where did…”
(…A Gong Crashes in the Distance, Echoing Endlessly…)
“…the Weed Wizard go?”
“Yo, dude, do you think the Weed Wizard has eyedrops?”
“Carlos. NOBODY cares if you look stoned. We’re ALL stoned.”
“…what…?”
“And we’re in the middle of fucking NOWHERE. Besides, you don’t even look stoned. Where’s the Weed Wizard?”
“Who?”
“The Weed Wizard! He was just here!”
“Oh, that dude? He ordered pizza. He’s picking it up now. He said he’ll be back soon.”
“…Are you fucking with me?”
“Nah, dude.”
(say “NO” to DRUGS)
My head feels like a swollen bowling ball…
(just say “NO”)
“Carlos… I think there was something in that joint…”
“What are you talking about, dude?”
“I think that joint was laced with PCP.”
“You think it was laced with PVC? That doesn’t even make any sense, dude.”
“No, I think…”
…I smoked so much weed that I broke my brain and turned myself retarded, and now this is my NEW REALITY…
“What did you just say?”
“Uh, nothing? I think?”
“Do you think the Weed Wizard has eyedrops?”
“We just need —
(toast)
— we just need to —
(feels like butter melting on toast)
— need to…”
(toast from coast to coast)
“What are you trying to SAY, dude?”
I’m trying to ask Carlos for help, but the words aren’t coming out right, and the only thing I can say is: “BUTTER TOAST.”
“Are you OKAY, dude?”
“Overdose.”
“You can’t overdose on weed, dude.”
“Dying.”
“Whatever, dude. I’m gonna go look for eyedrops.”
I’m looking around for —
(toast)
— the Weed Wizard, but I don’t see him anywhere.
I think I’m going to throw up…
Now it’s just me.
“Carlos…? Where’d you go…? Carlos…?”
Then the lines blur — the colors glow in waves of pulsating pigment. I’m melting, and my liquid-self bleeds through the Spacetime Fabric — boiling, bubbling up in bursts of bizarre brazen delight. It’s a dirty dalliance with the GREEN GOD OF GANJA. Glory to GANG WEED! And that’s when —
“I’m over here, dude,” says Carlos, “I found eyedrops.”
— things really start to get “WEIRD.” He crosses THE BARRIER into a new point of view. He’s having an out-of-body experience, watching himself in the third person. It’s like he’s been evicted from his own Mind. Oh no — this CAN’T be good…
CUT TO: The Office. Everything here is gray — he can’t fucking stand it. The office is inside a brutalist skyscraper downtown. They MUST have designed this place to be ugly on purpose as a sick joke meant to piss him off specifically. Police and ambulance sirens are blaring outside. The fluorescent light above his cubicle flickers. He looks at the clock — it’s only 2:30 p.m. This is your Life…
He swears he’ll never smoke WEED ever again, just PLEASE go back to NORMAL!
(NIGHTMARE!) (NIGHTMARE!!) (NIGHTMARE!!!)
(wake up!!!) (you MUST wake up!!!)
(BONG HITS 4 JESUS)
(DIE, HIPPIE SCUM!)
(!!!THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DRUGS!!!)
(JUST SAY “NO!!”)
(aaaaaaaaaaaaa)
(WTF)
(!!!)
(…)
404: PAGE NOT FOUND!
Back at the Weed Wizard’s campsite now. Nobody’s here. I don’t know where Carlos is anymore.
The ambient sound of windchimes. A green fog rolls in — the Weed Wizard steps out of the clouds with his arms outstretched like a Messed-up Messiah. “Be not afraid…”
“But I am afraid. I’m very fucking afraid.”
“Be Calm… Be Present… Be Mindful…”
“But HOW?”
“Let Nature do its Thing, Brother…”
Before I can ask him what he means by that, another wave of green fog rolls in, sweeping the Weed Wizard away, evaporating into nothing…
“You drugged us!”
“I did no such thing.”
“There’s no way that was just weed.”
“It’s just that potent.”
“Bullshit!”
“It’s true. Never seen anything like it before in my life. You’ll get used to it.”
“Calm down, dude,” says Carlos.
The Weed Wizard offers us rations of food, water, and weed. He points us in the right direction and sends us on our way. Before we leave, he extends some sagely wisdom to us: “The pleasure’s been mine, boys. Always remember this — Life’s Too Short to Smoke Shitty Weed. Now go! Get on with your quest!”
WEED WARS
Marijuana is by far the most popular drug in the world. There are many reasons for this, but the main reason is marijuana is fucking awesome.
Everybody loves marijuana. According to Gallup, 17% of Americans reported they smoke marijuana in 2023. Doctors smoke weed; schoolteachers smoke weed; even cops smoke weed these days. Hell, your grandma probably smokes weed too!
It solves all of life’s problems. Stressed out? Smoke weed. Depressed? Smoke weed. Can’t sleep? Smoke weed. No appetite? Smoke weed. Hate your job? Smoke weed. Just bored? Smoke weed.
As we get closer to the weed farm, the environment takes on bizarre, uncanny properties. The grass changes from dull golden green and becomes technicolored with brilliant shades of purple, blue, and yellow. The ferns shimmer with red, gold, and green sparkles. There are even incomprehensible colors I’ve never seen before — I can’t explain it.
Now we’re walking through a field of ten-foot-tall sunflowers. We don’t have much farther to go.
“Look — I told you they’re real!” I point ahead — something darts out from the underbrush and stops in the middle of our path.
It’s a jackelope.
“Whoa…”
The jackelope blinks and hops away.
The deep interior of Buzzard Ranch is a surreal place. Even the birds here are weird. Birds hold a special place in my heart. But I used to be angry at birds (because I was young and stupid and thought I had the whole fucking world all figured out). Birds are blessed with the freedom of flight — yet they CHOOSE to eat trash behind Wendy’s. It didn’t make sense to me. Why do they stick around HERE of all places when they can go ANYWHERE? It took me lots of growing up to understand why.
The marijuana farm is nestled in a fertile valley, doused with ethereal mist. A vast expanse of six-foot-tall marijuana plants stretching as far as the eye can see. The flowers are green, purple, and orange — it’s unlike any weed I’ve seen before. By the looks of it, it’s ripe for harvesting.
The pungent odor of dank is detectable as we get closer. It smells like spicy, skunky Christmas trees.
A sense of childlike wonder overcomes me. All I can say is, “I don’t believe it… I don’t believe it… I don’t believe it…”
Carlos feels up one of the stalks, inspecting the flowers. He takes a whiff of the flower, inhaling its sweet aroma. “Dude, this is incredible…”
“How is this even possible?” I ask.
“Anything’s possible on God’s Green Earth, dude.”
I pick a handful of buds and examine them. They’re sticky, dense, and covered with glittering crystals. I put the buds in my pocket.
After seeing the weed field, my mind is made up. “The answer is yes.”
“What?”
“My answer is yes — I’ll sell weed with you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Fuck it, why not?”
“Let’s celebrate, dude.” Carlos picks some weed from one of the plants and rolls the perfect joint. Crush it up, roll it up, light it up. “Here’s to new friendships, dude.”
“To new friendships.”
Carlos puffs on the joint and smoke billows from it. “That’s good shit, dude.” Carlos reaches out to hand me the joint. I take the joint, and —
I fumble it…
I juggle the joint — trying to catch it before it hits the ground — but it slips through my fingers…
It falls into a patch of dry grass…
Before I can pick up the joint, the smoldering embers ignite the grass. “Oh shit…”
I expect the fire to fizzle out, but the opposite happens. Flames shoot up — the fire spreads. I yell, “RUN!” Carlos follows me. The fire grows even bigger. We dodge the flames, headed for the ridge.
“NO!”
I stop and look back. Carlos has stopped and is turned around, staring back at the enormous fire. We watch helplessly as the weed plants are consumed by the mighty inferno. Soon the entire field is ablaze.
“Come on! We gotta go!”
Carlos turns to run, but the fire spreads. A wall of flames separates us.
“Carlos!”
He tries to run around the flames, but the fire continues spreading. He looks around for a way to go, but the veil of smoke is thick and dark. “Save yourself, dude!”
I’m not about to leave Carlos behind, but the fire creeps closer.
“JUST GO, DUDE!”
The whole valley is on fire.
I hesitate, then run.
The fire reaches the tree line and now the forest is burning.
I panic, trying to determine which way we came from, but the only way to the ridge is through a veil of black smoke. The harsh smoke burns my face and lungs (and gives me a contact high). I’m sweating from the heat. I cover my face with my shirt, duck, run as fast as I can and —
I trip and fall…
The fire edges closer…
I clamber to my feet and look back at the burning field one last time and think about what a tragedy it is for all that weed to go to waste. I suppose no one man was meant to have that much weed.
I make it over the ridge, fleeing into the thick brush below. Bramble thorns catch on my clothes and scratch me as I tumble through the foliage.
Then the sky flashes like a strobe light and roars thunder. Another superstorm erupts, extinguishing the wildfire.
“Dry season, my ass.”
I can’t stop thinking about that unfinished manuscript waiting for me back home. That unfinished manuscript has become a symbol of everything that’s wrong with my life. I can’t ignore it any longer. I must finish writing it. I may not be able to find a job, or pay my bills, or stop getting drunk and high, but I can at least muster the willpower to finish writing that manuscript. Conquer the external demon to exorcise the internal demons.
Why do I even write in the first place?
Writing is sadomasochistic — equal parts pain and pleasure. There’s no feeling like that sublime flow state when the words spill onto the page — you’re typing so fast your fingers hurt, all your synapses are firing, the ideas come faster than you can write them down. It’s the elusive, fleeting high every writer is chasing. But when it’s gone, all that remains is impotent frustration. Some days, I can crank out two thousand words like it’s nothing — other days, it’s creative constipation. Writer’s block is a bitch.
After all that labor, it’s time to show off your precious newborn baby. But nobody’s interested in reading your material. So, maybe your significant other reads it; maybe your mom reads it; maybe you’re lucky enough to have a close friend read it. Most people you ask will decline. You’ve invested so much time and mental energy, but you can’t even get sweet catharsis.
Why put yourself through all that?
Writing is frustrating as hell. But I do it anyway. Because I must.
SStorm doesn’t last long. I take shelter in a cave for the night. When I emerge in the morning: a charred, Martian landscape of mud and ash. None of my surroundings look familiar.
“CARLOS!!!” I spend hours wandering around, screaming his name, but I don’t see any sign of Carlos. Eventually, I’m forced to come to terms with the fact that Carlos is probably dead, and I will be too if I don’t get back to civilization soon. It takes me a long time, but I decide to move on.
I don’t know how many miles I’ve hiked so far or how many more miles I must hike or even if I’m going the right way. For all I know, I could be wandering farther into the vast wilderness of Buzzard Ranch.
The cruel sun beams down on me. No trees in sight, no shade, no escape from the harsh sun. Vultures and crows are following me…
The wind picks up. Tumbleweeds blow past me. I pull my tee shirt up over my face to shield myself from flying sand.
A “dust devil” storm cloud forms. It whips around in chaotic fashion, blocking my path. Then another dust devil forms. And another. The three twisters dance around me, blocking my path.
I wrap my shirt around my head like a mask, preparing to navigate the sandstorm. I try to predict the movement of the twisters, but my timing is off — one whips forward, knocks me down. I clamber to my feet, trying to keep my balance as the vicious wind lashes around me. Despite my shirt-mask, my eyes and mouth are filled with coarse sand. I dance around the twisters until there’s a gap for me to pass through.
Now I’m sitting on a rock, pouring sand out of my boots, wondering how I’m going to get out of this godforsaken hellhole.
Let’s face it — I’m lost. This is how it ends. I’m going to perish out here. My body will be picked clean by vultures and crows and returned to the earth. Back home, they probably won’t even realize I’m missing…
Wander until I find a desolate country road. I don’t know which way to go, but at least I’ll get to civilization sooner or later. I hope.
Just keep moving… Just keep moving… Just keep moving…
That’s when —
A distant vehicle on the horizon!
I think it’s a mirage at first, but it’s getting closer, so it must be real. I wave my arms in the air, running, elated with joy.
The car comes into view…
It’s a police cruiser…
“Fuck!” I run away from the road into a sea of long grass.
The cruiser pulls over and Sgt. Armstrong exits. He’s holding a shotgun. “Come out with your fuckin’ hands up!”
I crouch behind a dead tree, contemplating my next move.
He pumps the shotgun and ventures into the long grass. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
I sprint a short distance then duck back into the underbrush.
He hears and walks this way. “Come on out!”
Another sprint.
“Where’d you go?!”
And another sprint.
“Show yourself, hippie!”
I cut back toward the road.
He continues stomping through the long grass behind me. “You can’t hide forever!”
I have an idea. When I get back to the road, I remove my knife from my belt. I dash out from the cover of the long grass, running across the road toward the cruiser and —
“I see you!”
BOOM!
I look back — expecting the worst — but Sgt. Armstrong’s looking the other way. He swears, pumps the shotgun again, wanders father into the long grass.
I reach the cruiser — crouch at the wheel — slash the tires. I can’t see Sgt. Armstrong from the road anymore.
“Where the FUCK are you?!”
BOOM!
Sgt. Armstrong spins around, trying to regain his bearings. He wanders farther and farther away from the road. “YOU… FUCKING… POTHEAD!!!”
BOOM!
Why bother with stealth anymore? I run and don’t look back.
I’m stumbling down the dusty road, limping on a sprained ankle, hoping another vehicle passes. My boots are falling apart.
BANG!
I shoot the pistol straight up in the air as a distress signal but realize anybody who hears the gunshot will probably think it came from a hunter. This is a hunting property after all. At least the gunshot scared away the vultures and crows that have been following me for miles…
An emerald truck crests a hill in the distance, coming this way. When I’m sure it’s not a police cruiser, I stick my thumb out — the driver slows down and stops for me.
“Name’s Marvin. Where ya headed, dude?”
I tell Marvin my name and ask, “Can you take me to Buzzard Ranch?”
Marvin’s face turns to stone. “Are you crazy? What’re you going out there for?”
“My truck is parked there. It’s a long story.”
“Ain’t nothing good come from that place.”
“Can you take me there or not?”
“It’s a bit out of the way… but fuck it, dude, I ain’t got nowhere to be. Hop in, dude.”
Marvin declines when I offer to tip him for gas money, but I insist, instead giving him a gram of weed (even though I don’t have much). “God bless you,” says Marvin.
When we reach Buzzard Ranch, Marvin is too spooked to drive up the gravel road leading to the property, so he lets me out at the end of the driveway.
“Thanks, Marv.”
“Take care of yourself, dude.”
4:20 P.M.
I once read an old Korean proverb (at least I think it was Korean). It goes something like this…
A fish swims up to another fish and says, “I’m searching for the ocean — do you know where I can find it?”
The other fish looks around and replies, “Why are you searching for the ocean? We’re swimming in it.”
The first fish gives a puzzled look and proclaims, “THIS? This isn’t the ocean — this is just WATER.”
“Modelo, please.”
“You got it, boss.”
It’s happy hour at the bar, but I’m not happy. In fact, it feels like just another shitty day in the life of an unemployed pothead.
“Buffalo Soldier” by Bob Marley is playing on the jukebox.
I used the little bit of remaining weed to roll the perfect joint. I keep it tucked behind my ear for good luck. I’m saving it for a special occasion. I’ll know when the time comes.
I’m still processing everything that’s happened. Why’d I go all that way just to end up back here where I started? It doesn’t make any sense. Maybe this adventure was just an escapist fantasy to distract myself from the deep trouble I’m in. But I can’t continue ignoring my situation. Not anymore. Time to find a job ASAP. What else is there to do?
I’m writing again. Upon returning home from Buzzard Ranch, I fed my tetras and took a long, hot shower and then went straight for my laptop and began vomiting words onto the page and wrote for hours and didn’t stop until I’d written over ten thousand words. The catharsis was like heroin. I wrote about Buzzard Ranch — the treasure map, the hunting lodge, the grassland, the superstorm, the Weed Wizard, the interior forest, the weed farm, the wildfire — everything. And Carlos. I miss him. I’m going to title my finished manuscript GREEN HARVEST QUEST and dedicate it in honor of his memory. I tried contacting his family but couldn’t find them — it keeps me up at night knowing they’ll never get any closure. I’m going to return to Buzzard Ranch tomorrow to search for Carlos’ body.
The “GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL” — what does that even MEAN? I don’t know. Who cares.
A short, vaguely ethnic looking man with a thin mustache enters the bar. He looks around — we make eye contact — he approaches.
“I knew you’d be here, dude,” says Carlos.
“I thought you were dead!”
I order two shots of Wild Turkey. “Here’s to new friendships,” I say before we drink them. I remember drinking Wild Turkey with Carlos the other night. Back then, I could hardly stomach it — but now I take my liquor in stride. Whiskey isn’t all that bad compared to some of the unfortunate shit life will throw at you.
“So, how’d you get out alive?”
“It’s a long story, dude.”
Carlos buys the next round. “It’s a damn shame all that weed is gone. It’s like a cruel joke.”
I smile and say, “Well, not all of it…”