I won’t say I necessarily enjoy what I’m doing. I mean, it’s easy because I was already knowledgeable in all things weed before I started working here, and it also helps pay the bills and fattens up my savings. Not something I want to do for the rest of my life though.
Some days, I have to pick up extra shifts to make up for Ian’s slack. He can’t keep a legit job for more than a month, claiming they just don’t fit him. Right now, it seems that I’m the only one who’ll be owner of our business at this point.
The bell chimes, signaling a new customer has walked in the shop. It’s a Wednesday afternoon, so I assume it’s Mrs. Woods picking up her weekly supply. She suffers from anxiety attacks and refuses to use any of the prescribed medicines from her doctors. She comes in every Wednesday on her lunch break because that’s usually when we get a new shipment and are guaranteed to have what she needs. I keep telling her I’d put some aside for her, but she refuses to have special privileges.
I look up from where I’m checking off the inventory behind the counter to greet the customer. My face automatically scrunches up in confusion because the guy looks out of place. Sort of like that game show where the contestants had to contort their bodies to move through an oddly shaped hole in the wall.
He’s wearing an expensive looking dark gray suit, his shiny shoes screaming money every time he takes a step. The briefcase in his hand makes me think he randomly stopped in here on his way to somewhere important. Maybe he has an interview and needs something to take the edge off his nerves.
“Welcome to Floaty Feelings. Never been high? Give it a try!” I try my best to put some enthusiasm in my voice, but I haven’t really been up for faking good customer service lately.
I have no phone.
Mason went back to school.
Ian is being an annoying prick, as always.
Suit guy chuckles at our slogan, still standing stock still in the door.
“Did you make that up yourself?” A ghost of a smile crosses his lips.
“Manager. The only thing that makes me keep saying it is the free supply of weed. Are you looking for anything in particular?” I place the inventory clipboard under the counter, resting my hands on the silver metal lining of the display case in front of me.
“Not necessarily…” Suit guy trails off staring me dead in my face. I’m starting to get slightly agitated by how intensely he’s looking at me.
“Well, feel free to look around. Have any questions, I’ll be right here.” He nods, standing still for a few seconds then finally making his way to the far corner on the other side of the store.
I shake my head at his awkwardness, turning around to start restocking the shelves behind me. A few minutes go by, and I glance back to see the guy staring at the stack of rolling papers, rubbing his chin. He glances over at me suspiciously and I start to wonder if he’s one of those undercover guys coming to assess the store.
I walk over to the backroom door and knock on Sal’s open office door.
“Uh, I think there’s one of those … ‘secret shoppers’ out there.”
He looks up from his computer screen, raising one eyebrow like I just said aliens crash landed.
“You do know dispensaries don’t have… ‘secret shoppers’, right?”
I shrug and just walk back out to the front, noticing suit guy standing at the counter shifting from foot to foot. He was waiting for me. Alarm bells immediately ring in the back of my head.
“Is there something you need?” I ask cautiously, making sure to keep a far enough distance just in case he tries something funny.
“Actually…yes.” He places his briefcase on the display case, the symbol in the middle grazing across my memory but I can’t quite place it.
He tightens his tie while straightening his back and clearing his throat. Gone is the awkward businessman from a few minutes ago. Now, he stands like stone, his mouth smoothed into a thin line, confidence oozing out of him and onto the display case between us.
“I’ve been trying to reach you but haven’t had much luck.” The caution immediately evaporates from my shoulders.
“Oh. When the phone company installed our new phones, they did something weird with the wiring, so the calls don’t go through—”
“Maybe I wasn’t clear,” he cuts me off, placing both hands in his pockets. “I meantyou,specifically.”
“Me? Do I know you?” I size him up, sure I would remember a guy like him crossing my path seeing as where I come from, we don’t see a lot of guys dressed in designer suits.
“Not necessarily. I left you a package last week and then you called, but…” his voice fades into the background as I remember the night I broke my phone. My eyes go wide as I realize the guy standing in front of me is the guy who wrote me the letter.
The guy claiming to be my biological father.
My hands clench at my sides as my blood starts to boil, reaching dangerous temperatures. His mouth is still moving, but nothing is registering to me. It’s when he pulls out a jumbo-sized replica of the picture with Veronica smiling that I start paying attention to what’s going on.