It was a sunny, blue skied Thursday afternoon. Having some time to kill, I smoked a joint as I meandered down the street towards the D Line. I had a long drive ahead of me and I wanted to make it as relaxing as possible, for I knew that the rest of my day would not be as chill. I made my way to a small cafe in Fremont. I was rendezvousing with an old friend. They had set up the meeting. Also, they had the car.
The highway took us south out of Seattle. The cement and steel edifices quickly gave way to towering pines and rolling hills. Every mile seemed to solidify the anxious feeling that had started to well up in my stomach earlier that morning. We soon reached REDACTED and the roads started to become smaller, more winding, and the trees began to press in on us. I began to wonder if this pot inquiry had taken me too far, if this was the step that would take me into the deep end. Fairy tales as old as dust always warn you: “don’t stray off the beaten path”. It wasn’t until we turned off a small side road that it hit me. We were going off the grid.
I had been warned about NAME REDACTED. I had heard a few stories about what they were like, more cautionary tales than anything else. My contact had agreed to the meeting on the condition that they would receive complete anonymity. No names would be used. No personal details released. The conversation would not be recorded.
I couldn’t even call what we were driving on a road. It was a tunnel through the forest, with branches only an arm’s reach above the car. It was as if I was slowly rolling down the wood’s gullet and was waiting for the moment that I would be swallowed whole. We reached a gate with a very bold NO TRESPASSING sign prominently displayed. My compatriot said that she thought this looked right and began to drive through. I didn’t want to take any unnecessary chances but before I could speak up we were already on the property.
Mountain man, as I’ve begun to call him, welcomed us into his home, offering us some water before leading us into his office on the second floor. He pulled a black curtain across the windows before sitting down behind his desk. He asked some questions about the purpose behind my project and what I hoped to get out of it. Before we began, he asked us “Are you guys weed-heads?”.
As many of you know, I am a truthful man and, unless I have a good reason, I do not stray into the realm of falsehoods. Upon my response, mountain man procured a small glass bong, along with a couple nugs, and offered it to me. Not wanting to offend my host, I graciously accepted. After the smoke dissipated into the surrounding air, the interview began.
Perhaps, interview is the wrong word. Rambling lecture with unusual tangents occasionally punctuated by one of my questions would be a more apt description. You see, mountain man has been in the weed business for a long time. Long before the 502 recreational ballot had passed. Long before medical cannabis has been legal in Washington State. They’ve been growing for a long time and they had some strong opinions on the matter. I was talking with a cannabis outlaw.
Mountain man described himself as a soldier in the war on drugs, except he was fighting on the right side, the just side. He sacrificed a lot over the years but his faith in the cause always remained strong. He knew that one day the world would recognize all that he had done. He played a necessary role. For, without his efforts, we would not be where we are today. Weed was going to be a great boon for our society and mountain man helped get us there.
Mountain man started growing when he was young. In trying to get me to understand, he asked if I had ever seen the movie Goodfellas. The growers of his day were like that, minus the violence. They had money, they had power. They were gangsters.
The rest of the afternoon was taken up by talks of The Man and cannabis’ future. The phrase “hypocrisy of the police” came up quite a few times. I left the remote location with a bag of free weed, mountain man’s self published novel, and a lot to think about. While I would love to enumerate the topics we discussed and delve into their details, I unfortunately cannot. I have my promises to keep.
In other, completely unrelated news, I know what my play is going to be about.
Your inspired playwright,
Noah