Chapter 3: The Herb
“I wait, not sure what for,
The worst or something else,
My aches, all of my pain,
I worry all about myself,
I’ve never been that good at saying when I’m lonely,
But I’m lonely now,
I’ve never been that good at saying when I’m needy, ,
but I’m needy now,…”
-Tegan and Sara, Pretty Shitty Time
“But isn’t that illegal?” The words sound lame and wrong as they leave Rita’s mouth but they feel like they’ll choke her if they’re not released.
“Technically, sure, but there’s always going to be someone doing what we do. Better us than sketchy assholes who sell shit cut with who knows what.” Angela puts a hand on Paolo’s shoulder, silencing his stream of words.
“Yes. It is illegal.” There’s no apology in her expression, just a world of experience that seems incomprehensibly deep and dense to Rita. “Come, We’ll show you,” Angela says, turning back into the doorway to the back and gesturing softly to Rita to follow.
“Are you sure, Abuela?” Paolo asks. Angela’s deep brown eyes contain an incomprehensible array of emotions and sentiments as they hold Rita’s. She feels in this moment as though the herbalist looks straight through her eyes and into her soul. To the very core of her being. Rita wonders, bizarrely, what that looks like.
“I’m sure.” Ther’s no uncertainty in her voice or face as she turns and leads the way into the back of the shop. Rita’s curiosity wins out over her pain, and she stands and follows her new employer.
They keep it in the basement. Rita’s initial assumption is proven correct as they pass through a small, cozy kitchen to reach a narrow flight of stairs going up and down. Thankfully there’s a railing, and Rita manages to avoid losing her balance as she follows Angela the Herbalist down into the dark.
Rita smells the plants before she sees them. Paolo, descending behind her, flicks on purplish overhead lights, revealing about a dozen rows of bushy Marijuana plants in various stages of growth.
“They just started their blackout phase, so a few more minutes of light won’t hurt.” The Herbalist gestures again over her shoulder, taking slow, careful steps with her cane towards one of the far rows. Rita follows,, feeling like Alice in wonderland if she was on Vice. “These are the indicas,” Angela gestures with one gnarled hand at a series of plants that looked indistinguishable to Rita “Sativas here, and these are the hybrids. Don’t worry about remembering for now. And this plant,” she gestures to a smaller shrub to her left. “-is the one CBD plant I keep on hand for Sarah’s boy. You’ll meet them all, eventually.”
“Your… customers?”
“Yes, the regulars, at least.”
“Why don’t they just go to one of the dispensaries in Washington?” it isn’t more than about a half hour’s drive across the state line where Recreational weed has been legal for years.
“Apart from crossing back into Idaho with herb also being illegal?”
“Uh, I guess, yeah.”
“There are many reasons. Most of my customers don’t have the time or money to take that route. Substances being legalized doesn’t mean patients’ insurance will cover the cost, especially if they’re having to get it in a different state. Medical users need more and have different priorities in terms of effect than recreational users, and most Washington dispensaries only give a 10 % discount to medical users, if they have one at all.” Rita nods uncertainly, trying to process the flood of information,.
“Others are more concerned with their reputations,” Paolo adds. “I deal more with them.”
“With who?”
“The recreational users who, for whatever reason, choose not to cross the state line to get their product.”
“You know I hate that word,” Angela puts in.
“Sorry, Abuela. Anyways, they’re how we can afford to cut prices for the medical users.”
“But isn’t that unfair, charging some people more for the same thing?”
“Think about it this way,” the Herbalist starts. “For the people who rely on a substance, it’s medicine, and no one should have to go broke paying for medicine. For recreational users, substances are a choice, a garnish, something they don’t need, but do enjoy. Nothing harmful will happen if they don’t get the substance. The same is not true for medical users. I’ve watched friends waste away to nothing, crippled by nausea that doesn’t respond to the basic meds. Selling smaller amounts for recreational use allows us to provide affordable rates to our medical clients. And we’re still charging less than most dispensaries.”
“I guess that makes sense,”
“Don’t worry,” Paolo adds. “We handle all the back room business. We really did just hire you to be a cashier.” Rita can’t hold in a small sigh of relief. “Though, of course, we still appreciate your discretion when discussing your job with anyone else.” Like I have anyone to tell, Rita thinks.
“Of course,” she says. All three start at a sudden chime from Rita’s pocket. Her brother is here to pick her up. Making her excuses and promising to be back tomorrow for her second shift, Rita pulls herself up the narrow staircase, pain howling, and makes her way back through the kitchen to the shop and out the front door, bells ringing her sendoff.
Cameron’s car immediately catches the eye. With its peeling pain and patches of rust, it’s definitely the jankiest car on the street. Seeing her approach, he leans across the console of the aging Camry and opens the passenger door for her.
“How was it?” Rita doesn’t know how to answer.
“It was… interesting.”
“I’ll bet,” Cameron flashes a smirk from the driver’s seat. “Does she pay you in cash?”
“Um.. I don’t know.” Rita tries to focus on her brother’s words, but her own seem to be lodged in her throat. It feels like her body has been saving up its symptoms all Day until it knows she’s on her way home, then hitting her with all of them at once. “I haven’t been paid yet.”
“For sure, for sure. Do they tip you in joints? ’cuz if so, I might be coming after your job, little sister.” Like any job would hire me over him. Her brother’s words have the cadence of a joke, but Rita’s in no mood to laugh. The sentences sink slowly into the lukewarm soup that is Rita’s mind in this moment.
“Uh, no. Wait, you know?”
“Yeah of course I do, I have like 3 friends who get their flower there.” Rita can imagine.
“Do you think mom knows?”
“Definitely,”
“Really?”
“I’d bet you 20 bucks.”
“Okay then.”
“You okay?”
“Mmhm.” Rita thinks the words but somehow they don’t make it to her mouth.”
“Is it your side?” Amongst other things. Rita nods.
Cameron turns up the radio as Rita’s eyes fall shut, and they pass the rest of the ride without talking much, listening to his rap music. It isn’t Rita’s favorite, but trying to parse the meaning of the lyrics gives her something other than her pain to pay attention to.
The pictures on the wall watch Rita as she makes her sore way up the stairs, step by creaking step. A collage of family memories, hung in no particular order. Rita feels detached from the girl depicted in them. The memories attached feel like they’re from another life.
Cameron runs up the stairs ahead of her. Unlike Rita, he seems to get almost all his features from their mom. Whatever traits he’s inherited from his father, whoever he was, are nothing compared to his resemblance to Mamá. Rita is taller, paler, thicker. More awkward. Rita fixates on a photo of her and her father when she was 7 or 8. His hand rests on her shoulder as she grins ear to ear. She used to visit him every summer. She can’t remember the last time she smiled like that. Mamá keeps the photo up because she says it’s one of her favorites of Rita. It used to be one of Rita’s favorites, too. Now the eyes follow her slow ascent, mocking.
Later that night, Rita lays awake in bed, teeth gritted in pain, paralyzed by indecision. She watches the hours slip away, each one marking one less hour of sleep she might get before waking up to go to work tomorrow. She thinks about the not one, but two times she was unenrolled from high school due to nonattendance. Her mother called every morning and brought doctor’s notes, but it didn’t make a difference. She cringes, remembering the walk of shame to the registrar’s office both times, her back seizing with a sharp, bone-deep ache. She can’t miss her second day of work. But her pain has other plans.
She rubs at the perpetual knot in the side of her neck, not hearing a word of the YouTube video playing on the phone propped up on a pillow beside her. Rita grabs her phone, tired of prolonging the inevitable. She types Angela’s Herbs and Remedies into a search engine and finds the business’s phone number annoyingly quickly. Taking a deep breath, she taps on the number and hits the call button. She gets the voicemail, the message recorded in English and Spanish. Of course, they won’t be open for a few hours yet. The words don’t come easily, but they sound like they do.
“Hi, Ms.Perez, hits Rita. I don’t think I’ll be able to come into work today. My pain is flaring really badly and I think I just need to stay here and rest. But I’ll definitely try to be there on Wednesday. Thanks for understanding, I’ll see you then.” The words are gone the second they leave her lips. No way to take them back.
Rita flops back on the pillows, the phone in her hand thumping on the mattress beside her. Sighing, she restarts the video and adjusts her system of pillows. She wants nothing more than to sleep, but every time she feels she’s getting close to it, either her pain or thoughts flareup, pulling her roughly back to consciousness. She tosses and turns, but no position feels comfortable for more than about 15 minutes.
It’s 9:05 when the call comes in. Even though she’s been expecting it, the sudden sound of her ringtone makes her jump. She scrambles to get her phone untangled from the blanket, hurriedly pressing the answer button, heart racing, eyes wide.
“Rita? It’s Angela. I got your message…” Here it comes, Rita thinks, bracing for the worst. “Of course it’s alright that you miss work today.” Rita holds her breath. “It’s a part time position anyways, you just take care of yourself and we’ll see you when you’re feeling better.”
“I will, thank you so much.”
“Of course, take care dear.”
“You, too.” Rita hangs up, letting out a deep sigh of relief. Relaxing back, she lets it sink in. She now has the whole day to rest. Somehow that knowledge finally allows her to relax enough that she feels herself drifting off. Maybe this will work out after all, she thinks, dozing.