Work of Paradise

Before I woke up naked next to Paradise, I was dreaming about Summer. As always, I don't remember the exact details of the dream's setting -- where we were, nor what we were doing -- but all I knew was that Summer was finally, truly happy. Her smile meant so much to me. There must have been some light from behind her blinding my eyes, because it basically shocked me awake. 

     I sat up quickly, turned my head to see Paradise slowly waking up herself as she turned over under the bed sheet, exposing her breasts. I got up off the futon bed, and began putting on my clothes. She sat up, running her hand through her long hair as her eyes blinked to fully awake. 

     "You want to go out for some breakfast, on me?" I asked, putting on my t-shirt. 

     Paradise shook her head, declining my offer. She basically told me it was too stereotypical of me to do so. 

     "I got cereal in the kitchen downstairs," I said. 

     "I'll get my clothes on, and meet you down there," Paradise said. 

     I walked out of my room, moved down the stairs, walked past the table covered with marijuana trimmings I forgot to put in a silver bag, and went to the kitchen to get two bowls from the cabinet, and cereal from off the counter. After sitting at the wood table in the living room, pouring myself a bowl of cereal, I was about to fill the other one for Paradise as she was making her way down the stairs. I had a gut feeling she wasn't going to stay for a short breakfast. 

     The night before she gave no indication of not enjoying herself after coming back from the club. Before we had gone up to my room to have sex, neither of us were too tipsy from alcohol, but both of us were stoned from the grass we smoked at The Boss's blue house. I had shown her around: the cannabis clones in the garage, the tables where we'd trim the marijuana to get ready to sell at the dispensary in town, last was my friend's bong that we smoked some great Green Crack sativa. She enjoyed it; giggling and laughing at things that weren't actually funny. 

     "What were those bags in the garage?" Paradise had asked before I began smoking the weed from the bong myself. 

     "We keep the marijuana buds in there after we trim them, then when my boss buys mason chars, we fill them up with the bud, label them, and he takes them to the dispensary," I replied, somewhat impressing her without even trying; I was just speaking facts. 

     As I began eating the cereal, Paradise walked up to the table, standing near me, looking down at the empty seat before the empty cereal bowl on the table waiting to be filled. 

     "I believe you've treated me enough up to this point," Paradise said, looking down at me. "Next time I'll treat you. Dinner on me, and I choose the next club to party at." 

     "Okay, you can choose the next club," I began to say, "I'm a bit too chivalrous for that. But if you insist, I'll be obliged in accepting a free meal the next time you come over here." 

     "Yeah, Olavi, about me coming here again for a sleep over," Paradise began saying, sounding somewhat regretful, "I don't think it's a good idea. Next time we hook up it's got to be at a hotel, or some other place." 

     "What about your place?" I suggested. 

     "My roommates aren't cool with your type." 

     This statement baffled me. 

     Type? I thought. What did she mean by using that word in reference to me. 

     The taste of the chewed cereal in my mouth immediately became bitter -- a psychological reaction for sure. 

     So I had to ask her the obvious question: "My type? What sort of type are you on about?" 

     "Well, let me clarify," Paradise began to say, "it's not you, the person you are, it's the business you're a part of." 

     I looked around at my Boss's house, confused. It did seem like one of those trap houses, but the biggest difference being there was furniture anyone could use, and the walls didn't have holes in them, or were covered in meth-induced psychosis inspired tweaker graffiti. 

     "The medicinal marijuana business, you mean?" I asked. 

     "Yes," she replied. "And I don't know for sure if the business is legit. I mean, look at this place. Why is there wall-to-wall tarp covering the floor?" 

     I informed, "Because of cleanliness, so we can sweep up the dust and leftover trimming that fall off the table. I told you that last night." 

     "Okay, yeah. And why is there black garbage bag plastic covering the windows?" Paradise pointed to the window near the table I was sitting at, then pointed at the one on the other side of the room. 

     "That's for privacy, so no one can look in at what we're doing," I said. 

     "But the curtains are down on the inside," she said. "So what's the point?" 

     "I don't know, Sharlene," I admitted, using her real name. "The Boss set up everything years ago before I even moved to Santa Barbara to work for him. It's just precaution, I guess." 

     Paradise quickly lowered her hand, slapping her hip in an act of casual frustration. She then said, "Let me ask you something else. What if the cops come bursting in here, and put you in handcuffs?" 

     "Look, the year is 2011, not 1984. Reagan and Nixon are dead," I told Paradise. "So the reality is the pigs already know about this house, who owns it, and all about the great California outdoor grown weed stuffed inside this place. If they'd actually do what you just hypothesized, they'd need a damn good reason, requiring a warrant signed by some asshole Judge. So far, I haven't seen any lawful reason for a SWAT team to bust down that front door. I know my Boss is having legal troubles in court over a mistake his stupid ass made regarding his dispensary's permit, but I assure you, Sharlene, this place is safe from the law." 

     Paradise stepped closer to me, and asked, "What if some thugs simply bust down that front door while you're all alone, stoned and trimming, listening to Damian Marley?" 

     My response to that scary idea was to merely chuckle. 

     "I'm being serious, Olavi," Paradise said. 

     "I guess nothing," I responded, looking up at her beautiful face, expecting her to rub my cheek and kiss my lips for comfort. I asked, "Do you fear for my life?" 

     Her reaction was not exactly what I expected. She took one step back, with a blank expression on her face, as if it were one of those garbage bags blocking the view from outside eyes. At that moment I believed she was simply hiding a feeling of concern for my safety. What she said next was quite the contrary before she moved on from the subject. 

     "Obviously, Olavi," she replied. "Anyway, the thing about my roommates. One wants to be a doctor, the other, a detective, so I can't bring someone like you around. They need their reputations clean. So do I." 

     "But you're a stripper," I said. 

     Sometimes it's a bad idea to state the truth, because it just doesn't hurt those who hear it, it hurts those who say it as well. 

     Paradise took one step forward like a baseball pitcher about to throw a strike, and slapped me in the face, hard. The sound of her palm meeting my cheek echoed from the two rooms upstairs. 

     "AH!" I yelped. Then in shock and pain, I asked, "The fuck you hit me for?" 

     Paradise pointed her finger right at my strained face, and yelled angrily, "Look, stoner, there's a big fucking difference between your immoral life, and mine. Mine is a hundred percent legal for anyone at the age of eighteen and above. YOU need the State government's permission to put a grass dick in your mouth so you can be able to feel good about your shitty, miserable existence." 

     Before I knew it, Paradise was no longer standing near me, the front door slammed shut, and as I rubbed my stinging cheek, I looked over at the empty bowl on the other side of the table. I hoped she was going to get herself a better breakfast than just the cereal I had to offer. 

     After breakfast I made myself a cup of German Organic Instant Coffee, rolled myself a tomara (tobacco and Green Crack marijuana) and went out to the back porch to smoke the stinging pain away from my red cheek. 

     As I sat their thinking, I guessed I would no longer go out to the only strip club in Santa Barbara with the guys from then on. I did consider maybe giving it a month before entering that establishment of naked women; I'd be willing to get kicked out of a place like that anyway -- something to check off the bucket list. 

     It was time to move on, grow up, be mature for a change. The next good time in the ecstasy of intimacy must be with a college girl, I thought. A hard working academic going places, who had plans, knowing every turn on the road ahead. A sugar momma, so to speak -- even if she was a bit younger than I. I'd be willing to help pay off her student loans at first, being that I was in the medicinal marijuana industry. 

     Speaking of work, it was time to trim marijuana. Even though that day started out rough, work was smooth as always; just sitting at one of the work tables, my iPod playing Gwar on a portable player's speakers, with every fifteen minute break smoking a tomara on the back porch. The whole day I pondered about what Paradise had said regarding our chosen professions. This immorality of both as presumably seen by the square side of society. Her being a stripper was normal to people like me, but regarded as a vice to even those who watched her dance naked on stage with hungry eyes. 

     While the business I worked in was hardly a decade old in the legal sense, being that medicinal marijuana wasn't legalized in California until 1996, and at that moment the year was 2011. When I told old friends back home the kind of job I had in Santa Barbara, they'd assume I simply worked for a drug dealers -- manufacturing for whole sale before the distribution process. It was if they thought I were connected to El Chapo himself, for fuck sake. Things may have been shady in this medicinal business with all the intended, or unintended loopholes, but not even near to being bloody -- at least from what I could tell so far. 

     But I came to the conclusion Paradise was right about keeping her roommates from being associated with a marijuana trimmer. My immorality was young, and sometimes dumb like a teenager playing with a loaded gun. Her immorality was old, wise, and even respected by quiet religious zealots. All I could do was laugh to myself, alone in the Blue house full of weed packed inside silver bags. 

     I guess I did say the wrong thing to Paradise, and deserved to be slapped. Or she was just another uptight, self-righteous prick, and I got exactly what I wanted out of her -- sex with a stripper checked off my bucket list. 

     After the sun had gone down, I began doing bong hits of some great Blue Dream, and watched the movie American Gangster on a portable DVD player. 

     "This is how they see me, Paradise," I said aloud to myself. 

     I looked around at the empty house with my bloodshot eyes, pointing at the small LCD screen as Russel Crowe arrested Denzel Washington. 

     I said, "That there. This is what they thing of my fate. Those who could never understand a real paradise without some kind of sin. I'm the kind of Frank Lucas who brings smiles to unhappy faces, not make dead bodies pile up in dirty rooms." 

     When the movie was over it was just past midnight. The house was silent. As I began to roll another tomara, a small crunching sound broke the soothing silence. I looked up toward the kitchen, because at first I thought it was only the fridge's ice maker. It was only after I looked back down at my unrolled tomara that the crunching sound got louder, and it became the sound of wood breaking. My stoned, paranoid mind pictured the house collapsing right on top of me. 

     Then there was a loud bang as the front door slammed open, following the sound of feet running down the short hallway into the kitchen. Because of a standing, unfolded Japanese room divider in the kitchen blocking my view of the front door I could not see who just broke in the house full of weed. 

     "Aw, shit," I quietly said. 

     "You two, go in the garage and get the bags," a male voice commanded. "Him and I will handle the stoner." 

     I stood up from the work table, and walked over near the wood table where I had breakfast that morning to see what the actual fuck was going on -- maybe my paranoid mind was imagining a break in with criminal intent. For a split second I thought the front door was slammed open by accident by some of the co-workers whom I hadn't seen in the past month. But what I saw coming around the Japanese divider were two men clad in all black clothing, wearing ski masks. I shuddered on my feet when I saw that the one coming towards me was holding a brand new crowbar. 

     "You, stop right there!" the ski masked man said, pointing the curved end of the crowbar right at me. "Don't you fucking move." 

     I held up my hands, completely surprised they weren't shaking. 

     "Don't bother putting your hands in the air," the ski masked man said. "Because I know you don't have any guns." 

     I lowered my hands. I thought that if this asshole decided to beat me to death with that crowbar, I wouldn't protest; up to that point in my life, I wasn't going out a virgin -- having had sex with the most beautiful, sexiest women I had ever met. 

     The ski masked man with the crowbar came closer to me, the curved end of the tool, which surely was used to break the wooden front door off its secured lock, inches from my emotionless, stoned face. 

     The other ski masked man stepped closer behind the one threatening me, and asked, "How the fuck are you so sure this fool ain't strapped?" 

     The crowbar man sighed, obviously annoyed. He turned around with his back to me, still holding the crowbar, but with a looser grip. 

     He said, "Because that's what the bitch said. This idiot gave her a lovely, convenient house tour. She told me she saw no guns, or even a damn cheap samurai sword." 

     My mind, my body, my entire soul immediately raged into a private fire as it dawned on me about Paradise's betrayal. Sharlene (her real name) wasn't some righteous, beautiful angel trying to better my corrupt, dirty world, but just another shady shithead living off stolen hard work. 

     The ski masked man continued to speak with his back to me, "Just this passive stoner here who told her he'd do nothin' if this place was raided by us." 

     When I noticed he pointed the curved end of the crowbar without turning his head in my direction, I took the opportunity to grab the crowbar from the moron's loose grip, and raised it over my head. As a lion in the wilderness would do when he'd defend his territory, or impress a lioness that he wanted to make cubs with, I roared with immense, raging dominance. I must have truly scared the thieves, because they cowered immediately, nearly falling on their asses, and stretching out their arms in my direction, as if bare hands could stop a metal crowbar from cracking their empty skulls. 

     "Don't anybody move," I demanded. "Not one damn centimeter at all." 

     The room went silent. Other than the ski masked men's heavy breathing, I could hear the rustling sound of the silver bags in the garage being handled by the others I had yet to see. 

     "Everything cool in there?" a male voice called from inside the garage. "You guys didn't kill the guy, right?" 

     With my eyes wide with rage and total hatred, I stared at the weak thugs before me, my arm over my head, ready to pound the two fucks. 

     "So the bitch, in all her so-called wisdom of immorality, sent dogs to pick up free treats," I said through gritting teeth. 

     Both men nodded their ski masked heads in confirmation. 

     I could see in their eyes the fools who I thought were thugs from certain Santa Barbara streets hardly anyone liked to speak of -- but I was familiar with -- weren't of that sort at all. I simply saw they were simple strawberry eaters who would faint after one minute picking them in the sun. I sighted -- both in relief, as well as in disappointment. When I saw two other ski masked men walk into the kitchen from the garage, both holding two silver bags full of marijuana buds under each arm, I smiled. 

     I almost wanted to laugh, but instead threw the crowbar up over the wood breakfast table, the tool spun in the air like a big ninja star, almost making a whistling sound off its metallic surface before stabbing into the wall. The sound of it smashing the drywall made all those wannabe thieves shudder. One of the dudes in the kitchen dropped a silver bag. 

     As some powder pieces of the drywall fell from the crowbar sticking out of the wall like a big coat hook, I said to the nervous boys: 

     "Since that Canadian capitalist shitstain, masquerading as a socialist Hindu Rastafari clown Boss hasn't paid me in a month, take the rest of the silver bags in the garage. It's all yours. Enjoy." 

     "Are you serious?" asked one of the ski masks in the kitchen. 

     "Yes," I replied. "Now go get the shit. Just take those ski masks off before you go outside, so the neighbors don't call the pigs. I'll sit back at the table over here so I don't see your faces." 

     I walked over and sat in the spot where I had been rolling a tomara. 

     "Well, fuck it," said a ski masked man in the kitchen. "Do what the man says." 

     Three of the ski masked men ran into the garage like kids after all the candy just fell out of a piñata. The one who had held the crowbar in my face stood in place, staring down at me. 

     "Um," he muttered, pointing up at the crowbar stuck in the wall. "Can I get the crowbar back?" 

     I sat back in the chair looking up at the tool turned clumsy decoration. 

     I said, "No. It's actually better stabbed up there when the Boss comes back from Hollywood. I'll tell his stupid ass you came in like, you know, an Orc from Lord of the Rings, and did that for intimidation purposes before pulling a gun on me." 

     I raised my hands, playfully impersonating a hostage. 

     "Okay. You're right, man." The man began taking off his ski mask in an act of comradery, I presumed. 

     "Whoa, whoa, don't take off your mask," I said, before I could see any detail of his face. "It's better I don't recognize your face on the streets if we cross paths. Please." 

     "Oh, shit. You're right. Right." He fitted the mask back over his head. "Yeah, okay. Still anonymous to you here. You know, this is kind of weird." 

     "You want to know what's weird?" I began to say. "Is some stripper who fucks one of her customers, then says she can't associate with a legal marijuana farmer, because it might hurt her already sullied reputation. Then to top that off, she sends four guys here to rob this legit business. Man, this is one fucked up situation. Paradise my ass." 

     Somewhat distraught, I put a hand over my face. 

     "Wow," the ski mask said. "That's some heavy shit, man. Are you gonna be okay?" 

     I chuckled at his unexpected concern, removed my hand from over my face, and said, "Don't you worry about me. I've been through heartbreak before, but not with this added betrayal. I got this weed here to help me get over it. Go, and enjoy that shit in those silver bags. Sell a few ounces. Make a profit. Buy a new crowbar." 

     After a moment of silence, he said, "Thank you. And sorry Sharlene is such a bitch." 

     "Don't mention it," I said. "It's sometimes a bitch eat bitch kind of world we're living in, you know." 

     As they had come in, they had rushed out as soon as all the silver bags in the garage were gone. I waited in the chair for a total of ten minutes before standing up, and walking to close the busted front door. I could see that it could close, but easily be pushed open. I sat back down at the trimming table in the living room. Instead of finishing to roll the tomara I began before the door burst open, I reached inside my front jeans pocket, took out my pack of American Spirit cigarettes, and lit one inside my Boss's house of marijuana. Such a huge no-no in his hippie, vegan eyes. 

     Fuck it, I thought, I just did that fake wannabe Hollywood bitch a favor. 

     As I enjoyed smoking tobacco inside a building for the first time in my life, I got my cellphone from out my other jean pocket, and called the man who helped get me that marijuana job. It rang eight times before my friend Mario answered it. 

     I heard music playing in the background before Mario drunkenly said, "Hello. Who's sniss?" 

     "Hey, Mario," I said. "It's Olavi." 

     "Yo!" he hollered into his cellphone, causing a small occurrence of crackling from his end of the line. "How is it back over there?" 

     "It's not good, man," I said with a sigh. 

     "How was that hot thing Paradise?" Mario asked, not acknowledging my downbeat tone. "You should've brought her out here to Vegas with us. We doing some real orgy shit here--" 

     "Hey, I'm telling you something serious," I interrupted. "You listening?" 

     "Hold on," Mario said. 

     There was a pause as I could hear Mario going from one room playing music to a quieter one -- most likely the hotel bathroom. 

     "Alright, what's up?" Mario asked. 

     "Look, there's been a break in here at the Boss's house. It happened about twenty minutes ago." 

     "No fucking way!" Mario yelled. 

     "Yes. That cunt Paradise fucked me so she can then fuck me by telling some idiots they can do a smash and grab while I'm all alone here." 

     "Oh my God. Are you okay?" Mario's stoned, drunk voice seemed to almost believe he was talking to a ghost. 

     "I'm all good," I assured him. "But here's the thing: I know the manager of the dispensary, Conner, is going to be here in the morning, finding a busted door, and an empty house, because I'm leaving tonight. I won't be here when he arrives." 

     "Why you leaving?" Mario asked, shocked. "What if they come back?" 

     "They won't," I said "They took all of it. When Conner gets here tomorrow, he'll call the Boss in L.A., then the Boss will call you. I want you to tell him that I'm in Vegas with you guys, and that we thought Brandon, or Marcus was suppose to be watching over this place last night, while we were in Vegas." 

     "Why?" Mario asked, confused, not managing to focus, or follow the exact details of my instructions. "I mean, it wasn't your fault." 

     I looked up at the crowbar sticking out of the wall, and said into my cellphone, "Well, I did end up having the upper hand, and I let the morons take the silver bags of weed in the garage." 

     "You let them take all of it!?" Mario yelped in the Vegas hotel bathroom. "All the marijuana's gone?" 

     "No, no," I corrected. "All the really good stuff in silver bags are still locked up under the stairs, and in the closet upstairs. Plus the bag I was trimming at the table in the living room today. Those idiots took all the silver bags in the garage filled with moldy weed. With a bit of luck, they're too stupid to tell the difference between good green bud, and moldy shit that'll probably kill them if they smoke it." 

     There was silence on Mario's end of the line. 

     Hoping he didn't pass out, I said, "So if the Boss believes I wasn't here when the moldy weed was stolen, he won't feel guilty after finding out some college kids died from pneumonia. And with your help, in the Boss's mind, I was participating in your orgy with hookers, or whatever." 

     "Okay," Mario said. "Next time I invite you to party in Vegas, you're coming." 

     "Duly noted," I said. "Now, continue with your orgies, Mr. Eyes Wide Bloodshot." 

     I hung up, then put out the finished cigarette on top of the trimming table. Before going upstair to my room, and packing my things I lit up another cigarette just for the hell of it. 

     "So much for Paradise," I said.