Part 12 (1/2)
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 circ.u.mstances, 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 gla.s.s cases inside. Ever since Prop 215 pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sionate 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.”
”We could've put the center outside of the city, where the air quality is better, but then it would also be less accessible for our members. So we had to compromise.” He kept talking as he ushered us out, expounding on the variety of cannabis they grew, their pros and cons, the various cla.s.ses, support groups they had or wanted to start, and their plans going forward.
”Janelle and I want to make it more than just a place for sick people to get pot. We'd like it to be a refuge and a community,” he explained with an earnest look on his face. ”The medical conditions of our members cover a wide range. Some will get better, others have chronic conditions, and quite a few are terminal. Ranging from twenty-one to eighty-five in age. Their needs are diverse, from medical to psychological. We shouldn't limit ourselves to just one small aspect.”
It was obvious it was a speech he'd practiced in his head before, but it didn't make him less sincere. He was nerdy and adorable at once. Nerdorable.
Scoot caught himself and flushed. ”Sorry. I've been trying to write the mission statement for our Web site for days, and it makes me think in complete sentences.”
”Nah, you were always an egghead,” Jez joked affectionately. ”We love you anyway.”
Scoot grinned back at him, and some of the starch went out of his posture. He turned to me, his eyes having a glint that alarmed me. ”Jez tells me you're good at baking.”
”Adequate is more like it,” I replied with caution.
”We are always looking for volunteers. You could hold a cla.s.s: 'Baking with Cannab.u.t.ter' or something like that.”
”I'm hardly the Emeril of Kus.h.!.+”
”Neither are our members. Your favorite recipes, whatever you've learned while experimenting, would suffice.”
”Well, I guess there are a few things I could share,” I admitted.
”Excellent!” Scoot beamed at me.
Our visit ended when the support group Janelle was leading let out, and we headed off to lunch.
I wondered if Arthur would have liked it at the Foothills Wellness Center. He was such a rabble rouser, and he liked company. He would've enjoyed shocking and entertaining those groups with his bawdy stories. I really, really, really missed the old coot.
Arthur was buried in Forest Lawn Cemetery, in a plot already waiting for him. The funeral was held on a cold winter morning. Despite the chill in the air, the sky was as bright and cheerful as ever. California weather had no sense of decorum. The cemetery, with its perfectly maintained lawn and discreet grave markers, looked a lot like a golf course. It sat at the foot of the Griffith Park hills, overlooking the LA River and the Warner Brothers studios. A nice enough place, I guessed. Not that Arthur cared where he slept the big sleep.
Saying good-bye to Arthur took more than just a funeral. His apartment had to be cleared out, his things sorted. I boxed the photo alb.u.ms and the group of personal photos and took them back to our place. The rest of the pictures and the old movie props were donated to the Hollywood Museum-except for the Golden Sphinx of Cairo. That I couldn't part with. There were more trips to Goodwill and to a used bookstore. We tried to give a second life to whatever we could; the rest went to the Dumpster. And with that-poof!-the life of Arthur was gone.
Chapter Fifteen.
Ever since that night in the Knitting Factory, things were slightly off between us. The worst part was that I couldn't put a word to it: we went through the same motions as before, but it wasn't the same. Like we were wrapped in fog that muted everything.
I nestled against Jez under the blankets. His breathing was slow and shallow, but I knew he was awake. He was curled away from me, so I nuzzled his nape: it was sleepy-warm. I pressed my lips just under his hairline. The stiff length of my c.o.c.k was pressing against Jez's muscular b.u.t.tocks. I jostled them till my erection snuggled into the crack and rocked my hips. Just for good measure I nipped the flesh on Jez's shoulder.
Jez gave up all pretense of being asleep and rolled over with an exasperated sigh.
”You're insatiable, aren't you?”
”You say it like it was bad thing.”
”I just remembered that shy kid who moved in with me a few months ago.”
I put a hand on his hard c.o.c.k. ”You seem to be into it too.”
”It's hard not to.”
”You said hard!” I sn.i.g.g.e.red.
To that at last he cracked a smile.