Freedom Weed Chapter 1

This is the first chapter from my novel Freedom Weed set during the rise and fall of the Spokane, WA medical marijuana dispensary system. An online literary journal called One Title will publish a selection from the novel in their summer edition coming out June 28th. Check it out! For this part of Freedom weed I drew from the experience of seeing my grandmother watch the friends around her fall into ill health and pass away due to the fact that she's been cursed/blessed with a long, healthy life.

Mom sure knew how to go, Jay Dennesey thought, ushering the few well-wishers who’d made their way out to Thorn’s Funeral Home for his father’s Tuesday morning funeral. His mom had been a tough old bird who got into bed one day shortly after her 65th birthday, said goodbye to everyone she loved, then, three days later....plop. Jay didn’t really appreciate how skilled his mother had been at dying until it took his old man nearly six months to kick the bucket.
            Certain the entire audience of mourners had arrived, Jay re-lit a store-bought cigarette he’d ashed out in the beige rocks on top of a slender steel bucket near the front entrance of the funeral home. Thorn’s Funeral Home was an icon. As he smoked, Jay peered up at the same sign that had been there since he was a kid. In looping, outdated font it read, “Since 1937. Passing with Dignity.”  The Spokane Valley had grown up around the old brick building, now a dignified relic sandwiched between auto repair shops and fast food joints. What this place must be worth, thought Jay, looking at the two dozen or more parking spots in front of what he guessed was at least an acre of prime commercial property.  He listened to a few cars buzz past before one last drag from his cigarette.

Inside, the atmosphere was decidedly drab. Dark hardwood floors in the entryway accented eggshell colored walls. Jay joined his brother, John, who had already found his seat directly in front of the casket they’d rented for the viewing before cremating the old man. Scattered throughout the cheapest service room of the funeral home, a few mourners fiddled with the hem of their pants or tinkered with the clasp of a coin purse, each looking down, avoiding one another.
            “So, when he passed...did he say anything?” John asked Jay.

“No. Nothing,” Jay lied. The old man had screamed like a banshee in his last moments as the pulse inside his wormy veins came to a slow stop, confessing all kinds of sins—real and imaginary. “He went,” Jay paused, “quietly. No pain. I went in to feed him and he was...just...dead.”

“I wish I would have been there.”

            A petite elderly woman whose name Jay and John should have known came up to them and put her knobby hand out to Jay. Both men stood.      

            “He was a nice man,” the woman squeaked.

            “Thank you,” John and Jay said nodding while the small, hunched over old lady walked back to her seat.

            Jay barely filled out the old suit he found in his dad’s closet. His brother, on the other hand, had a soft bulge growing above the waist of his pants. When they were younger most people could pinpoint the brotherly similarities. Now it was GI Joe next to Ken with man-boobs.     

            “John,” Jay whispered, “where are Sandy and kids?”

            “Sandy doesn’t think a funeral would be healthy for their emotional development. You know? They’re still pretty young for a funeral,” John answered, eyes forward.

            “Okay then. What about Sandy? Why couldn’t she make it?”

            “She,” John hesitated, still looking forward, “she didn’t want to have to explain to the kids why she’d be leaving. And besides, her mom couldn’t get away to watch the kids.”

            “What?” Jay’s whisper scraped the back of his throat. “Darla couldn’t skip going to the god damn casino for one Saturday?”

            “Well I guess they’re giving out double points this weekend on losses and she didn’t want to miss out on that. They only do that every once in awhile.”

            With closed eyes, Jay rubbed his temples in small circles and took a deep, audible breath. Another mourner wearing a cloth paperboy hat shuffled by and nodded at the brothers. Jay recognized him as one of his dad’s co-workers from back in the hardware store days. Neither of them remembered the man’s name; all they could offer was a solemn nod in return. Jay leaned over to his brother again.

            “John?” Jay spoke firmly. “What do you mean Sandy didn’t want to explain to the kids why she’d be leaving?”        

            John sat silently.

            “Do they not know dad’s dead?”

            John sighed, licked his lips and shook his head.

            “John? They don’t even know their granddad died?”

            Knowing full well the weakness of his character, John shrugged his eyebrows over two watery eyes.

            “Jesus fucking Christ John!” Jay’s raspy, angry voice rose above a whisper. He looked back to find that the small old lady from before sitting a few pews behind them could still hear quite well. Her sideways glance—pouty lipped and a little frightened—had heard almost more than she could bear.

            “You couldn’t even get your wife to pay her respects to the old man?” Jay scoffed. “Well I guess I should be happy that at least she let you come.” With that Jay stood and walked to his father’s body.

            Jay could smell the sweet, soft scent of the white roses to the left of the open casket. His father looked mad. He looked mad it’d taken him so long to die and that his wife left him before he was ready to lose her, he was mad his smart son never saw him and that his loner son who couldn’t even land a wife or a girlfriend or even a lay every now a then had to be the one to sit by his side and watch him die. Jay reached in the coffin, laid a hand on his father’s shoulder, feeling the pointy bones struggling against the thin, dead skin—he squeezed and wished he could feel his dad’s handshake once more before letting him go.

            Turning around to a sadly lit room, Jay saw barely a handful of mourners strewn about the seats—old well wishers who had also lived too long. A geriatric crowd that woke every morning to scan the obits for past acquaintances who’d passed on so they can pay respect or just make sure the bastards are dead. What a life, Jay thought to himself looking out at the few elderly people speckled in the nearly empty room, live long enough to see everyone else die.

Dear NSMAFC

After my friend Lawra Gosslin-Harris wrote a fake letter to target, I wanted to respond as Target's head of marketing.


From the desk of Jeffery J Jones II

June 18th, 2012


Dear normal sized middle aged female customer:

Thank you for reaching out to us, we appreciate and welcome feedback  from our all our customers, regardless of their station in life. As you’ve attested, Target is a welcoming environment willing to accommodate everyone from blue collar regular joes to executive level individuals such as myself; from nubile young hotties to washed up, burnt-out house marms. I like to think that Target has  something to offer every walk of life.

Please let me be clear, we at Target did  not mean to offend you in any way and if we sent the wrong signal, please accept our apology. With summer approaching, we typically run a two week ad campaign to sell our line of skimpy bikini tops as quickly as possible before the parents of teenage girls start a protest campaign. Rest assured, we still carry very modest one piece swimsuits, large beach towels to completely cover yourself, and don’t forget about our line of pants with elastic  waistbands.  If you’re one of the many Target customer who’ve let themselves go, don’t worry, we have something for you.

As much as I’d hate to lose you to another store, the fact of the matter is I’m not sure you could do that much better. Probably not. The only other option for you to have what we call the “bullseye experience” is at Walmart. If you think you don’t want to see Target customers in bikinis....well write me another letter after you spend an afternoon in Walmart. Target does lose part of its customer base from time to time to Walmart when our patrons want to feel better about themselves, but eventually they come back.

Ultimately what I want you to understand is that we at Target do not want you to leave us. We love you. It’s always been you. Sure sometimes we don’t show it, and yes, we’re not perfect. There are younger consumers with so much potential and such an energy about them.  You can’t blame us for looking can you? I’m not going to lie, they look good, but they would be very hard to keep up with when compared to our steady-as-she-goes consumers like you.

So, thank you again for your input, we’ll try to do better in the future. Please accept the enclosed coupon for two free pretzels, some Archer Farms ice cream,  and one copy of 50 Shades of Grey as our apology.

Sincerely,


Jeffery J Jones II
Target Corporation
Chief Marketing Officer

Dear Target

 This week Lawra Gosselin-Harris wrote a fictional letter to Target. She is a stay-at-home mom who shops there and is pretty funny. Next week the Target's VP of Marketing will issue a response.

Dear Target:

We need to talk. You need to know I love you.  When I am driving in my minivan, going between dropping off or picking up my children from school, getting groceries, doing errands for my family and friends, I consider it a treat to get to go to your store. I wander in, sometimes with my children in tow and have fun walking up and down the isles. My children love eating your popcorn and drinking soda, I love your dollar bins and book section, your merona jeans and your circo children’s clothing. I love your store.

That is why when I was reading my Sunday paper and saw your ad, my heart sunk a little. I thought we had a good thing Target. You were my little heartstone, my secret energy charge, my feel good place when my day sucked. This picture of these young, goddess like models dressed in bikinis. . . are you trying to tell me something? Are you trying to tell me I am fat? Is my butt to big for you Target? Do you want skinny customers? Is that it.? Do we need to see other people? I have been getting ads from Shopko, Walmart and Sears. JCpennies is making a huge play for me lately. Are you trying to tell me it is time for my fat ass to move on? That you are just not that in to me?

If that is not the case, then let me be clear. You have sent me the wrong message baby. Trust me, you don’t need to see a picture of me in a bikini. I am not trying to be cruel, but you don’t want to see a picture of any of the ladies in Target in a bikini. If we are your “Target” audience, you must hate us. All that picture did was make me feel fat. I don’t think I am the only one.

So, I can only guess you want to break up with me. At least you could have bought me dinner and not just sent me a picture of your new girlfriends.

Sadly,

Your normal sized middle aged female customer

Home Alone

After seeing a developmentally disabled young woman (possibly older girl) in a park near my house with a doll in a stroller and an armload of pictures I wrote this piece. The pictures looked like they were of her parents. I have a younger sister who is down syndrome and the more I meet people who have DD siblings, the conversation always revolves around, "What's gonna happen when our parents die?"

“Wocket powah!” Tina kicked her thick legs on the swing, propelling herself higher. The wind cooled the skin under her sweat soaked sweatpants. On her sweatshirt, the black ear of Mickey Mouse flapped against the force of the air where the stitching had come loose.  “We doin’ good Carla.” Tina gave a motherly smile to a dirty plastic baby sitting cock-eyed in an umbrella stroller  sunken into the dusty pea-gravel. Frames stuck in the gravel all around the stroller with pictures of Tina--younger and thinner--held by a smiling salt and pepper haired man. Another picture showed the man holding a woman his age.

    “Cawla! Ha. Ha,” Tina laughed as she stopped the swing, each laughing breath was sound escaping as if she could barely control not laughing. A small boy stared, unsure of what to make of the young woman with her eyebrows grown together, gathering a collection of pictures covered in ashen dust. As Tina walked past him, the boy recoiled from a strong, sweaty, metallic smell coming from her as she made her way toward the park exit with an awkward waddle. At least two times the boy looked over after he heard her grunt and bend over to pick Carla off the ground after the doll had bounced out of the stroller.

***

Inside her home, (“4164 W. Berta... 4164 W. Berta... 4164 W. Berta...Awe name is on the fwont dooh. Wight dere Cawla. Watterson! Thas my name. Ha. ha. See Cawla. We home.”)Tina turned off the The Little Mermaid just as the last song finished and the final credits scrolled upward. A lone gnat lazily bounced around the empty bowl used to make Top Ramen in the microwave sitting in the sink and it disappeared as Tina turned off the light. In the living room, the VCR clicked and clanged followed by the whirr of the cassette rewinding.

Tina made her way upstairs, pulling her weight up by the oak handrail one step at a time. Her bedroom was tidy and pink with a twin bed tucked to the side and Disney posters lining the wall. Perhaps the only item which would have been out of place in a small child’s room were the two brown cardboard cake boxes sitting side by side on her night stand.

Before turning off her lamp, Tina said goodnight to Carla and then pulled the string of her lamp. A digital clock shone a bluish light on the two boxes, one reading Bill Watterson, the other reading Carla Watterson. Both read in large type--Caution: Human Remains.