Betty's (Little Basement) Garden (22 page)

“It's solar,” Betty said. “So wealth stops flowing when it's cloudy or at night?”

“Not sure about that,” he said, filling it with water. “I'll have to ask a Chinese person the next time I see one. Okay, get ready for your world to rock!” He set the solar panel inside the fountain top and stood back. An enormous blast of water rose from the center, cascading in ribboned streams and then re-emerging with another surge of energy. “Yeah! Pops is the man!” Peyton exclaimed.

Betty led Peyton downstairs into the basement. He fell silent as he studiously examined the rooms, checking out areas for placing the intake and outtake fans, the best location for the light fixtures and how “light tight” the proposed bloom room would be. “This is great, Betty.” He pointed to the sliding glass door. “During the day, you can keep that door open to get more natural airflow in here. You're still gonna have to use a lot of fans though. Remember, fans are –”

“My friend,” Betty finished the sentence.

The doorbell ran. Betty nervously reacted. “That's Jeff. He's helping us.”

Peyton looked slightly worried. “The fewer people who know about your grow op, the better. You don't show
an
y
body
your grow op unless you can absolutely can trust them. Is Jeff cool?”

She smiled. “Oh, yes. Very much so.”

“I brought you some presents,” Jeff stated as he walked inside the house and handed her a paper bag. Across his shoulder, he carried a large bag of tools.

“Really?” Betty replied, as her stomach did somersaults. “I should start a grow operation every day.” She looked down at the hem of his blue jeans. “Why are your jeans soaking wet?”

“Talk to your fountain out there. I think it's got its own agenda.”

Betty peered out the window. The sun was shining brightly on the solar panel and the unit was blowing water higher than Old Faithful. Betty made a mental note to move it toward the center of the yard so it could drench her entire garden. She opened the paper bag and brought out a black plastic bottle of hemp seed oil, a bag of hemp seeds and a pound of hemp seed flour.

“I figured since you were into all things cannabis and you like to cook, why not experiment with the non-psychoactive version of the plant.” He explained that the oil was full of beneficial Omega-3, and that while it couldn't be heated, it made a great dipping sauce or addition to salad dressing. The hemp seeds could be ground up and added to smoothies, and the hemp flour could be used half and half with regular flour in any baked goods.

Betty listened carefully and hoped she didn't look too smitten by his gesture. “Thank you so much,” she said coyly, her Texas lilt in full swing. So far, this day was starting off quite well.

She introduced Jeff to Peyton, and after some idle chat, Peyton explained his ideas about how to vent the rooms, set up the light and organize the area. Betty brought them sandwiches, which they enjoyed between cutting into walls and securing braces. When she asked them to tear up the olive green carpeting, they were right on it. No questions, no debates, no arguments. How refreshing, Betty mused. They just ripped it off its rusty tacks, rolled it up and dragged it to the trash. Leaving the thin carpet mat underneath, Peyton and Jeff secured two layers of heavy, black plastic to the floor. Thus, Betty didn't have to worry if she spilled water or dirt in the area. Oh, if Frank could see this now, he'd croak a second time from shock.

It felt so good to have activity in her house. Normally, she would have let them continue without her, but she wanted to be part of the renovation. Taking a gander at the room that would eventually hold the blooming plants, she eagerly began to cover the walls with glossy white paint. Betty listened to the back and forth banter between Jeff and Peyton and was cheered by how well they got along. At first Peyton was a bit territorial, but Jeff's ability to observe a situation and figure out a creative solution soon won him over.

They turned on the radio for some background music. At the top of the hour, the national news came on, followed by the Colorado feed. The top local story made them stop their work momentarily. Apparently, the roof on a large grow operation in the garage of a Denver home blew up, leaving the house destroyed, the occupants injured and their beloved pet dead. “While the source of the fire is unknown,” the newscaster reported, “there is the theory that too much electricity used to power the grow operation in the garage triggered the explosion.”

“That's bullshit!” Peyton exclaimed. “If it was an overload, the power would just cut out. It could have been a bad heater, but it wasn't ‘too much electricity.'”

“Are you certain?” Betty asked with an anxious expression.

“Don't worry, Betty,” Jeff reassured her. “Even when you add three or four more lights, there's no way it's going to be enough to start a fire. Everything's grounded down here. They said the fire started in the garage. Who's to say a gas can or some kind of solvent didn't trigger it? For all we know, they had a meth lab.”

Peyton nodded. “And they'll never follow up on the story and tell us what happened. They'll just leave the idea hanging out there, so people believe grow ops explode on their own. It'll be another urban legend. Like how the cops pay off people who work at the electric company to red flag a homeowner's bill and contact the cops when they see excessive electrical use that's different from the previous year.”

“No, that's actually true,” Jeff deadpanned. “The irony is that the cops pay off the snitches with the marijuana that they confiscate. Circle of life.”

The jarring voice of Reverend Bobby Lynch blared forth on the radio. He was front and center once again and weighing in on the “marijuana issue” in Colorado. “We are planning a national day of prayer for the children tomorrow,” Lynch stated, “to ask God to steer their hearts and minds away from this drug that has become easier to obtain than a bottle of liquor!”

“That's rich,” Jeff chuckled, as he continued working. “They're going to pray to God to keep the kids away from a plant that, in essence, God put on this earth. You think God is going to be up for that?”

“Why in the hell are they even asking that idiot for his opinion?” Peyton said, a spark of indignation becoming lit. “Asking him about cannabis is like asking him about forgiveness. He doesn't know shit about either one!”

“He does have a point about children,” Betty interrupted. “I never considered how children might glom onto their parents' medical cannabis stash.”

“You mean the same way they might glom onto their parents' booze, prescription drugs or cigarettes?” Jeff countered.

“Well yes, I realize that. But their brains are still developing. And I heard once from my son's school counselor that cannabis triggers the brain's reward system, giving the user instant gratification. She made quite a point of telling me that when this happens, the child doesn't learn the necessity of delayed gratification.”

“You mean ‘fun?'” Jeff asked.

“Hang on,” Betty interjected. “There is something to be said for working hard for what you want and realizing it's not going to happen overnight. No pain, no gain.”

Peyton shuddered. “God, I hate that mantra. Isn't there enough pain in this messed up world? Do we seriously need to conjure it in order to succeed?”

“Betty, I get what you're saying,” Jeff stressed. “But there's got to be a middle ground between suffering and success. If all you do is dwell on the suffering, how in the hell can you enjoy the rewards when they show up?”

Somehow, his comment hit her hard. “Be that as it may, one can't ignore how this cannabis revolution will affect children and their moral compass.”

“Betty,” Jeff said, “you can't legislate morality or personal behavior. No matter how much you believe it's possible, it's never going to happen. If people want to escape by getting high or drunk or whatever, they're going to do it. Period. The question shouldn't be
what
they're using. The question should be
why
they need to escape. But the good Reverend Lynch isn't exploring that part of the issue. He's just focused a little too hard on saving the children, enough to make you question his agenda.”

Betty was intrigued. “What do you mean?”

Jeff punched a staple into the black plastic covering on the floor. “Anyone who digs in and rants like that is overcompensating for something.”

“Like what?” Betty asked.

“Maybe he likes to roll a fat one before bed every night,” Jeff joked.

“No, really,” Betty pressed, “what are you saying?”

“When one doth protest too much about an issue, one doth often have something to hide.”

Peyton unrolled the reflective wall covering as he considered Jeff's statement. “Yeah. I know what you mean. When a guy doth drive a jacked-up truck with wheels that are too big and lights flashing all over, he usually has a small –”

“Brain?” Betty interjected.

Peyton smiled and stapled the silver covering to the wall. “I, on the other hand, drive a small car.”

Jeff drove another staple into the plastic on the floor. “And I drive a motorcycle.”

The three of them continued working away in the basement and made tremendous progress by three o'clock. They took a break under the large canopy elm in the backyard. Betty offered them their choice of tea or coffee, along with a few treats she purchased at the farmers' market that morning. A gentle breeze blew through the yard, as the tree shaded them from the piercing sun.

“Just think, Betty,” Peyton said, between bites of an apricot muffin Betty had topped with quince paste, “how far you've come in just one week! I mean, think about where you were on this issue just seven days ago!”

Betty realized that exactly seven days prior, she was seated in her living room, listening to Renée declare her war on the dispensaries. “I'd rather not think about that.”

Jeff threw her a knowing look.

Peyton finished the muffin and grabbed another one. “Now, if we can just get more people like you to change their minds, we won't have to deal with the jerk offs who wrote that shitty letter to the editor.”

“Wait a second,” Jeff intervened. “You're not aware –”

“That what this movement needs is a good ol' Republican to stand up and speak out!” Betty quickly said, shoving a plate full of cookies in Jeff's direction. “Cookie, Jeff?” She turned to Peyton. “I'm talking a moderate Republican, of course.”

Jeff eyed Betty. “Okay. Well, why don't
you
become that voice?”

Betty stiffened. “I wasn't referring to myself.”

“Why not?” Jeff pressed. “You come to this from an interesting point of view.”

“I prefer to work more quietly.”

“But that's the problem, isn't it?” Jeff added. “There have got to be lots of people like you who are involved but are afraid to come forward because of the stigma.”

“Stigma,” Peyton interjected. “Dude, you hit the nail on the head right there.”

Jeff turned to Betty. “Maybe when you stop worrying about what other people think, you'll come out of the cannabis closet.”

She got up. “Maybe I'll just bring my six plants out for now. Peyton, would you help me bring the light fixture and plants down from upstairs?”

“You need another hand?” Jeff asked.

“No, no, we can handle it.” Betty hustled Peyton forward. There was no way she was going upstairs alone and risking Jeff revealing to Peyton that she was one of the “jerk offs” who signed that damned letter.

After corralling the plants and light upstairs, work resumed in the basement for another two hours. Betty was able to slap a good thick coat of glossy paint on the entire bloom room by the time Peyton and Jeff had everything installed. They showed her how to operate the intake and outtake fans, explained how to change the carbon filters and how to adjust the T5 light fixture over the six young plants. Peyton set the timer on the veg light to go on at three in the morning and shut off at nine at night. He advised her to always close the drapes across the sliding glass door at night, so as not to attract too much neighborhood attention from the streaming light. It was closing in on dinnertime by the time they finished cleaning up.

“I have a rotisserie chicken. Would you both please stay for dinner?”

Peyton checked his cell phone. “No can do, Betty. I promised Pops I'd watch the documentary on Tesla: The Man & His Magic.”

God help him, Betty mused. This boy really did need a girlfriend. There was an awkward moment when Betty realized the invitation was announced, and now it would just be she and Jeff. Part of her froze but the other part of her melted.

“Guess it's just you and me, Betty,” Jeff stated.

She felt dizzy and turned to Peyton. “I'll show you to your car.”

When they walked out the front door, Betty noted two things. First, the fountain had subsided to a dwindling Las Vegas squirt, and Jack's motorhome and faithful drug dog were gone. Jerry, however, was across the street, watering his yard and clutching a beer can. If Betty didn't know any better, she'd think those damn cans were soldered to his palm, and he simply refilled them as needed.

“It was fun today,” Peyton offered.

“Thank you, Peyton.” She lifted her front door flag out of its holder and carefully wrapped it up. “I do appreciate your help.”

“How'd you and Jeff hook up?”

Betty was taken back. “Hook up? There's been no hooking up.”

“No, how'd you meet him?”

“Oh. Right. At
The Gilded Rose.
He was checking out my Biedermeier.”

“I bet he was.” He smiled and playfully punched her shoulder. “I like him. I thought he'd be a vegan since he owned a health food store but I'm glad he's not. I'm not fond of vegans anymore than I am of Canadians. I find vegans a strange mix of passive-aggressive frustration that could ironically be remedied by a grass-fed hamburger.”

“You have to work through your distrust of Canadians. You can't let one bad Canuck ruin the whole stew.”

He looked at her intensely. “Have you actually
met
a Canadian?”

“Yes. Quite a few of them.”

“Then you're stronger than I am.” He turned to his Prius. “Hey, remind Dottie about how to dose effectively with your candies. I made a cannabis cookie once for a patient who didn't understand she only needed one
bite
and not an entire cookie to kill her pain. She called me from Wal-Mart freakin' out, because she ate two cookies and couldn't figure out how to get out of the automotive department.” He opened the car door and got inside. “And remember tomorrow, you're seeing her about a horse.”

“I'm seeing her about a horse. Gotcha. Any more advice?”

Peyton settled in his car, pulling his seatbelt across his lap. He considered her question with deep intent. “Yeah. Don't baby your plants. Obviously, you can't ignore them but don't coddle them. The first two months when they're in veg determines how strong and resilient the blooming plant will be. These ladies are hardy by their own nature. You're not dealin' with hothouse orchids. They need love but tough love. You gotta feed them the high nitrogen guanos and fish fertilizers during their veg state, but you also have to allow them to just be and grow. The mistake a lot of newbies make is throwing everything but the kitchen sink at their ladies. It's amazing what can happen if you just allow it, you know? Give them plenty of space, great light and air, warm their feet and they'll dance for you.”