Pot Shop

A year elapsed between the time Colorado voters legalized recreational marijuana in 2012 and the first pot shops began opening for business in my town. Another year went by before I ventured into one. Smokin’ dope had long since lost its allure and I hadn’t indulged in years. But having grown up buying it as contraband from one shady character after another, my curiosity about over-the-counter marijuana, sold in stores like any other product, got the best of me.

I don’t want to identify the place by name, so let’s call it GoldenBuds. It’s located in a strip mall about half a mile from my home, alongside a credit union, a dry cleaner, an Indian restaurant, a Tae kwon Do place, a hairdresser, and a DMV office. A second pot shop, within the proverbial stone’s throw, competes for its customers.

The first thing I noticed walking into GoldenBuds was a cheerless front room with pale green walls and faded, threadbare carpet. The whole set-up felt temporary, like an election headquarters or a Halloween costume store. But this is no fly-by-night operation. Recreational marijuana is a growth industry.

Nor could I help noticing the security. An employee waited behind a window of thick plexiglass. I shoved my driver’s license through a slot at the bottom to prove I was at least twenty-one (as if there could be any doubt). The guy looked at my ID, looked at me, then shoved the license back through the slot and buzzed me in.

An array of marijuana products awaited in this main room: edibles and drinkables, and the sort of paraphernalia common to what used to be known as head shops. My attention was drawn to a glass case, like in a jeweler’s, which held a dozen or more lidded glass jars. Each contained various strains of marijuana, with names like Purple Haze, AK-47, Agent Orange, Hindu Kush, and Northern Lights.

“May I help you?” asked the guy behind the counter, a young man with the requisite tattoos and piercings of his age group.

I wanted to say: “I’d like a dime bag.” I wanted to say: “A lid of your finest, please.” But he might not have understood these antiquated terms; this is not your father’s marijuana.

Each strain costs the same, he said – twenty dollars per gram. (There is also under-the-counter “shake,” the less-desirable loose stuff, at reduced cost.) He lifted a few of those jars onto the counter. “What do you want it for? Pain relief, or just ordinary recreational use?”

To get high, you nitwit! That’s what I wanted to say. But good manners prevailed. “Just something I can relax with, and play guitar.”

The guy recommended a strain called Sour Grape. “Very mellow. Good for jamming.” He removed the lid from one of the jars, and the familiar aroma of potent marijuana wafted up to my nostrils. Obviously, this was strong stuff.

Like most produce, you can buy Colorado marijuana in bulk. I had him weigh a tiny amount. GoldenBuds does not accept credit cards, debit cards or checks, so I paid in untraceable cash – just like in the old days.

Outside, I jumped on my bike and rode home. What happened next? Did my dedication to truth insist I sample the purchase?