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* * *
The prospect of delaying the inevitable just a bit longer cheered us up enough. We made plans. Some furniture would have to
be moved, and Rafael could help us find an outpatient nurse to come by regularly. I felt much better when I went over to tell Arthur the
news. He made appreciative noises, but I got the impression he wasn t really paying attention. It was one of his better days. He
looked the liveliest in weeks.
Nate, would you do me a big favor? he asked.
I nodded, wondering what it might be. I wouldn t have guessed in a million years: Arthur handed me a crumpled pack of
cigarettes.
I quit twenty years ago but never stopped missing it. My lungs can t take a direct hit anymore, but secondhand smoke would be
heaven.
What an unusual request. I could ve refused, but to what end? It was too late for him to worry about secondhand smoke, and I
could put up with smelling like an ashtray for a day. I didn t smoke, but Marlboro wasn t half as abrasive as pot.
Arthur reminisced. Back in the day, everyone smoked. It was manly and sexy.
Yeah, I saw the movies.
I lit up with the help of Arthur s ancient lighter. I took a deep drag and blew it in his face with calculated slowness. He closed his
eyes and inhaled with a blissed-out expression.
Why ask for the moon when we can have the stars? I purred.
Arthur looked at me, surprised, then let out a wheezing sort of chuckle. I like your style, kid. It s been a long time since anyone
quoted Bette Davis at me.
I wrote a paper on Now, Voyager in college. Secret Symbols of Desire. It got an A plus.
We gossiped about Bette, Bogie, and Bacall, and other iconic smokers of the day.
How about pipes? I threw in the question at one point.
It s never been my thing. Although& Arthur paused with confounded expression on his face. I used to see this guy when I was
young, about your age; he smoked them. He was older than me a college professor, British to boot. He smiled at the recollection.
He could say the filthiest things and still sound sophisticated. Kinky bastard. His accent and that sweet tobacco smell made me
hornier than a dog. For years after I last saw him, I got aroused by catching that scent. Arthur looked at me. Haven t thought of him
for at least fifty years, but I remember it all like it was yesterday. Strange.
I blew another lungful in his direction. We sat, I smoked, Arthur inhaled and reminisced about people, some of whom had been
dead longer than I d been alive. I listened. He rambled a bit, and when he threw out a first name, I had no idea if it was someone
famous or a simple stagehand. It didn t matter. I smoked almost half a pack by the time he got tired.
When we said good night, he patted my cheek. I had a good time. Thank you, Nate. You re a nice kid. Take care of Jesse.
* * *
Jez found Arthur the next morning. The coroner later declared the cause of death to be heart failure, but I believe and will till my
own dying day that Arthur simply decided it was time to go. On his nightstand stood a silver-framed photo of a handsome young
man with ruffled blond hair and a fetching smile. I hoped they met up again.
It was a confusing mixture of sadness and relief that took possession of me. Jez bottled up his emotions for the time being.
There were things to take care of, and he knew what to do. But once Arthur s body was taken away and the apartment was locked up,
he looked so very tired. That night I fell asleep clinging to him, not wanting to let go. He didn t look like he wanted me to either. It was
the strangest thing. I d known Arthur only for a few months, but his death filled me with a profound sense of loss. Meanwhile, my
feelings about my father were still too murky for me to dwell on.
There were formalities, of course the bureaucracy of death, coroner s report, and so on but under the circumstances, there
was little fuss. Arthur left everything to Jez, which wasn t much: just an apartment worth of memories and enough money in his bank
account to cover the funeral.
* * *
It was a welcome diversion when Scoot invited us over to visit the site of the collective he d worked so hard to start up. I had
only seen the place once before the renovation started, and Jez hadn t been back since it was finished, a couple of months prior. I
was curious to see what it looked like.
A couple of medical pot dispensaries were on the promenade, along with a whole bunch of them all over the city. They generally
had garish neon signs and offerings of a dozen or more designer cannabis varieties displayed in glass cases inside. Ever since
Prop 215 passed back in 1996, theoretically all you needed was a doctor s recommendation to get a cannabis card. The ailments for
which pot was beneficial were wide ranging, including anxiety. Who didn t have anxiety? Anyone who tried hard enough could get one
of those cards. I opined that the dispensaries took California one step closer to legalizing weed. Jez was convinced they d cause a
blowback. It was possible we were both right.
We picked up Scoot at his apartment and drove to the collective. The place was not what I expected. The building innocuously
blended with its environment, like a plate of magic brownies at a potluck party. There was no lurid neon. The only sign by the entrance
identified it as the FOOTHILLS WELLNESS CENTER. We stepped into a quasi reception area furnished with comfy chairs and a
desk, behind which an elderly lady sat, buried in paperwork. A faint scent of pot smoke tickled my nose.
Good morning, Mrs. Klasky, Scoot greeted her. How s Mr. Klasky doing?
She looked up, smiling. Much better, thanks for asking. He s at the back talking to the kids.
Scoot introduced us before we all headed through a swinging door into the bowels of the building.
Mr. Klasky is a member, Jez explained on the way. He has pretty debilitating and painful arthritis. Mrs. Klasky is a volunteer.
We reached a lounge area. Despite the quietly humming vents in the ceiling, the characteristically pungent odor of weed was
much stronger here. A handful of people were scattered around on armchairs and sofas, smoking, talking, reading, or just staring into
space. There was a coffee table, magazines, and ashtrays; bookshelves loaded with paperbacks; potted plants of the decorative
variety; a coffeemaker in the corner next to the watercooler; and a corkboard on the wall with pinned-on announcements. There were
no windows, but plenty of sunlight entered through the skylight.
As we walked on, we passed a closed door with a hand-printed BIG-C SUPPORT GROUP IN SESSION, 11-12 sign on it.
It was Janelle s idea to have support groups not just for members, but their families and loved ones too, Scoot said.
I wasn t surprised. I had learned she was an experienced social worker last time we met. She sounded pretty passionate about
it.
The growing room was occupied by a miniature jungle of gleaming green plants in various stages of growth, and an elderly man
leaning on a cane bent over a plant and gently petted its leaves. It was very bright in there and warm, even with the constant breeze
created by the fans that made the plants tremble. The odor of the growing plants was like a kick in the chest.
Morning, George! Scoot shouted at the old guy.
George turned around and waved but then focused back on the plant.
George talks to them, Scoot whispered. He believes it makes them grow healthier.
Why are you growing them indoors? The electricity bill must be murder. I pointed at the grow lights.
We thought about setting them up on the roof, but pollution is so bad, they d be covered in muck within days, he explained.
Oh, I didn t think of that.
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