I straighten in my seat. “It’s a great strain. The balance of terpenes and high THC content makes it particularly effective for chronic pain and severe anxiety. With Ms. Fleming’s condition, I thought—”
“Ms. Fleming isonecustomer, Nomi. People want party pot! Buds N Roses. Donkey Bush. Cuntsicle.” Damon narrows his eyes. “It’s unacceptable to change our standing order to push your medicinal bummer weed.”
“Orangutan Titties is a great time! It’s euphoric and relaxing—not everyone wants to laugh for four hours straight and do donuts in the parking lot.”
Damon arches an eyebrow, making his long face longer. “Everyonewants to laugh for four hours straight and do donuts in the parking lot,Nomi.That is the herbaceous experience we are selling. Not old people getting stoned and watchingJeopardy!”
My jaw clenches. That’s mine and Graham’s favorite pastime.
“But people need medicinal strains, too,” I press, knowing I should shut up. Eve and I are one month out from opening our dispensary, and the money’s gonna be so tight, Ineedthis job to last until we do. But this is my biggest frustration with Damon. “A large portion of your customer base comes here because they want an alternative to harsh pharmaceutical remedies. They need our help.”
Damon leans into my space close enough I can smell his condescension.
Or maybe that’s just the Taco Bell he had for lunch.
“Thenhelpyour old, sad bastards with Cuntsicle.”
The doorbell chimes, and in walks Mr. Gutierrez. He’s slower these days and needs a cane, but his grin is as big as ever. “Nomi! How lucky you’re here today!”
I smile back, shifting past Damon to meet Mr. Gutierrez at the counter. “As if you don’t know my schedule by heart.”
Mr. Gutierrez leans over the counter to yell above the music. “You’re the only one here who knows what works!”
Damon scowls and dances toward the sound system. A second later, the volume increases.
After listening, or trying to, anyway, to Mr. Gutierrez’s latest rash of symptoms—rigid shoulders and tremors down his right arm—I find the newest strain I ordered for him. High CBD, low THC, with promising research on its symptom management for Parkinson’s disease. Helping people navigate the endless variety of strains to achieve what they’re looking for—whether it’s pain relief, something to quell nausea, or just a good time—is my favorite part of this job. It took me years to learn how to manage my Crohn’s disease with medicinal cannabis when traditional western medicine failed me. After the second time I spontaneously developed an allergic reaction to the intense Crohn’s medications my doctors kept prescribing, I decided no more. No more ridiculously expensive prescriptions, no more collateral damage to my kidneys, no more sitting for hours hooked to an IV pumping me full of chemicals my body keeps rejecting. My fancy GI specialists wouldn’t listen to me, but Dr. Appa does, and together we’ve searched for a gentler way to live through my disease ever since.
I’m about to ring up Mr. Gutierrez when Damon clears his throat loudly from behind me. I breathe deeply before giving Mr. Gutierrez a tight customer service smile. “Mr. Gutierrez: Would you be interested in learning more about our bestselling strain, Cuntsicle?”
Mr. Gutierrez’s brows pinch together, confused. “Whatsicle, dear?”
I cannotwaitto get out of here.
My phone dings an hour later, the message bringing a surge of joy.
VERONICA D’ANGELO-BORK, REAL ESTATE AGENT
Miracle of miracles, I got the first showing for us! I had to pull MAJOR strings. Are you free in twenty minutes, babe?
I glance at the office and curse. Damon’s still inside, his uncooked shrimp of a body hunched in my chair.Fuck.He’s hooked up his Xbox.
VERONICA D’ANGELO-BORK, REAL ESTATE AGENT
Well???
I bite my lips in, then bang out an all-caps!!YES!!reply.
“Hey.” I tap one of my junior cannabis counselors on the shoulder, a guy with shoulder-length dark hair, and motion for him to take over at the drive-through window. “Try to keep your back turned to the store, okay?”
The junior counselor salutes me, knowing the drill well. Despite Henry being six inches taller, thickly shouldered, and a twenty-five-year-oldman, once the headsets come on, Damon can’t tell us apart.
I inform the rest of the staff to tell Damon I’m in the bathroom if he asks,with lady problemsif he presses, and then sneak out into the beautiful summer day.
After my escape from Xscape, I drive ten over the speed limit all the way downtown, Lil Dom be damned, and pull into the same spot Eve and I parked in during the vulval emergency. From instinct or trauma or whatever’s possessed me into thinking about Julian and his palm all weekend,I glance at Dr. Appa’s clinic next door. What is Julian doing here? Surely he can’t be moving back home—he detests Sparrow Nook and always has. But why ishethe “new guy” working for Dr. Appa, then?
I forcibly dispel these questions and gaze upon the red brick building and its original name painted in beautiful, chipping cursive above the storefront. With large picture windows covered in yellowed newspaper, Strange Drugs Pharmacy is basically a mystery, and I amdyingto see what’s inside. It’s been closed to the public for ages, but the newspaper did a retrospective on it a few years ago with pictures of its old-timey soda fountain, complete with shiny metal counters, red vinyl bar stools, and cozy booths for girls in tight sweaters and big skirts. When the city council announced its plans to lease the historic building, Iknew. Strange Drugs would be the perfect location for my dispensary, and I’d do anything to get it.
Veronica’s out front, tapping on her phone with a ferocious set of purple nails that could pick locks.
