But Vogelsang never made mistakes, and now I wasn’t so sure. I lay there a moment atop my sweaty sleeping bag, a soiled sheet twisted at my ankles, and then staggered into the kitchen for a glass of water. It was one-thirty in the afternoon and the house was already so hot you could have baked bread on the counter. Phil was stretched out on the sofa behind a tattered copy of an E. Rice Burroughs novel, perfectly inert, a tall vodka Collins in his hand. I peered through the yellowed window and saw that both van and Saab were gone. ‘Vogelsang and Dowst leave already?’ I said.
Phil snorted. ‘What do you think – they’d stick around here a second more than they had to?’ From above, in the insupportable heat of the loft, Gesh’s snores drifted down, dry as husks.
I drank from the tap, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘Last night,’ I began, rummaging through the refuse on the counter for a knife, peanut butter and bread, ‘Vogelsang said we’ve only got a thousand plants in the ground – that’s crazy, isn’t it?’
Phil shrugged. I was watching his face and he was watching mine. ‘I don’t know, seems like there’s a million when you’re watering.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I know what you mean,’ but fifteen minutes later I was out there in the feverish hammering heat of midday, notebook in hand, counting.
Bushes had gone brown, the grass was stiff and yellow. I trod carefully, terrified of the rattlesnakes that infested the place. (I had a deep-seated fear of snakes, of their furtiveness, their muscular phallic potency, the quickness of their thrust, and the terrible rending wound they left in the poisoned flesh. I always carried a snakebite kit with me – but of course I knew the rattler would never be so cooperative as to puncture my foot or hand, but instead would fasten onto my ear or eye or scrotum, thus negating the value of the kit – and during the cold weather, when there was no more than a chance in a million of encountering a snake of any kind, I’d worn leather gaiters. As soon as the heat had set in, and the snakes emerged, the gaiters had become too uncomfortable and I’d abandoned them.) I made a mark for every plant on the property, four across and a slash for five, and found that fewer than a thousand had survived the root rot, blight and over-and-under watering that had afflicted them. Not to mention the hundreds – thousands? – that never emerged from the tough withered husks of their seedpods or succumbed to the depredations of various creatures, from the insects in the greenhouse to the bear. Nine fifty-seven. That was the figure I came up with, and that was the figure I presented to my co-workers after dinner that evening.
The evening watering was done, and we were standing out front of the house in the long shadows, pitching horseshoes for a dollar a game. ‘Vogelsang was right,’ I told them, ‘we’ve got less than a thousand plants.’ It was awful to contemplate: in one fell swoop our profits had been cut in half.
‘Bummer,’ Gesh said, and pitched a ringer to win the game. ‘That’s what, thirty-six dollars you owe me now, Felix.’
But this was just the beginning of our troubles, the first clear indication that we would have to revise our expectations downward. There were more to come. A week later, we began to notice that some of our healthiest plants – chest-high already and greener than a bucket of greenback dollars – were wilting. On closer inspection we saw that a narrow band had been cut or gnawed in the stem of each plant. We were bewildered. Had deer leapt eight feet in the air to vault our fences, bend their necks low to the ground, and nibble at the hard fibrous stems of the plants rather than graze the succulent leaves? Obviously not. Something smaller was responsible, some rabbity little bounding thing with an effective range about ankle-high and the ability to crawl under a deer fence. ‘Rabbits?’ Phil guessed. ‘Gophers?’ It was then, with fear, loathing, regret and trepidation, that I remembered the dark scurrying forms I’d encountered that first day in the storage shed; a second later I made the connection with the rat traps we’d found scattered about Jones’s main growing area. ‘Rats,’ I said.
We phoned Dowst. Rats, he informed us, live in the city: in garbage. A week later we’d lost upward of fifty plants, and we phoned him again. He looked preoccupied as he stepped out of the van, and I noticed that his skin had lost its color, as if he’d been spending a lot of time indoors, hunched over his notes on the virgin’s bower or the beard lichen. We walked down to Jonestown with him, squatted like farmers socializing outside the courthouse, and showed him the ring of toothmarks that had bled a vigorous plant dry in a week’s ? time. I watched as he ran a finger round the moist indentation and then brought it to his mouth to taste the fluid seeping from the wound. He was silent a moment, then looked up at us and announced that rabbits were decimating our crop. ‘They’re thirsty,’ he explained, ‘and here you’ve got a standing fountain, seventy percent water.’ He rose to his feet and brushed at his trousers. ‘The only thing to do is peg down the fences so they can’t get in underneath.’
We pegged. Crawled on our hands and knees through the rattlesnake-, scorpion- and tarantula-infested brush, the sweat dripping from our noses, and hammered stakes into the ground, stretching our chicken wire so tight even a beetle couldn’t have crawled under it. It took us a week. Dowst stayed on to supervise, to potter around the growing areas exuding expertise, and even, on occasion, to lend a hand. When we got the whole thing finished – all the fences in all the growing areas nailed down tight – I observed that we were still losing plants to the mystery gnawers, and suggested that the big bundles of twigs and downed branches we regularly came across in the woods and had as a matter of course enclosed within the confines of our now impervious fences were in fact rats’ nests and that rats, not rabbits, were the culprits. Dowst demurred. But two days later, as the plants continued to wither and the toothy girdles to proliferate, he authorized Phil to drive into Santa Rosa and purchase two hundred rat traps at Friedman Brothers’ Farm Supply.
By now it was early August, nearly a month since my fateful scrape with the law. We had something like 840 six-foot plants – bushes, trees – burgeoning around us. The boredom was crushing. We alternated early watering chores – two days on, one day off – so that each of us could sleep late two days a week. I almost preferred getting up early. At least you felt alive in the cool of the morning, traversing fields damp with dew, ducking through silent groves of oak and madrone, catching a glimpse of deer, fox, bobcat. We’d get back to the cabin at nine-thirty or ten, the temperature already past ninety, stuff something in our mouths and fall face forward on our worn mattresses. It would be one or two by the time we woke to the deadening heat, our nostrils parched, throats dry as dunes, and joined the late sleeper in the continuous round of drinking, pot smoking, cards and horseshoes that would put us away, dead drunk and disoriented, in the wee hours of the morning.
Each day was the same, without variation. Occasionally the pump would break down and Gesh would take it to a repairman in town and attempt to be casual about what he was doing with twenty-five-hundred gallons of water a day, or Dowst would pay a visit with magazines, newspapers, vodka and ice. But that was about it for excitement. The cards wore thin, the walls developed blisters from the intensity of our stares, we began to know the household lizards by name. ‘Gollee,’ Phil would say, slipping into an Atchafalaya drawl as we sat silently over our fiftieth game of pitch, ‘I haven’t had this much fun since the hogs ate my baby sister.’
If we saw Dowst once or twice a week, we rarely saw Vogelsang. As the plants blossomed into hard evidence, he made himself increasingly scarce, more than ever the silent partner. ‘Look, I’ve got too much to lose,’ he told us one night after he’d been summoned to repair the kick start on the surviving Kawasaki. ‘I just can’t take the risk of being seen up here or identified in any way with this operation. I’ve got business interests, property in three states, a number of other deals in the works . . .’ and he waved his hand to show the futility of even trying to intimate the scope of his interests. We watched that exasperated hand in silence, thinking our own thoughts about how much he had to
lose, and by extension, how little we had. To lose.
For my part, the euphoria of being allowed to stay on was quickly exhausted, and I’d come to feel as oppressed as my coworkers by the drudgery and the unvarying routine. During the long slow hours of the interminable sweltering afternoons, propped up in a chair with a tall vodka and tonic and some moronic sci-fi paperback Phil had picked up at a used-book store in Ukiah (‘The classics, Phil,’ I’d tell him, ‘get me something fat by Dostoevski or Dickens or somebody’), I began to feel I was estivating, my clock wound down, brain numbed. It was then, more than ever, that I would find myself thinking of Petra.
One evening, while we stood round the horseshoe pit, winning, losing and exchanging chits, Dowst’s van slid through the trees along the road and swung into the field, bouncing toward us across the brittle yellow expanse of the yard like a USO wagon come to some remote outpost. We were shirtless, bearded, dirty, our jeans sun-bleached and boots cracked with age and abuse. Behind us the sun flared in the sky, fat and red as a tangerine, and a host of turkey vultures, naked heads, glossy wings, converged on the carcass of some luckless creature struck down behind the shed. Puddles of crushed glass glinted at our feet, the sagging outbuildings eased toward the ground like derelicts bedding down for the night, and the cabin, pale as driftwood, radiated heat in scalloped waves until you had to look twice to be sure it wasn’t on fire. For an instant I saw the scene from Dowst’s eyes – from the eyes of an outsider, an emissary from the world of hot tubs and Cuisinarts – and realized that we must have looked like mad prospectors, like desert rats, like the sad sun-crazed remnants of Pizarro’s band on the last leg of the road to Eldorado.
Dowst backed out of the van, crablike, his arms laden, and disappeared into the house. A moment later he emerged, newspaper in hand, and crossed the yard to join us. He was wearing white shorts and an alligator-emblazoned shirt, tennis shoes and pink-tinted shades. ‘Hi,’ he said, gangling and affable, as relaxed as a man who’s just played two sets of tennis before brunch, and then held out the newspaper as if it were a new steel racket or a Frisbee. ‘I thought you guys might want to see this.’
See what?
‘VOGELSANG ELECTED MAYOR; POT SOARS ON COMMODITIES MARKET; JERPBAK TRANSFERRED TO JERUSALEM.’
We saw the front page of the Chronicle, blocks of print, a murky photograph. Puzzled, we crowded round him, scanning the headlines, passing quickly over the stories of corruption in government, poverty in the Third World and carnage in the Seychelles, until the following story leapt out from the page to seize us like the iron grip of a strangler:
WAR DECLARED ON POT GROWERS
The Drug Enforcement Administration and the State Department of Justice have formulated plans for a federally funded assault on growers of high-grade sinsemilla marijuana along the northern California coast, the Chronicle learned today. A federal law-enforcement grant of $400,000 has been rushed through to enable the newly formed ‘Sinsemilla Strike Force’ to begin operations before the fall harvest season. The strike force will coordinate federal agents and local police departments in ‘sniffing out illicit growing operations,’ as one source put it, in Mendocino, Del Norte and Humboldt counties. Aerial surveillance, including the use of infra-red photography, will, it is hoped, pinpoint the locations of so many of the large-scale farms, while a program of special cash rewards for turning in growers is expected to help in exposing others.
‘People are tired of this sort of thing,’ a source close to the strike force said, ‘and they resent the outsiders that come into their community for illegal and often highly lucrative purposes. We’re confident that the reward system will make it easier for local residents to help us identify and apprehend the criminals in their midst.’
Operations could begin as early as next month, the source disclosed.
Dowst was grinning sheepishly, a slight flush to his cheeks, as if he’d just told an off-color joke at a lawn party. ‘Not such great news, huh?’
For some reason, the story didn’t affect me as it would have a few months earlier. I was alarmed, certainly, all the vital functions thrown into high gear as I read on, but I wasn’t panicked. In fact, relatively speaking, I was calm. Perhaps my run-in with Jerpbak and the little scene I’d gone through with Savoy – everybody knows what you guys are doing up there – had made me fatalistic. Perhaps I expected a bust. Perhaps I wanted it.
Gesh was not quite so calm. He snatched the paper from Dowst’s hands, balled it up and attempted to punt it into the trees. Then he turned on him, his face splayed with anger. ‘What next?’ he shouted, as if Dowst were to blame. ‘Christ!’ he roared, and spun round to face the empty hills.
Phil was pale. He tried to laugh it off, improvising a halfhearted joke about infra-red pot and reading glasses for the eye in the sky, until his words trailed off in a little self-conscious bleat of laughter. Then, in what had almost become a reflex gesture for him, Gesh wheeled around to jab a thick admonitory finger in Dowst’s face. ‘Between the rats and the bears and you and Vogelsang and now the fucking federal government, there’s going to be precious little of this pot to split up, you know that?’
Dowst knew it. And so did we.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. The following day, after he’d made a tour of the plantation and monitored the growth of each leaf, stem and twig, Dowst announced that he’d begun sexing the plants and that within a month all the males should have emerged. ‘Around the end of September, after the photoperiod begins to decline; that’s when we’ll get them all.’
Phil and I were playing checkers; Gesh was dozing on the couch, a newspaper spread over his face. It was mid-afternoon, and the heat was like a wasting disease. ‘Huh?’ I said.
‘You know,’ Dowst was rattling through the cans of soup in the cupboard under the sink, ‘for sinsemilla pot. We’ve got to weed out the male plants.’
That was something we’d known all along, in the way we knew that chickens laid eggs whether there was a rooster or not, or that Pluto was the ninth planet in the solar system – it was part of our general store of knowledge. But we hadn’t really stopped to think about it, to consider its ramifications or work it into our formulae for translating plants into dollars. Any fool knew that in order to get sinsemilla pot you had to identify and eliminate the male plants so that the energy of the unfertilized females would go toward production of the huge, resinous, THC-packed colas that made seedless pot the most potent, desirable and highly priced smoke on the market. Any fool. But to this point we’d conveniently managed to overlook it.
I watched Phil’s face as the realization of what Dowst was saying seeped into his nervous system and gave vent to various autonomous twitches of mortification and regret. ‘You mean . . . we’ve got to . . . to . . . throw out some of the plants?’
Dowst had found a can of Bon Ton lobster bisque and was applying the opener to it. ‘Usually about fifty percent. It could be higher or lower. Depending.’
Phil looked like a man being strapped into the electric chair while his wife French-kisses the DA in the hallway. ‘On what?’
The lobster bisque was the color of diarrhea. Dowst sloshed it into his spotless Swiss aluminum camp pot and stirred it with a spoon he’d carefully disinfected over the front burner. ‘Luck,’ he said finally, and he pronounced the word as if it had meaning, pronounced it like the well-washed Yankee optimist he was, a man who could trace his roots back to the redoubtable Dowsts on the Mayflower. Besides, he had his van, a condo in Sausalito and a monthly stipend from his trust fund. He didn’t need luck.
I thought of Mendel’s pea plants, x and y chromosomes, thought of all those hale and hearty many-branching glorious male plants that would be hacked down and burned – fifty percent of the crop in a single swoop and the second such swoop in a month’s time. Numbers invaded my head like an alien force, a little problem in elementary arithmetic: Take 840 pot plants and divide by 2. Divide again, allowing for one-half-pound of marketable pot per plant, to solve for the
total number of pounds obtained. Multiply this figure by $1,600, the going rate per pound. Now divide by 3 to arrive at the dollar value of each share – the financier’s, the expert’s and the yeoman’s – and finally divide by 3 again to find the miserable pittance that you yourself will receive after nine months of backbreaking labor, police terror and exile from civilization.
Dowst was whistling. Phil gnawed at the edge of a black plastic checker, expressionless, his eyes vacant. My half-million had been reduced to $37,000. Barring seizure, blight, insect depredation and unforeseeable natural disasters, that is. It was a shock. If Jerpbak, ravenous rodents and the ‘Sinsemilla Strike Force’ had driven a stake through my heart, Dowst had just climbed atop the coffin to nail down the lid.
Budding Prospects, 1984
Henri de Monfried
The Farm
AFTER AN HOUR’S drive, we reached the foot of a hill covered with heather and flowering broom. A farm with tiled roofs set against it, facing the rising sun and overlooking the plains covered with orchards and wheat fields. The buildings were of granite, and seemed very ancient. They were as massively constructed as a fortress, with vaulted entrances, and the great flags which paved the courtyard had been worn away by the contact of countless generations of feet.