Dazed and Amused

Legalization was supposed to make buying weed easy, but this bud tender does things the hard way

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash

The early bird gets the worm, but when the worm is a cannabis-infused gummy the early birds have to wait for the bud tender at the dispensary to get his shit together.

“Sorry about this,” the security guard says. “My main man just needs to do a few things before he can start selling.”

“It’s cool, bro,” says the first customer in line. He’s a twenty-something blonde skater dude who looks like he calls everyone, including his mom, bro.

Waiting behind Blonde Skater Dude is a middle-aged woman dressed in Lululemon. She looks mildly annoyed at the bud tender for being twenty minutes behind schedule. But this is a Saturday morning at a dispensary that resembles an Apple store, so it’ll take more than a tardy bud tender to harsh Lululemon Haze’s mellow.

I’m the third person in line, the early bird who thought he’d beat the rush by flying in the face of the slothful stoner stereotype. But the dispensary is busier than I thought it would be at this hour, and the bud tender is stereotypical as fuck. Seeing that I’m here for the long-haul, I take out my phone and open The New York Times app to read about the latest batch of fresh-hell oozing out of our nation’s capital.

“Looks like someone slept through his alarm clock again,” the security guard teases.

“I hit the snooze button,” the bud tender groans, “but it didn’t work, for some reason.”

“The snooze button is for suckers,” the security guard says.

The bud tender looks like he’s still snoozing. He has a wicked case of bed-head. His Dr. Dabbers t-shirt is wrinkled, probably because he picked it up off the floor next to his bed. And he’s about as slow to activate as an Amsterdam moon cake. But the most pressing problem is the computer. That bastard machine just won’t cooperate.

“Come on, chop-chop,” the security guard says. “People can’t be waiting on your wake-and-bake-ass.”

The bud tender gives the security guard the middle finger. With the other hand, he flips off the computer.

“Too harsh, bro,” Blonde Skater Dude says. “You gotta sweet-talk your computer.”

The bud tender frowns, then reboots the computer, without any sweet talk. While the computer does its thing, the bud tender walks across the lobby to tidy up the promotional display area. He moves as fast as he can, but that isn’t fast enough for the security guard.

“Get it together, man.”

The bud tender accidentally knocks over a stack of glossy cards advertising “top-shelf” marijuana strains. Mango Kush. Lilac Diesel. Vanilla Gorilla. It’s like a game of 52 pick-up, except there are hundreds of cards scattered over the floor, so maybe it’s closer 420 pick-up. Doesn’t matter. The bud tender picks up a few flyers, steps on a few more, then gives up.

“Bro, you need coffee,” Blonde Skater Dude says. “Like really strong coffee, bro.”

The bud tender looks at the clock on the wall. He’s already way behind schedule, but coffee sounds like a good idea, and if it’ll speed things along, his customers are all for it. Unfortunately, the situation with Keurig machine isn’t good.

“Bro, I hope one of those K-cups is a sativa blend,” Blonde Skater Dude says.

“It’s out of water,” the security guard explains.

The bud tender sighs. This just isn’t his day.

“I’m gonna get some water,” the bud tender says, before heading into the back room.

Lululemon Haze groans, Blonde Skater Dude chuckles, the security guard rolls his eyes, and I contemplate canceling The New York Times because, without weed or coffee in my system, I just can’t handle reading about the clusterfuck that is American democracy.

“Is this guy high, or stupid?” Lululemon Haze asks.

“A little of both,” the security guard says. “Actually, a lot of both. I told the boss not to let him open the store.”

The bud tender returns with a bottle of water, refills the Keurig tank, then tries to make coffee. Except, there’s a problem, naturally.

“It’s unplugged, bro.”

The bud tender plugs in the Keurig. The machine begins to hum, but like everything else this morning, it could take some time. And time is not our side. Time is a flat circle that has ensnared our bud tender, who looks on in stoic awe for the Keurig to render its magic elixir.

“Look, I don’t want to be rude,” Lululemon Haze says. “I just want to buy a pre-roll, so I can meet some friends for brunch. If we can just get on with it, I’ll tip you enough to have Starbucks delivered.”

“I’ll throw in a buck,” Blonde Skater Dude says.

“Me too,” I say. “I usually tip twenty percent.”

The bud tender shrugs and walks back to the counter.

“Who’s first?” the bud tender asks.

“Bro, we’re standing in a line.”

“Oh yeah. Well… how can I help you today?”

Blonde Skater Dude steps up to the counter.

“What’s the deal with Dr. Dabber, bro?”

“Huh?”

“Dr. Dabber, bro. Is it any good?”

“I dunno. Why?”

“I was just asking because of your shirt, bro.”

The bud tender hooks his fingers inside the collar of his t-shirt and tugs at the fabric, as if an answer might somehow escape the garment.

“Dr. Dabber, bro!”

“Huh?”

“Your shirt, bro.”

The security guard shakes his head. Lululemon Haze mutters something about the bud tender being a “total fucking idiot.”

“What’s my shirt say?” the bud tender asks.

I look up from reading about the decline of this great nation and hit the bud tender with a hard truth.

“It says, ask me about Dr. Dabber.”