Chapter Nine Nomi #2
“Oh, ho, that we are!” I present a single finger-gun at Chester, then die a little on the inside.
He’s a swing voter, oscillating wildly between the liberal left and conservative right with zero warning, but I’m hoping he’s a stoner at heart.
How else can you explain a gun-toting gay conspiracy theorist who wrote in Missy Elliott for president, is obsessed with the Revolutionary War, and only shops at Tractor Supply?
Weed. I pray that it’s weed.
Then, there’s Council-friend Min Lee, second only to Julian for the highest person at our Pot Luck due to all the donuts she consumed.
She will vote yes. She’s tight with Council-friend Shar, a profit-driven accountant, but I couldn’t get a read on Shar at the Pot Luck.
I did learn she’s obsessed with Beyoncé’s country album, though. I feel this means a yes.
Next to Shar is Council-friend Vlad. He owns the tile-and-flooring store and can often be found steaming his hairy chest at his wife’s Russian banya. He has amazing pores and will vote however Mike Tonuto votes.
Last in the line-up is Tonuto. He speaks too fast, calls everyone dear, and works in his dealership’s latest sales event at every meeting. He’s either losing his hearing or strategically deaf to women’s voices—he never seems to hear a word I’m saying. He is profits-driven like Shar, so… maybe?
One definite yes and four maybes. I need two of those maybes to get the local license approved.
I clear my throat, wincing at the mic’s feedback.
My gut feels like a balloon that wants to pop, but I ignore it and the pervasive sense that Julian’s laughing at me.
Mom beams at me from where she sits beside Gisella, a duo of supportive mom energy in the audience.
Eve catches my eye next, standing past the screen.
She mouths major top energy, then gestures for me to hurry up.
“As I was saying, thank you for having me here today. I’m Nomi Wyeth, and I’m here to win your approval to open the first cannabis dispensary and lounge in downtown Sparrow Nook!”
“Wait, what’d she say?” Wilson Phillips glances up from his phone where he sits next to Sammy, like they’re not nemeses.
“This lady’s gonna sell weed downtown.” Sammy eyes me and sniffs approvingly. “Looks classy, too.”
“She’s not,” Julian says behind a fake cough.
My eyes narrow, and I’m ready to knock Julian to the floor and press my heel into the sensitive flesh of his neck.
Perhaps I should be thankful because, thanks to Julian and his rage-inducing smirk, my nerves disappear, completely consumed by our old, competitive rivalry, and the presentation goes flawlessly.
Whenever I feel my energy slip, all it takes is a glance at Julian’s mounting dismay and the pouty set to his mouth, and I’m back.
The Council-friends are little deer eating from my palm, asking interested questions between slides about tax revenues, job creation, and the nonprofit Stranger Drugs will fund to expunge marijuana-related offenses from people’s criminal records.
Of the Council, Tonuto looks the least engaged, almost comically unimpressed as slide after slide shows all the positive benefits a dispensary will have.
It’s a show, I’m certain of it, but that’s not surprising.
Mike Tonuto is clickbait personified, always withholding, always performing, obnoxiously demanding your attention.
Perhaps he’s just annoyed that all eyes are on someone else for once, but still.
I wish I could read his mind. Him and Vlad vote as a block, usually conservative, always money driven.
Without Tonuto and Vlad, I desperately need Chester, who just asked me whether I’d sell acid when the psychedelic revolution reshapes America.
“If that happens, sir—”
“When that happens.”
“When that happens, Chair, you’ll be the first person I consult with.” This was apparently the right answer, as Chester nods and bangs his gavel approvingly. Because I’m feeling saucy, I give him the finger-guns again. Two, this time.
When the presentation concludes, the audience breaks into real applause.
I look out and see customers who regularly drive all the way to XYB for strains to treat their multiple sclerosis and chronic pain.
I also see Gareth, a long-haired Jesus of a man, whooping unabashedly.
He loves Cuntsicle and getting high and, more than anything, laughing.
Cannabis is for anyone old enough to legally partake, whether it’s for a good time or to make what time you still have good.
I feel like a hero, providing this comfort to Sparrow Nook.
Not some underemployed, now unemployed loser who barely made it through college because her body betrayed her every chance it got. A hero.
Their hero.
I also see my ex-boss Damon, arms sullenly folded over his Iron Maiden T-shirt. I swallow, but he’s already hurt me the only way he can, and I’m still standing.
“Thank you, dear. That was very sweet.” Council-friend Tonuto thumps the desk twice, and the tech pulls up a second podium opposite mine.
“We will now hear from the public on the proposed dispensary,” Chair-friend Chester announces. Ms. Wyeth, you may respond to any questions or comments posed to you, if you wish. First up is Dr. Julian D’Angelo.”
Julian is wearing his white doctor’s coat, a stethoscope draped around his neck, and a condescending smile as he steps behind the podium.
One arm of his coat is empty, his left arm in a sling nestled against his chest. I don’t feel sorry for him, though.
Per Gisella, it’s not even broken. His chin dips, his ice-blue eyes searing as he stares me down, and if there weren’t a hundred people watching, I’d have sworn he was about to stride over, grab my chin, and tell me off between hot, vicious kisses.
Which, thanks to the Pot Luck and my profoundly bad decisions, I can imagine easily.
I blink, forcing the idea back to the pit of my most embarrassing fantasies, right alongside sex with a masked Batman and that hot old guy who dresses like Santa. What’s wrong with me? Julian’s the worst.
“Thank you, Council. I’m here because I am a doctor.”
I already want to punch him.
“And as a doctor, I have serious concerns with Ms. Wyeth’s dingy pot parlor, which will be an eyesore on our wholesome downtown and will plunge Sparrow Nook into a downward spiral of lost potential, poor health outcomes, and unnatural, unproductive leisure time, which is antithetical to New Jersey’s strong, capitalist economy.
” Julian utters leisure time like it’s something you’d find on the other side of a gas station glory hole.
I can’t stop myself from groaning aloud.
“Something to say, Ms. Wyeth?” Min asks.
“Everything Dr. D’Angelo just said is false, and moreover, insulting to Sparrow Nook.
My dispensary will be located in the old Strange Drugs pharmacy, which city council renovated beautifully, and we will provide the same meaningful blend of treatment, joy, and space for the community to gather that the original pharmacy provided for seventy years.
” I lean over my podium. “Furthermore, Sparrow Nook has always prided itself on being a respite from the never-ending rat race, and our ability to relax and enjoy life does not take away from our ability to take care of business nine to five.”
A swell of yeah! and that’s right! lifts from the audience, as well as one tentative work/life balance!
“Ms. Wyeth, it’d be cute how naive you are about this addictive, federally illegal drug if it weren’t so dangerous for our town.” Julian sniffs. “Marijuana use negatively impacts IQ, memory, and motivation. I ask you, Council—can Sparrow Nook afford to lose more intelligence?”
“Doctor, the only thing lacking intelligence here is your opening argument. The most recent longitudinal studies have shown no causal link between cannabis and lowered IQ, unlike alcohol and tobacco, which we enjoy in moderation and are still generally intelligent,” I add, nodding around the room to generate agreement.
“As for motivational impacts, a recent study shows the exact opposite—in states where recreational cannabis is permitted, older individuals remain in the workforce longer due to an improved quality of life and less pain and stress.” I turn to the council.
“I’ve included both studies in the appendix submitted with my application, among others you’ll find helpful. ”
Council-friend Shar eyes me appreciatively before activating her mic. “Improving our town’s quality of life and longevity in the workforce at the same time is very compelling, Ms. Wyeth. At no cost to the city council, too.”
Julian’s nostrils flare. The apex of his outrageous cheekbones is stained a salmon pink of indignation.
We love to see it.
“Secondly,” Julian growls into his mic. “Marijuana is a known gateway drug to harder, more dangerous substance use.”
I roll my eyes because of course Julian would spew Reagan-era drug propaganda.
“That argument is fundamentally flawed because it draws an imaginary line between Drugs with a capital D and everything else. Marijuana isn’t some metaphorical door to the ‘Kingdom of Drugs’ unless you decide it is.
And if you really care about the sequence of use, we could just as easily say alcohol is the real gateway drug—studies show that alcohol use precedes experimentation with cannabis and everything else. ”
“But that presumes all alcohol users go on to try marijuana, which isn’t true!” Julian sputters.
“Exactly—which is the same problem with saying cannabis is a gateway to harder drugs! Maybe most cocaine users have tried cannabis, but studies show that most cannabis users never try anything harder. The fact is, if someone is predisposed to trying harder drugs, they’re going to do it whether cannabis is readily available or not. ”