Narrator: Hello, darling.
Wife: Hi, sweetheart. Just checking if you'll be home this weekend. Andy still wants to talk to you, and they'll come back this weekend if you're going to be here.
I grabbed my hand held microscope, which was tethered to a leather strap around my neck. I pulled it up to the leaves of an OG Kush Plant and looked at it. It was clean. The War of the Spider Mites was a distant memory now. I had lost the war in my seventh month of growing, and this entire house had been gutted, cleaned, and air sealed again.
Narrator: Warn him not to expect much from me. I'll try not to yell NO too loudly.
Wife: I know you won't.
My wife spoke to me in the pleasant tone she had carefully crafted for use when she knew I was under stress. She had developed it during my days on the corporate plantation, when I would be dropped in to recover a project where the customer was threatening legal action.
Wife: I've got some ideas about Operation Motherfuckers I want to talk to you about.
Bless my wife, she means well, but sometimes she was just a corny little southern girl at heart, a Jewish one.
Narrator: OK, let's not discuss it now, but definitely when I get home. I've had a few ideas too.
Wife: Good.
Her reply was enthusiastic.
A new branch bent down to me and offered its leaves to the microscope. Tick marks were made for diseased or dead leaves, which were then removed and recorded on a clipboard under a column labeled DL. Those numbers would be recorded in a large Excel workbook that served as one of the backbones of the technology. Rooms were compared against each other. Mother plants, with their precious cuttings, even these were compared against each other. Keep the best; fuck the rest. Eventually, right before the War of the Spider Mites, variances in the grows across the houses started to disappear. Yields were coming in within three percent of initial predictions and rising. Importantly, variances had resulted in a program of localized assistance. It started with some additional LED lights put over areas that had the lowest lumens when measured with a cheap light meter from an online camera store. It quickly spread to localized heating and cooling. I turned loose of the branch and it sprang upward.
Narrator: Did you get the IRA funds transferred?
Wife: Yep, sure did. The little prick wasn't happy.
Narrator: I don't really care. Wait, actually I do. I'm glad he wasn't happy.
Wife: Me too. He didn't get to buy a new boat when we transferred our account.
Narrator: What would you say if I spent more time at home soon?
Wife: Splendid. Come home and chase me around the house.
Later that day, right as the light started to hint of evening, I finished my work. I showered, dressed, and packed the car for the trip back to the Biloxi grow house. As I walked out to the barn the final time with some extra cleaning supplies, I saw a relative of mine pass on the dirt road. He put two fingers to his head as a tip of the hat.
Oren was not the friendliest member of my family. He had a reputation for trouble and meanness. That didn't normally concern me because I tended to ignore most of my kinfolk. What did concern me was that he was driving down this isolated back country dirt road, a road where black families occupied the only other houses. He wasn't likely to visit any of those, not from the vile shit I'd heard out of his mouth. I had also noticed some scratch marks on the front and back door locks. He drove nice and slow past the house and barn, keeping the dust level low as he looked at me with a shit-eating grin that reeked of "I know you're up to sumpthin." I smiled and waved.
A couple of minutes later, I was in the car, setting the outdoor wireless web-cams to motion notification, the same setting had been on at the grow house in Jackson that Taylor had broken into. I dreaded it. Now every rodent, deer, cat, dog, and owl that came within fifty feet of the lens would set it off in the night, and I would panic for a few minutes. Fucking family. It's a gamble which family you are born into, a gamble I lost before I even knew it.
*****
The house in Biloxi was almost empty. The moving truck had taken two trips to bring all of the grow equipment from Biloxi to the barn at the farmhouse in Georgia. Every bit of equipment was cleaned with isopropyl alcohol or bleach prior to dispatch. There are no laws against driving with a truck full of hydroponic equipment. There are laws against driving with a truck full of THC coated hydroponic equipment. The distance is about 365 miles. On an interstate highway with a moving truck, it would take about seven hours. Being deep in the seizure of the "noia" meant I took the back roads. This turned it into a twelve-hour journey each time the truck was full. Federal, state, and local cops prowl the interstate highway system looking for their victims. Often settling for the lucrative but mundane property seizures when they can't fabricate significant criminality.
The rental truck had been turned in and my last two days of house cleaning were well underway. Today was a six-hour session of carpet, drapes, and curtain cleaning. One thing about good cannabis, when the smell sticks to something, it stays. I had danced around the floor with the long attachment to the Steam Dream 500 carpet and home steam cleaner. It was billed as one of the premiere chemical free cleaners. The added chemicals were my idea. I moved the vacuum cleaner-looking end across the carpet, and it left a trail of rising steam in its wake. My Iolite hissed in my back pocket, and I removed it, took a long draw, and then put it back.
My phone rang. It was my number two.
Daughter #2: Hi, Daddy. How's it going?
Narrator: Just fine, pigeon. How're things with you?
Daughter #2: Not so good. Andy and I had a big fight last night. This one might be too big to fix.
Narrator: Have you talked to your mother about it?
Daughter #2: Not yet. You know how she gets all "I told you so" with me.
Narrator: Not really sure she does that, pigeon. I do know that you're hypersensitive to criticism from her, though. Figured that out on your twelfth birthday when you threw your cake at her.
Daughter #2 laughed. Her laugh was a nice thing to hear. These are the moments that father's cherish more than most. I reached into my back pocket and flipped the switch of my vaporizer to OFF. Stoner dad isn't always best dad.
Daughter #2: I remember that. Mom grounded me for a whole damned month, evil bitch. If you hadn't acted as lawyer, it would've been a year. Remember your "Rebellion is Beautiful" speech? I still do, especially when I feel the need to push back.
Narrator: It was nothing. Eloquence is easy when the stakes are high. So what's the problem with Andy?
Daughter #2: Well, you know how he's been wanting to talk to you?
Narrator: Yes, your mother mentioned something along those lines. You know what'll happen if he asks my permission for marriage.
Daughter #2: I know you won't give it. And secretly, I'm counting on you, Pop. I don't want to break his heart by saying "No."
I started laughing. It was the laugh of a parent that feels a huge surge of relief.
Narrator: So why would you tell him "No"? Thought he was "The One."
There was a little hesitation in her voice before she answered.
Daughter #2: I want to know that I can stand up on my own before I make a lifetime commitment.
"That's my girl," rang in my head. Daddy's girl, definitely. An independent streak a mile wide and deep. I was smiling as I laid down the steam cleaner hose and attachment and walked over and sat down on the hardwood stairs.
Narrator: Sounds reasonable, pigeon. So why the fight?
Daughter #2: He refused to tell me what he wants to talk to you about.
Narrator: So what?
Daughter #2: Daddy, if it's a partnership, then it's a partnership. If it's a dictatorship, he needs to tell me and I'll head on down the road. Partners don't keep secrets from each other.
Narrator: Understand. Couples shouldn't keep secrets from each other.
Yeah, I know. Hypocrite of the Year in a unanimous decision.
Daughter #2: I told him this morning that he has until midnight to tell me what it's about or it's over between the two of us.
Narrator: Damn, pigeon, that's a bit extreme, don't you think?
It was taking everything for me to keep from laughing. Number two would sometimes do a thermonuclear escalation on things that didn't seem to merit it. But she's my daughter, and our opinions differ on this. Regardless, I am always on her side, right or wrong. That's my job; I'm Dad.
Daughter #2: Well, we'll see if he's a coward or a fool.
I adjusted the earpiece.
Narrator: What? That doesn't seem to be much of a choice. How does that work?
Daughter #2: Well, if he caves in and tells me, then he's a coward, easily intimidated, and I lose respect for him.
Narrator: Damn, that's cold.
Daughter #2: No, it's not, Daddy. It only means that I need to be the strong one in the relationship until he matures. Not a problem for me. Not a problem, not one damned bit.
Narrator: Word. And if he's a fool?
Daughter #2: If he's a fool, he stands on his silence and it costs him the relationship and the wildest woman he'll ever get his hands on.
Narrator: OK, I'm starting to blush.
Daughter #2: Don't blush, Dad. You're the reason I'm like this. Inherited the libido from hell from you, Pops.
Narrator: Not a good place for him to be in, either way.
Daughter #2: No, but you always told me, know who's on your side and know how far they can be counted on and know when they'll cut and run. That was you, wasn't it? Or did I dream it?
Narrator: Guilty as charged. Perhaps you could be a little subtler about it in the future.
Daughter #2: I'll try, but don't count on it.
I wouldn't. I looked out across the carpeted dining room and saw nothing but a showroom level of clean. I needed this in the entire house. A soft, slight lemon scent came from the carpet. I hung the curtains back up as number two told me more mundane aspects of her daily life. Sleeping well, check. Eating decent meals, check. Automobile in safe order, check. Mom paid all the bills, check. Got money in the bank and cash in the purse, check. It was the same checklist every telephone call. Daddy's Ten Point Maintenance Inspection is what Number two called it. She didn't like it much at first, not until the first time her car broke down and left her stranded. Then Dad's $100 hidden in the purse and never spent, except in emergencies, came in handy. Eventually we said our "I love yous" and returned to our work and studies.
The living room carpet was easiest to clean; there had been no plants in that room. I kept the working bottles of nutrients on an extra large and thick bath towel. It would be buried in the back yard along with the fluid from the steam cleaner. I picked up the towel and headed to the garage to get the shovel. As I passed the living room window, I looked out. Past the trees at the edge of the road, I could see my neighbor walking toward her mailbox out by the street. Her hair was pulled up into a bun on top of her head. She wore a neck brace. This time there was no attempt made to cover the work of Charlie's anger. Her eye was still puffy and purple from the beating. Three days was not a long time to heal. The laceration on her forehead had opaque tape over the sutures. She took the mail from the box and looked at it. She spoke aloud in response to one of the envelopes. It wasn't possible for me to hear what she said, but I did notice the three teeth missing from her mouth, the two on top and directly in the front and one at the bottom, directly below the upper gap. She wasn't wearing her usual upmarket couture. Now it was a big fluffy robe and slippers. The only good thing about her appearance was the paint on her fingers. She was obviously capable of painting. I hoped that it would help her heal from the horrors of domestic violence. She shuffled back into the house with a slow determined step that indicated further pain beyond the observable.
Fuck! It hurt to see something I could have prevented. There was no excuse for me; I could have done something, gotten her a hotel room, taken her to a women's shelter, something, anything. Instead I stayed on the other side of the door, the other side of making a difference in this world, more interested in making a difference for myself. My failures were starting to pile up, and I needed to do something to swing the pendulum back. For them and for me.
I moved the steam cleaner upstairs and started on the bedrooms. My iPad was tuned to the web cameras out front. It was about ten minutes before lunch when the florist truck pulled into Jenny's driveway. The driver pulled his hand truck to the back door. I counted as he loaded twelve boxes, each containing a dozen long-stem roses onto the hand truck, and then roll it up to the front door. He rang the doorbell. Humans are not creatures that handle shock well. The delivery driver stepped back slightly when he saw Jenny's battered face. She pointed just inside of the door, and the man moved them inside. Her fingers no longer had paint on them. She signed his clipboard; he smiled and left. She stood at the door watching him leave, like someone who wished she could leave with him. When he had vanished from sight, she stood there for almost a minute, looking off down the street, far away in her thoughts.
The Sun Herald is the local newspaper and posted the crime reports on its website. The report simply said Charlie was arrested for "disturbing the peace" and under investigation for "possible domestic violence." The judge, the Right (Dis)honorable (Scum-sucking Rat-fucker) Mark Calhoun, set bail at $500. He also fined the arresting officer two hundred dollars for Contempt of Court because of her outburst in the court when the bail amount was announced. Reading it made me feel sick. I went back to the steam cleaner, feeling worse than before. I needed to find something to change my trajectory.
The paper coveralls made their exit, and I worked in my boxers, t-shirt, and cross trainers. The steam cleaner would raise the temperature in the room by a few degrees and spike the humidity, making it a sweaty work environment. Growing cannabis is often consumed with some of the most mundane work imaginable, and this was one more shining example. I comforted myself in the knowledge that my own choices had lead me to this point in time, no one else's, just my own.
I smoked a little more Satori and thought about what I could do to change things. Maybe it wasn't a big change that was needed; maybe just a small one would deflect me from the downward spiral I had created. The lemon scent was getting stronger, reminding me to fill the reservoir of the steam cleaner again. The rest of the day was consumed by the steam cleaner and later by the burial of a few forgotten pieces of grow equipment, in a hole, in the back yard, after dark. I emptied the final fluids from the steam cleaner into the hole then covered it all up. Back inside, I cleaned the machine thoroughly with alcohol and bleach before drying it and putting it in the trunk of the BMW. It was the last night in the house and it would suck. No bed, no futon, just a sleeping bag and a pillow on the floor.
The next day was departure day. But before I could go, I had to spend hours going over the entire house. I was dressed in paper coveralls, hospital footies over my shoes, a double set of vinyl gloves on my hands, safety glasses and a hospital surgical mask on my face. Today was the bleach exorcism. It took me hours to go over every single spot in the house that I might have ever touched with a large sponge soaked in bleach. Bathroom sink faucets, toilet handles and tank lids. Every single door handle both inside and outside of the house. If I couldn't remember, I assumed that it contained my fingerprints and cleaned it. I even pulled the vinyl paper from the kitchen cabinets and buried it outside, just in case I had touched it. For hours the house was inspected and cleaned, re-inspected and cleaned again. The mailbox, the local newspaper tube, the wheeled garbage cans, everything you could imagine. Every window had the tinting removed and then cleaned with alcohol. As I got near the end, I finished the Iolite full of Satori. I took the remaining quarter of an ounce along with the Iolite herb chamber and buried them in the back yard. Iolite herb chambers are cheap enough that I didn't need the risk of traveling with a dirty one.
Everything was moving along nicely, and I would finish in the early afternoon. Charlie usually came home around six thirty in the evening, most evenings. Would be good to be gone before that asshole got home. Some sumbitches deserve bad things to happen to them. He's one of them.
That's the problem I've always had with people who talk about karma. It's like they think it's the law of the fucking universe that could be relied upon. It's not. If it were, then Hitler would've died after the first Jewish life was snuffed out, Stalin after the first death in his purges, and Bush after the first innocent Iraqi family reached "collateral damage" status. But karma isn't dependable. It's just an excuse for lazy fuckers to remain inactive and feel good about themselves. "Don't worry, karma will catch up with them. What goes around, comes around." BULLSHIT!
There would be only one risky item on the travel agenda. I still had one of the Berettas with me. The other had already been moved successfully to the Georgia farmhouse and buried in a tub of granular nutrients. It would be a "noia" drive because of the gun, but not as bad as having cannabis in the car. If I got caught, the untraceable gun would cause me grief, but not jail time.
My phone rang. It was the wife this time. The thought of me chasing her around the house, both of us naked, flashed in my mind, and I smiled as I answered the phone.
Narrator: Incredible Chicago Pizza, home of the Tuesday Two-fer. Will this be dine-in, carry-out, or delivery.
Wife: Delivery please. I would like to order one medium husband to go. And can I have that on thin crust please?
Narrator: Lady, you can have it on double thin crust if you want.
Wife: Glad you're doing better. You've had me worried the last few days.
Narrator: Me too, but I'm almost done here. Once I'm away, I'm sure the "noia" will subside.
Wife: Good. Have you seen your neighbor? Do you know if she's alright?
Narrator: Yeah, she looks like hell, but on her feet. And Brass Knuckles sent her twelve dozen red roses. Can you believe it?
Wife: That's so typical. Forgive me, honey. What that jerk needs is a 9mm blow job.
Her words surprised me. It wasn't her normal attitude. She never condoned violence, but she had volunteered at a women's center for a few years while I was roaming the globe with projects. Guess she saw it all and heard it all. Still, as hard as I tried, understanding the batterer was beyond me. I just couldn't get it. There was no set of circumstances that I could construct that would result in that outcome. It was illogical, immoral, and an injustice.
Narrator: Yeah, that would be nice.
I walked over to the kitchen counter and hopped up onto it. The house was now completely empty; I had nowhere to sit except the floor, the stairs, the toilet, or the counters.
Wife: What time do you think you'll be home tomorrow?
Narrator: Should be home in time for dinner.
Wife: Perfect. I'll make stuffed peppers and leek and potato soup. What do you think?
Narrator: Sounds wonderful to me.
Wife: Good. Number two and Andy will arrive early in the afternoon. Did they have a spat or something?
Narrator: Why do you think that?
Wife: I don't know. She had the smug tone of voice she gets when she wins. That's why I won't play Monopoly with her anymore. Anyway, I know that tone, and I know she hasn't had an argument with me recently... and she never has any with you. You two are as thick as thieves. That only leaves Andy.