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It looks almost like a little, pewter sloth. Is it a sloth? I swear it is.
Before I get the chance to ask, the door swings open, and I brace myself for what I’ll see. Part of me expects to find a Pottery Barn-style bedroom with bookshelves filled with bud-stuffed Mason jars. I picture an old-fashioned smoking parlor with Victorian-era couches and bong-bearing end tables. I’m imagining high-gloss antiques. Something sensual yet homey.
So I blink when I behold what looks like the outdoor garden section at our local Wal-Mart. Instead of palms, ferns, azaleas, or lilies, every plant inside this room is marijuana. Some are tall and some are short, but all are endowed with fragrant, palmate leaves.
I hear the dull hum of a generator somewhere nearby and take a deep breath of humid, pot-scented air. I run my gaze down to the far end of the room, which is roughly the size of a basketball court. So many plants! There’s too much fluffy green for me to see exactly how they’re potted. They’re planted in three thick rows that look at least five feet wide: two rows along the rectangular room’s two outer walls, and another row down the room’s middle. Two cement aisles stretch between the three rows.
Between the mini forests of the leafy green plants, I can see the cement aisles are water-stained and littered with coils of hoses, bags of fertilizer, and familiar gardening utensils, like shovels and mini rakes.
I turn to Kellan with my mouth open. “Holy shit, this is a grow house.”
I LOOK TO MY RIGHT, where the nearest row of plants dances in a breeze made by huge, wall-mounted fans. Their blades whirl slowly. The plants’ thin leaves wag.
I turn back to Kellan. “I’m just... wow. This is so... WOW. This is incredible! How much weed is in here?”
He smirks. “Enough.”
“Enough for everyone! Enough for the whole school, the whole town.”
I reach out to fondle the plant nearest to me, but curl my fingers before I touch its leaves. I wonder what a plant is worth. I’m so clumsy—I don’t want to injure it.
I look around the space once more, this time noticing the ceiling, home to an army of tire-sized heat bulbs. I guess that’s why this room feels a little like the inside of a tanning bed.
Each time my gaze roams, I notice something new, from rows of mysterious mechanical gauges along the room’s two shorter walls to the arrangement of the marijuana plants. Now that I’ve had a minute to look, I can see they’re potted individually atop elevated wooden platforms.
I turn back to Kellan. “This is so legit. I don’t know why, but... I’m surprised.”
I can’t tell if he looks smug or bored with all my gushing. Ever since we came into the grow house, I’ve had a hard time reading him. Hell, I guess I’ve always had a hard time reading him.
“Where are you from?” I ask him. “I think your guest column I read in the student paper said California? One of the ritzy glitzy cities?”
One brow arches. “Ritzy glitzy?”
I shrug. “If the shoe fits... So am I right? Are you from California? L.A. maybe?”
His brows draw together. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering how long you’ve lived in this area. I’d think it would take time to create something like this.”
He lifts a shoulder. “You’d be surprised.”
Mounted on the ceiling to my right is a big, flat-screen TV. It’s protected by some kind of plastic wrap, but through the hazy cover, I can see alternating views of the inside and the outside of the house. Mounted on another spot on the ceiling is some kind of clock counting down in red, digitalized numbers.
“What’s that?” I point to the clock.
“It has to do with adjusting carbon dioxide in the room.”
I blink, because beyond the basic association between plants and carbon dioxide, I can’t summon an intelligent comment.
“Does Manning run this?”
“We do,” Kellan says, shifting his feet.
I hold my arms out. “I’m surprised you trusted me enough to show me this. It’s crazy impressive, Kellan. You’re legit as hell.”
One side of his mouth quirks up, like he’s amused by my praise. “Walk around if you want. You can touch the plants. Just be gentle—if you can manage that.”
I stick my tongue out. “When called for. I only see one douchebag in this room, and I think I’ve already dealt with him.”
