The Dispensary, Part One

The dispensary is located on the corner of a residential neighborhood in one of the most liberal cities in America. Long and narrow with cinderblock walls, the rectangular shaped building was once a pet store, the outside walls still adorned with a well-worn ocean mural. A small parking lot on the south side accommodates three cars, pushing most customers to park on the street – something that angers the neighborhood, at least some of them.

Two guards are stationed on either side of the parking lot. Armed and alert in paramilitary black clothing, they look like they were well paid in-house employees, rather than contracted from a security company. You can tell the difference. People complain they’re intimidating, but when you’re selling a product that’s extremely small, light and has a high resale value on the street, you’re going to need some large men that scare the shit out of you. Also, only 30 percent of dispensaries in the USA have access to bank accounts because of prudish banks, I assume, requiring clients to pay in cash. So, 70 percent of dispensaries are like sedentary Brinks trucks. Hence, lots of security.

On the west side of the building, a glass door leads to a small room. The room is uninviting with blank white walls; a mishmash of office furniture and industrial lighting fill out the room. It feels like you’re entering a government building for social services. Through a secure door on the east side of the room, the dispensary waits.

To the left, a guard sits behind a fold-up table and takes your I.D. before walking through a metal detector. On the far wall, two people sit behind a counter — another guard and a receptionist. First-timers see the receptionist; after that, the guard will buzz you into the dispensary. Both guards wear blue and appear apathetic and disinterested — contract workers, definitely.  The behavior is common.

Standing in front of the security door that leads to the dispensary, I pause. My heart races and I can feel the blood rush to my Scottish head, my rosacea face getting ruddier.  The painted grey door gently pulsates from the loud music within — the dull, sustained bass permeating the small room. What lies within the room? I had no idea, but I was nervous.

Before getting to this place behind the door, I did some research and asked stoner friends for help. When I arrived, I wanted to be someone in the know, someone who knew the language, culture and product. I wanted the staff to give me a secret smile or handshake that said, ”This guy is one of us.” I knew I would never be ”one of us” but I could try to educate myself and blend in.

First on the agenda was what to call it? Marijuana? Cannabis? Weed? Pot? Mary Jane? Broccoli? You get the idea. This was important to me. Every word that came out of my mouth felt awkward and, since I never really smoked Xxxx (it made me dizzy when I mixed it with alcohol), I felt I had no right to call it Broccoli or some other hip, current slang. On the flip side, calling it weed was worse. It conjured bad hippies, heavy eyes and stinky head shops. No way. So, after much reflection, I chose its Latin name, Cannabis Sativa. I dropped the sativa, though, it was too pretentious, and I had no idea what it meant.

Cannabis. I practiced saying it: “Hello, I’m here for the cannabis?” “Hi,  I would like some sticky cannabis.” It didn’t sound right, but it was better than saying, “Where’s the weed, Brah?”

With the name settled, I moved onto problems I had with cannabis or, I should say, problems with people who used the product. It wasn’t the product that bugged me, it was the stereotype of people that used the product: white dreads, Bob Marley, Seth Rogen, Snoop Dog, goofy smiles, incense, those patchwork pants you can only buy in a parking lot at a Dead show, reggae, brah, bro, bro handshakes, black lights etc. You get the idea. I was in a bind. The only way to find out was to walk through the door.

The guard buzzed the door. I looked down at my ankle boots and colorful socks and crossed the threshold from asbestos linoleum to hardwood floors? I wasn’t expecting that. I walked in, stopped and surveyed the room: To my immediate left was a DJ, perched above the room like a Pharmacist. He was playing reggae with a heavy beat mixed in. Not good. Colorful, exposed cinderblock walls lined the room, natural light flooding in through the southern floor-to-ceiling windows. In front of the window, a pointy, velvet upholstered vintage Z Gallerie sofa, armchair and side table created a living room setting. A bowl with fruit was placed on the side table, encouraging customers to interact. Opposite the living room setting, a well-stocked display cabinet offered all sorts of cannabis-related products. In the back of the room, a u-shaped checkout counter with evenly spaced checkout stations lined 3 walls. Behind the counter, a single door leads to another room.  I imagined this room full of cannabis and money.

5 Bob Marley posters (4 of them the same) and various bad original art and “trippy” posters adorned the walls. I figured the Marley posters and reggae music was for the stoner aficionados and the tasteful hardwood floors were for the new crowd -  people like me getting edibles. Or, simply, older, white people.

I moved forward, still a little disoriented. There were two lines, demarcated by stanchions. The left line was for online orders and the right for walk-ins.  Having done my homework, I ordered online before arriving and had my confirmation number in hand, like a good cannabis buyer. A handmade sign hung at the entrance of the online line: “No sniffing product, no changing orders.” Sniffing product? Good to know. Even though I knew this meant cannabis for smoking, I still refrained from smelling my cannabis gummy bears.

6 registers were helping a handful of people in both lines. It moved fast. The cashiers were very Berkeley: diverse in age and race and all a little bit high, sly smirks adorning their faces. They were mostly younger and looked like they came for the product and stayed for the job. If dispensaries didn’t exist, they’d work up the street at Amoeba Records. The older employees were all a little beaten, wearing self-dyed organic cotton ensembles in lavender and peach.

A tall, slim man in his 30s with a pointy face and scraggly brown beard motioned for me that he was open, his head nodding downward to prompt me. ID in hand, I bellied up to the counter and said, “Online order. Last name is Kim – K.I.M. as in Mary; first name Greg.” My dad used to say “K.I.M as in Mary” when billing calls to a third number from pay phones. A handful of years ago, I made a choice to be terse and polite when dealing with cashiers. They’re a beleaguered bunch and probably could use a customer or two who are prompt, quiet and polite. So, I refrained from chit chat.

The tall man took my ID, looked at it and typed some info into his computer. He turned, rifled through some bags and picked one. He came back, showed me the product (I didn’t smell it) and I paid in cash.

On the way out, I made sure to not leave through the metal detector. My personal history of doing this usually resulted in some sort of reprimand, so I scooted around the side and said thank you to the guard at the desk, thank you to the guard at the door and thank you to guard in the parking lot. Everyone got a thank you. I was over-compensating.

Walking to my car, I heard the omnipresent sound of a thumping bass. It was way too loud to be coming from the dispensary, so I assumed it was from a car at a red light, the sound organically diminishing as it drove away. I was wrong. It was coming from a parked car. Of course, the car was parked behind me. I got in my car and spied from my rearview mirror two occupants smoking cannabis in the car. They were both young and probably didn’t refer to it as cannabis. Before driving off, I glanced left and noticed a neighbor staring blankly at the thumping car from the porch of her Arts and Crafts bungalow. A Prius and a Tesla were parked in the driveway. Even though nothing was said, it was obvious that the dispensary wasn’t long for this neighborhood. In spite of Berkeley being the most liberal city in America, it also has an exorbitant amount of rules and rule followers. Somewhere in the rulebook, there was a new law, most likely, stating “thou shall not put a dispensary in a residential neighborhood.” However, the taxes produced from a dispensary in one day was probably more than the old pet store made in a month. Money trumps idealism. It stays!