Chapter Five Nomi
CHAPTER FIVE
NOMI
There’s only one benefit to throwing a party, and it’s that you should, in theory, know everyone there.
No awkward introductions. No accidental run-ins with reviled exes.
No small talk with strangers in the bathroom line.
This one positive is so good, it’s almost worth all the negatives, which count in the dozens—from feeling personally responsible for everyone’s good time to the never-ending cleanup the next day.
And yet, when half the town shows up to your tiny house ready to get stoned, that one benefit flies out the window.
It’s only eight p.m., and I’ve already met more people than I can possibly remember, all thanks to Eve.
A few days ago, we vaped enough Orangutan Titties to put down a small horse and were watching Jeopardy!
with Graham since he’s practicing to take the show’s qualifying test when she abruptly sat up from my floor like a possessed puppet.
“We should have a party!”
“A party?” I frowned at her. She’d had even more Titties than I had. “But… we’re in our thirties.”
“Come on, Nomi. For one night, we can pretend otherwise! It’d be a fundraiser, with proceeds benefiting the dispensary. A…pot luck!”
“How would people bringing dishes to share help the dispensary?”
“Oh my God, Nomi, quit being so literal!” Eve grabbed me by the arms and pulled me off the couch; she’s very strong when she’s stoned.
“I’ll bake a full tasting menu for people to try, and we’ll gather donations at the door to enter.
We’ll invite the whole town and get them to sign a—a letter of support or something.
They’ll make the case to the city council for us, Nomi. It’s a win-win!”
And so, the Stranger Drugs Pot Luck was born.
Word got around faster than we anticipated, and wider, too.
There are hundreds of people here, milling about the tables on our bulb-lit front lawn, the mismatched menagerie of beach chairs in our backyard, and the air-conditioned tunnel of rooms between them.
But plus side, the giant cannabis-leaf pinata I’m wearing slung over my body is already stuffed with donations, and Eve and Graham’s are nearly full, too.
After I deposit the proceeds from my full pinata into Eve’s apartment, I resume my position on the front porch, welcoming guests, receiving donations, and keeping a hawk eye out for any council members.
If they see the town’s enthusiastic support for our venture tonight, that’d do more for us than next week’s presentation ever could.
“Baaaaabe, looking hot!” Veronica D’Angelo-Bork calls as she sashays up our front walk like it’s a red carpet, and I’m from E!
News waiting to interview her. She appraises my yolky gold sundress and the length of leg exposed between its short hem and the tops of my favorite boots, a burnished bronze set of vintage Frye.
“It’s giving 1970s Come Fuck Me Bohemian Nashville. ”
I huff. “I was going for Come Fund Me, but close enough.”
Veronica steps away to greet a client just as Gisella D’Angelo bustles up, an aging Italian beauty with a short, silver-streaked black bob and a huge smile, escorted by Dr. Appa, who’s on her arm and looking quite dashing as well in his sporty plaid blazer and matching bow tie.
I wonder if Julian knows his mom is banging his boss.
“Nomi, sweetie! How are you?” Gisella leans in to kiss my cheek. “Feeling well?”
Gisella gets all the dirt on me thanks to her weekly coffee-and-antiquing dates with my mom. She’s abundantly kind, though, and while I do not share my health with most people, Gisella’s love and attention feels genuine and understanding in a way that never rankles.
“Yes, feeling great, thank you for coming. Great to see you, too, Dr. Appa.”
“What you’re doing for this community is laudable, Nomi.” Dr. Appa gives me a warm, fatherly smile as he slips a hundred-dollar bill into my pinata. “Cannabis has many wonderful medicinal and recreational uses, and it has been unfairly vilified for decades just for being pleasurable.”
“Hear, hear!” Gisella says.
I smile. “Someone should tell Julian that.”
“Who can tell that boy anything?” Gisella rolls her eyes. “Where’s Jenny, honey? I want to say hello.”
“Mom’s in the dining room with the baked goods,” I grin. “Where else?”
Gisella and Dr. Appa stroll inside, greeting everyone as they go as the beloved town celebrities they are, and Veronica swoops back to my side, adjusting a lock of my long curtain bangs until she’s satisfied.
She may be intimidating, but she’s the kind of dependable that’ll never let you walk around with something in your teeth.
Her eyes flicker beyond my shoulder, and she leans in to whisper, “Council Members Min and Shar coming in hot. Look alive, babe, and go get that license.”
I spin on my boot heels. “Council-friends!” I use their preferred title, hold out my hand, and shake each of theirs as they walk up the front steps, commanding myself not to tremble. “Welcome, and thank you for coming.”
“Look at this turnout.” Shar, pronounced like Cher, nods appreciatively as her sharp eyes scan the crowds.
The most pragmatic of the Council-friends, Shar owns a successful accounting practice and is primarily driven by increasing tax profits for the town.
“Half of Sparrow Nook is here to support you.”
“People use cannabis for many reasons—to have fun, relax, address chronic health conditions and pain—but the nearest dispensary is over half an hour away. If we had our own small, bespoke dispensary conveniently located on Main Street? As you can see,” I gesture to the boisterous party, “people would be thrilled. Here, let me preview what Stranger Drugs will offer.” I usher the Council-friends inside toward the sample display menu.
Min Lee whistles as she reads along. She owns the local Asian supermarket whose customer base expanded hundred-fold overnight thanks to the bestselling memoir Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner.
As such, Min is extremely sensitive to aging hipster millennial needs, from translated explanations on the soy sauce aisle to their comfort cannabis.
As she told me last week, “stoned people are hungry people.” Her vote is in the proverbial cotton tote bag, and I have her to thank for getting Shar here tonight.
“What a spread!” Min glances up and winks. “Good pricing, too. Are you planning on a rewards program for frequent buyers?”
“Absolutely. Clients will start earning gifts immediately. We want to develop a devoted customer base and encourage repeat business, which will help expand our offerings while providing a meaningful tax revenue stream to Sparrow Nook.” I wink back, grateful for the alley-oop.
“Our model is based on local, fresh product with a diversified menu designed to meet every cannabis user at their comfort level and need. I also have an extremely talented baker lined up whose edibles are so delicious, they’re going to draw their own visitors to Sparrow Nook. ”
I wave my hand at the truly epic table spread Eve’s created.
We raided thrift stores yesterday for every vintage cake stand, platter, and bespoke ceramic surface in township lines, and the resulting effect is somewhere between my grandmother’s china cabinet and the Mad Hatter’s tea party.
Each dish features some gorgeous dessert that will make you groan in pleasure then send you to space.
From inspired classics like fudge-topped brownies marbled with cream cheese to Eve’s trippier creations, like Fruity Pebbles treats melted together with green weed mallows, there’s something for every palate.
She even made a stack of her legendary high-protein, high-THC sativa granola bars that I eat whenever I need to clean my entire house in pure euphoria.
I grin at the Council-friends’ starstruck expressions. “Care to sample anything?”
Min expertly retrieves a raspberry glazed donut from a dwindling platter with a pair of bakers’ tongs she’ll be too stoned to use in about half an hour.
Shar, with her arms folded, is still regarding me, though. “How will your model differ from the competition?”
I almost don’t hear her. The music, a chill blend of unobtrusive but exceedingly hip songs curated by Graham for the party, changes abruptly to something with a seething, pulsing beat. I hate it. With effort, I wrench my eyes back to Shar’s.
“Stranger Drugs will be a one-of-a-kind boutique experience that curates its offerings to meet our customers’ needs while providing a pleasant, convivial atmosphere to socialize in.
” I have to struggle to be heard now. What was Graham thinking?
“The closest dispensaries are all Xscape Your Brain locations. While XYB is a small chain, it’s also heavily corporatized, preferring to source big-batch strains from mega growers and manufacturers instead of buying high-quality cannabis grown here in the Garden State.
The product they carry is cheaper, sure, but it’s lower quality, too—more variable in its stated percentages of THC to CBD, and often stale and less effective. ”
“You know a lot about the competition,” Shar yells back. “Though it doesn’t sound like much competition, does it?”
Smugness fills my petty, business-loving heart.
“I’ve worked at the South Harbor XYB location for the last five years as the chief cannabis counselor and manager.” I smile conspiratorially, then lean over to shout, “and I can’t wait to quit!”
“Too bad.” A snide, nasal male voice rises above my head like a malodorous cloud of bad energy, and I whip around. Damon, in black vinyl pants and his going-out platforms, towers over me. His rubbery lips are gathered into a sneer. “Because you’re fired!”
My breath catches, and I step back, bumping into Shar.
I spin around to face them, smiling and clapping my hands once. “I’m so sorry, Council-friends, please excuse me—I need to confer with this… uh, client. Enjoy the party!”
I grab Damon by his faded Moby T-shirt and drag him to the side. “What’re you doing here?” It’s a dumb question, but the sight of my horrible boss looming like a venomous centipede on two of its hundred legs is so jarring, so nightmare-come-to-life, my brain can’t process the information.
“Reconnaissance, what else?” Damon crumples one of our green party flyers in his fist and takes a step forward. His vinyl pants squeal in protest. “You really thought you could open a dispensary in my state without me finding out?”
“I… yes?” I swallow. “It’s a pretty big state.”
“Wrong,” Damon spits out. “Well, right. It is a big state, but you were wrong about me, finding out,” he adds unnecessarily. “Because I did.”
This is why I can’t respect him.
“And you’re fired!” he says again, watching my face gleefully like he’s hoping I’ll cry.
“Come on, Damon—let me finish the month. We’ve just started the inventory clean-out, and I still need to put in all the new orders.
Half the staff is on vacation, for God’s sake!
You’re screwing yourself over if you fire me right now.
Please reconsider?” The cringe gripping me is so intense, it feels like Pilates. “Boss?”
“No.” Damon’s S-shaped spine straightens a few degrees as a tight, satisfied smirk dimples his face.
“Little Miss Tummy-aches thinks she has what it takes to open a successful dispensary? There’s no sick leave when you run your own business, Nomi.
There’s no one smarter, older, and more successful around to rescue you when you make your dumb decisions.
And there’s gonna be no job waiting for you at XYB when your girly joke of a dispensary fails to get its license next week! ”
My brows draw together, and now I’m pissed.
Pissed that Damon’s shooting himself in the platformed boot to spite me, pissed that he’s ruining my careful balancing act of a budget, and more than anything, pissed that he’s standing here in my house, fouling up the vibes with his toxic presence.
I’m going to have to sage the whole place!
“Stranger Drugs is going to happen.”
He steps forward again, the vinyl lining his taint groaning and shrieking as if captive against its will. His lips curl in a malevolent smile.
“You sure about that?”