2019-09-22 - Many Faces of Mary Jane

Alexander enters from out of the rain. Like a true Pacific Northwesterner, he was not carrying an umbrella, and he looks every bit as scruffy as the kids in the skate park. Older, though - definitely pushing forty, with hair already going a bit grey here and there. His hands are tucked deep in a big, green army surplus jacket, and he moves through the crowded store with care, trying hard not to touch anyone in the aisles. He finds himself fetching up just on the outer edge of the group of elderly folk, eavesdropping without shame on the explanation as he stares at Greg with flat, dark eyes.

"You can buy the CBD oil that helps joint inflammation without the medical card, Ma'am," Greg is telling a blue-haired old lady with a bewildered expression. "I can sell that and low-strength THC to anyone at all. The very strong stuff, THC distillates and potent flower, I can only sell to medical marijuana program patients -- but I can get you on a teleconference with a doctor we contract with and have you buying whatever you want in under an hour." Greg's brows draw down, his expression hardening slightly, when he notices that flat stare lasering at him from just outside the group. "Karl over there can answer any other questions you have, get you going with the appointment if you want, and set you up with some literature," he informs the oldlings, directing them towards the cashier. As they wander over to ruin Karl's day, Greg turns to meet Alexander's stare. "Something I can help you with, man?"

Alexander listens. And stares. Like a creeper. His eyes break from Greg, briefly, to follow the grannies and grandpapas going to the register. His attention returns to Greg, though, and he says, "Did I hear you encouraging that woman to doctor shop, with the implication that you have a doctor who will prescribe medical marijuana despite any documented need for it?" In contrast to his flat, reptile stare, his voice is low and rather pleasant, a smooth baritone that holds the kind of accent that suggests he's been in Washington his whole life. It also sounds pleasantly curious as it asks that rather loaded question.

Greg leans over onto the top of a circular rack of Wu Tang tee shirts, resting his chin on his crossed arms to examine Alexander for a moment. Dimples flash as his face warps into a playful grin. "It's really got nothing to do with us," he muses. His shoulders wiggle vaguely in what must be meant as an awkward shrug. "I have a tablet they can use if they don't have their own smart phone, but anyone with a primary care physician can get a card in minutes. We just make the connection. They get approved for the program and I'm legally allowed to accept the digital proof of participation these doctors provide until the patient gets their hard card in the mail." He smiles brightly, giving another of those not-quite shrugs. "All above boards; talk to your local congressman if you're not a fan of the way it works... officer?"

Alexander shakes his head, a flicker of a smile resting around his mouth, although not his eyes. "I'm not a cop. Just curious. I've never tried to obtain a card." He looks around at the shop with his head tilted to one side, and his gaze oddly intense, like he's trying to memorize everything in the area. "How does it work, anyway? The last time I smoked was college, and we had to pretend to care about the legality of it." His attention returns to Greg. "Alexander Clayton." It's probably his name - otherwise he's just spouting random names at Greg. Which, admittedly, he looks like the sort of guy who might.

Greg seems unconvinced, nodding to Alexander with a knowing grin. "Good to know you, Alex not-a-cop Clayton. I'm Greg not-a-criminal Sumpter." He flashes an impish, playful grin. "Really man? The way it works is kind of weird, admittedly. It gets sticky because of the federal standpoint, ya know? So we got legal medical use, and we got legal recreational use, but selling to non-medical people gets into a real weird gray area that I'd rather avoid altogether, so I gateway the strong stuff for medical patients only."

Poe pushes through the door of the shop. He honestly looks a bit on the tired side, but otherwise in good spirits. His gaze shifts around the room to take in the crowd and the merchandise before drifting forward to look around with a bit more attention to the items around. He spots Greg during all of this and raises a hand to catch his attention if he's able, but he doesn't break into the conversation he's having with the customer.

"Alexander." It's the first time his voice takes on any sharpness. "Not Alex. That's a different name. Alexander." He stares at Greg as if trying to imprint the information on his brain by sheer force of will. Then relaxes a bit. "Gregory Sumpter. I'll remember that. You're not from around here. I don't recognize you." He glances back over to the counter, then back to Greg. "How does one distinguish the 'strong stuff' from the not strong stuff, exactly?" There's actual interest there. Although when the door opens, he shifts to take a look at Poe. Staaare. Then back at Greg. For a townie, 'Crazy Clayton' may not be an unknown quantity, especially when it comes to wandering around and sticking his nose in other people's business, legitimate or otherwise.

Greg gives Poe a warm grin and a wave as he enters, unslouching himself to stand up proper. "Hey man! I'll be right with you fam. And thanks for sending Lex my way. I made her the manager." He flashes a toothy grin before turning his attention back to Alexander. "Well, the weak shit is out here with the shirts and hacky sacks." He beckons Alexander to follow him, heading over to the door to the back room and using a badge clipped to his shirt to open the RFID-secured door. Holding it open, he gestures to indicate the shelves full of extremely potent weed, dabs, distillates, edibles, and other items of distinct potency. Anyone hoping to find bindles of cocaine and bottles of prescription pills just displayed on countertops here will be disappointed. "Have a look around if you want, Alexander." He hits the name hard to show he got the point, and perhaps his lack of complaint about 'Gregory' is equally pointed.

"Hey. Happy it worked out. I was wondering if she was here, actually." Poe returns by way of greeting and makes his way in Greg's direction, but doesn't push any further into the conversation with the other man. Does Poe know Alexander? Well, he walked past him in a coffee shop last week, but otherwise the older man doesn't seem to ring any bells. Poe has been away for a decade and was rather self involved when he was growing up here. He did get into a lot of trouble a decade ago, but maybe nothing murdery enough to be on Alexander's radar.

"Miss Falco?" Alexander frowns, looking back to Poe, and then back to Greg. "Miss Falco works here? I thought she was doing tattoos." Still, despite this clearly piquing his curiosity, he shows no hesitation in following Greg to take a look at the other stuff. He doesn't seem disappointed. Rather, intrigued. "So, is it just the amount of THC that distinguishes what you would consider potent materials from over the counter materials? I've read some of the literature, but I'm curious from a practical standpoint. I hear people talking about strains, as well - does it matter?" There's a flicker of a grateful smile at the use of his full name, but instead of wandering off, he turns to the approaching Poe. "I've seen you before."

Greg nods to Alexander, seizing on one of his favorite topics. "Absolutely. Every strain is different, and even two plants that are both the same strain can end up flowering out at different potencies. So, samples of everything get sent away to a lab and tested for potency." Propping the door open with the doorstop, he snags a bag of THC gummies off the shelf and shows it to Alexander. "You see this QR code? If you scan that, it'll take you to a website that shows the lab's test results for potency and dosing. We have a readout like that on everything we sell here. Here at Green Harbor we're using an eighty percent threshold, so anything that's above eighty percent purity, I require the card." He sets the pack of gummies down on a counter beside a waiting digital scale set to grams, leaning in the doorway to smile towards Poe. "I think she had a few errands to run." He shrugs. "I'm not a slave driver. She's been good to have around, really takes care of the mundane affairs in here so I can focus on my patients. I wish I could hire four more of her."

"Lex Falco, yeah." Poe says, his gaze sharpening a bit on Alexander while he suddenly pays a bunch more attention to the man. He relaxes after a couple seconds, perhaps deciding that he's not a threat. At least not right at this moment. "She's still doing tattoos, but business for body art in a small town is really limited. She's still renting her chair, but needed something that put some green in her pocket every day. Sounds like her and Greg here came to a pretty good arrangement." He grins toward the dealer and reaches out a hand to give him a friendly squeeze of the shoulder. "Glad it worked out. Be good for her to have a steady place to come and have one less thing to worry about."

And he's looking back toward Alexander again and shaking his head. "You're local? I grew up here. Saw you come into the coffee place last week, but I was on my way out. Poe Little." He offers his hand to the man.

"Miss Falco, yes." Alexander stares at Poe, unblinking and impassive, although his voice is pleasant as he says, "I can imagine. It's good that she's found something more stable. Did she ever find another place to stay? I haven't spoken to her since the Hispanic festival." A brief nod to acknowledge having seen him before, then his eyebrows go up at the name. "Ah. You were a bit of a delinquent once upon a time, I seem to recall." It's blunt, but not particularly angry or mocking. He looks down at the hand. Grimaces. "I'm sorry. I don't shake hands. Or touch people. Usually. Sorry." It seems genuinely apologetic, not just an excuse not to shake hands. A glance back at Greg. "Odd question: is there a difference between strains other than potency? Tobacco enthusiasts will sometimes talk about different flavors of different mixes and strains, or different smoke behavior or...things like that. Are there different flavors of the product worth considering?" He takes the offered gummies, and stares at them with the same fixed fascination he's inflicted on everything else.

Greg grins to Poe. "I'm paying her a salary anyone in Gray Harbor could comfortably live on. The business does pretty well, and I like taking care of people. We still have some permanent staff positions available if you can think of anyone else that needs a stable, honest gig." He shrugs again. "I guess it comes with a little bit of a stigma, but we'll win that fight." He turns back to Alexander and nods eagerly. "Very much so. Different tastes, different feels. See, there's cannabis indica and cannabis sativa. The sativa, that's more of a mental effect. Tends to make people feel happy, energized, and social. It's good for people with depression, anxiety -- those kinds of things. Indica, that's your heavy-hitting shit. I say 'in da couch', get it? That's good for pain relief, or people with manic disorders. Then you got hybrids; a little of both, maybe balanced or maybe weighted one way or another. Me, I like an indica-weighted hybrid. Most people go for a variety."

Into Green Harbor Organics comes a Corey. He's not one of the terribly regular customers, but drops in now and then looking for a fairly low-to-middling potency high, so not an unknown entity either. He vaguely lifts a hand towards the counter, a silent greeting without really noting who else is in here or who is working the desk in particular, drifting amidst the shelves.

Poe doesn't seem all that put out by the refusal of his handshake, bringing the hand back and tucking it at his side. "Still a delinquent. Some things are hard to shake once you're deep enough into them. Nice to know I've made an impact around here - away for a decade and you're not the first one to remember my name. Makes a guy feel good." He grins, seemingly genuinely pleased at his long standing negative reputation. "Lex found a place to live over on Elm. Actually, place my gran is renting, the other half of her duplex. Staying there with a couple friends. I think it's working out OK." He doesn't really sell those last few words, but 'OK' can mean a lot of things. Roof, bed, food. He listens to the exchange between Greg and Alexander. "Writing a book?" The door opening catches his attention for long enough to look up at who arrived.

Alexander looks towards the door again when it opens. From the way his shoulders tense and relax, he probably does that a lot, although he smiles slightly when he sees Corey. The college student is given a nod, but most of his attention remains on Greg. "Sativa and indica. Sativa for depression and anxiety, indica for pain relief and mania." A nod, and it's clear that the information is being filed away into some mental archives. "Thank you. For the information. It's actually very interesting." He seems to mean it, and not just in the 'I'm snooping in your business' sort of way. His attention flickers to Poe, though, as he replies. "Mm. Elm. Not the best part of town," he mutters, with a hint of concern. Don't ask him where he lives. He shakes his head at the question. "No. Although I suppose Mister Sumpter here, could. 'A Dummies' Guide to Cannabis', or something." A pause. "What are you up to these days, Mister Little?"

Greg lets the door the back room close, coming back out into the store front with everyone else. His expression brightens as he recognizes Corey, and he makes his way over towards the younger man. "Corey! Welcome back, family," he greets with warmth. "I got in a few different strains of mid-potency I think you might like," he says with unfeigned excitement. "I think you'll really like the Purple Sticky Punch... it tastes so fucking good, my dude." He snags a hacky sack from a nearby display and starts to fiddle with it aimlessly.

"Hey man," Corey greets Greg amiably, reaching out a closed hand to fist-bump the proprietor in greeting. "Yeah? Tell me about Purple Sticky Punch," he invites, turning to head for where he expects the new stock to be shelved. "You ever get those new truck bushings you were talking about?" he then enquires conversationally, as they head that way.

Poe watches as Corey comes in and Greg goes to talk about sticky business with him. Fair. He redirects his attention on Alexander, considering him quietly for a moment as though deciding how to answer the man's question. "I was working in LA for most of the last decade. Family business pulled me back. This place, right? Never really lets go. I'd forgotten some of what I was missing until I actually got back here." He remarks, eyes leaving Alexander to sweep around at some merchandise while he talks. "Gran needed some help though, gettin' older. My folks left town the same time I did and they're way east. Not coming back. Said I'd check in on her. Here I am." He looks suddenly back toward Alexander, a briefly haunted expression on his face. "She had more than twenty cats in the duplex."

Alexander glances towards Corey and Greg, and blinks. "Listening to them talk makes me feel old," he says, not quite under his breath, but not really too anyone, either. A shake of his head, a flicker of amusement, before Poe starts to speak again, and his attention returns. He listens with that blank expression on his face, but it's clear he is listening, with an almost unpleasant intensity. "That happens. The forgetting, and the...need to come back. So few of those who leave manage to stay away." And then he goes on, and there's a subdued cough. It's definitely a cough, and not a suppressed laugh about that haunted expression. "Twenty. That is a great many cats, Mister Poe. Perhaps too many. And I do like animals."

Greg points towards a newer display, on the endcap of an aisle of skate shoes: Independent bushings in a variety of colors. "I can order anything that isn't here," he reminds Corey with a smile, making his way over behind the counter with Karl. He pulls out a jar, shaking a few buds into a little glass tray and pushing it across the counter for Corey to examine. He then busies himself with weighing up a heavy gram of the stuff, putting it into a shiny little green foil bag that gets sealed with a vacuum seal machine. He sets it on the counter beside the little glass tray, and grins. "You gotta try that on me, dude."

"I meant for your board," Corey replies with a lazy smile, following Greg over to the counter and taking up the little baggie. "Will do, yeah, cheers man. In the meantime, could you sort me out with some Infrared Candyland, if you've got it in?" he requests; a low-potency but pleasant sativa blend, specifying enough for a few joints.

"Way too many cats." Poe concludes. "I've gotten rid of more than half now. To homes and shelters." He clarifies quickly. Everyone seems to assume he's the type to throw them in the lake if he doesn't make it clear. Does he look like that much of an asshole? "So, that's what I've been doing. Trying to rid myself of cats and cleaning up the house. You know Joey Kelly down at Kelly's gym? Old friend. Good friend. Might do some work for him too. Keep out of trouble." Or perhaps just the opposite of that if it's Joey he's working for, but not just going to say that. "You know Lex?" He asks Alexander. Of course he does, but the weight of the words are more like: How well do you know Lex.

"That's not where I'd look for work to stay out of trouble," Alexander says, blandly. Because he will totally say that; he has nothing resembling tact. His shoulders hunch a little, and he glances over to where Corey and Greg are talking. "Infrared Candyland? Who names these things?" A shake of his head, before he catches that intonation in Poe's voice and levels a thoughtful stare at the other man. "She skipped school a lot in high school and followed me around. It wasn't the best of life choices, but there were worse people to follow around. And she's interesting and good company. Perhaps you could tender my regards to her, next time you see her." A slow blink at the other man. "Do you have specific concerns, Mister Little?" He doesn't seem offended if the other man does.

Greg squints over at Alexander like he can't figure the man out. "I don't think you're a cop, but you sure do ask a lot of fucking questions," he remarks. "You might get further with whatever you're looking for if you just get the fuck out with it," he further observes. He puts the Purple Sticky Punch away and hauls out the jar of Infrared Candyland, grinning to Corey. "I changed 'em out, but I'm still looking for the right feel for what I'm riding. Big drops, ya know?" He gives a broad, mischievous grin for some reason, then busies himself with weighing out an eighth of an ounce for Corey. "That's twenty an eighth," he tells him as he weighs; the scale ends up reading heavy at just under four grams. Into another vacuum sealed bag it goes, and the jar back on the shelf. "Anything else I can get for ya today?"

Counting out a few bills and passing them to Greg, Corey shakes his head and pockets the second baggie. "I'm good, thanks," he assures the proprietor, stuffing his wallet back into his jacket and lifting a hand, waving around vaguely on his way-.. oh, wait. Drifting over towards the other two guys, he flashes a polite smile at Poe before noting to Alexander, "Thanks fo the vegetables, by the way."

Poe seems briefly at a loss about what to say to Alexander's final question - and if anyone knows Poe it's not often that he's short on words. He clears his throat and finally shakes his head. "No. Not concerns. We're dating. Nice to meet a friend of hers, really. It sounds like sometimes she didn't have as many around here as she might have needed, right? So if you two got on well, that's good. I'll let her know I ran into you and that you said hello." He promises, his entire demeanour softening at this explanation. He's perhaps saved by Greg's words and then the approach of Corey. He nods to Corey and steps back a little so that he can properly talk with Alexander without being in the way, curving a grin toward Greg. "Some aren't so great at just spitting out what they want. Don't think he means any harm."

Alexander returns Greg squint with a flat stare of his own. "Asking questions is one of the more polite methods of discovering useful information," he says, with a shrug. "I like useful information." And then Corey speaks and his flat expression blooms into a brief but warm smile, as bright as summer lightning. "No problem. Good to see you. You want any plums? I have too many now, and dunking them in tequila, while delicious, is too much of a temptation. Are you well? Still doing deliveries?"

Poe's response snuffs out his smile, replaces it with that blank expression again as he studies Poe. "Ah." A long silence. "She's a good person. Deserves good things. I hope you're one. Please do tell her from hello from me." He seems content to leave it at that, although his expression turns sardonic at the last. "Thank you. I think."

A sort of awful, discordant rasping sound emanates from Greg's fingernails as he scratches at his stubbly chin, at length slowly nodding to Alexander. "You're not wrong," he notes thoughtfully. Corey's transaction gets run through the cash register, and then Greg pushes a small collection of bills and coins across the counter towards Corey. "Yo' change, homie," he grins, then shifts his focus back to Alexander. "A question-oriented guy like you, I bet you know all kinds of interesting things about this town," Greg muses. "Maybe it would be worthwhile to get together some time and compare notes. I might know some things."

Belatedly taking his change, Corey grins at Greg before nodding to Alexander's offer. "Sure, that'd be awesome. I can make you some plum pudding if you want, in exchange," he suggests to the ever-questioning man, the suggestion probably not unexpected; this is what Corey does, after all. "Drop by #7 Oak with the plums when you're ready, and I'll make it while you wait."

"She does deserve good things." Poe agrees. Whether he agrees that he's one of those things is not explicitly commented on and his body language might speak of uncertainty in that matter. He also seems content to let that subject drop after those words and shifts into a listening mode for a few seconds, eyes considering Greg when he makes that offer to Alexander. "Feel like people usually have more questions than answers around here. Or answers that just make for more questions to be asked. That's all I've had since coming back. Makes me glad we have places like this." He waves around the shop. Staying mildly stoned helps with a lot of things around here.

Alexander blinks at Greg a couple of times. Like that wasn't a response he expected. "Some," he admits. "Some interesting things. Depending on your definition of interesting. I don't mind comparing notes." It's a bit wary, but not immediately shutting the idea down. Instead, he says, "I'll meet you for coffee one day. Espresso Yourself has some quiet tables." Then, of course, Corey is offering pure deliciousness, which is at least a temporary distraction from esoteric knowledge. He smiles again. "I don't think I've ever had plum pudding. So. Yes. That sounds nice. Thank you. I'll bring you some other vegetables as well, to compensate you for your time and effort."

There's a soft snort at Poe's words. "Answers needed: Remember that places aren't always what they are, don't get lost, and think long and hard before deciding you want to explore the darker corners of our sleepy little town, Mister Little. You probably ignored a lot as a kid. Most people do. You can usually continue doing that, if you want, and it might be happier for you." He shrugs. "It might not."

"Harder to ignore with fresh eyes," Greg remarks darkly from his place behind the counter. "People in this town have bigger problems than a strong smoke can solve. I think we can all agree on that. Me? I like to help people; I like it when people feel good. So when shit happens in this place that makes people feel bad, I take that kind of personal. You get what I'm saying?" He looks a hard look towards Alexander. "I know there are people here pushing back. I want to help push back... and I can push pretty fucking strong."

Perhaps unnusually for the student chef, Corey falls quiet as the discussion turns to stranger things. He doesn't move away, nor pretend that he isn't listening, but he doesn't have anything to offer right now. Those with an eye for body language might note he's a shade more tense than he was before, complexion perhaps slightly paler under his tan.

Poe's expression twists at Alexander's words. "Ignoring wasn't always an option. Seldom an option I found. This - " Whatever he was going to say is interrupted by Poe bringing his mouth to his elbow and sneezing hard and suddenly several times. He turns away from the group to deal with the attack of his sinuses. "Fuck." He swears, mostly to himself while drawing in a breath and trying to figure out if the little fit is finished with. "Sorry." He mutters, turning back toward everyone.

Alexander doesn't say anything for a long moment. He studies Greg. Then Poe, and there is a murmured, "Bless you," at the sneezes. Finally, Corey. The last man gets an apologetic sort of smile at the tension visible in his frame. Then he looks down at his scuffed workboots, toeing the floor with the rubber tip of one, awkwardly. "The Shadows feed on pain, misery, anger, resentment - all the negative emotions. The ones that intoxication only papers over, but doesn't solve. Get angry, and they're happy. Weep, and they laugh. Cause others pain and fear, and they bask in the feast." His voice is low, barely audible even in the little huddle between them. "I'd be careful how you choose to push, Mister Sumpter. You might feed that you wish to fight." He reaches up and rubs wearily at his face. "Or, don't listen to me." His smile is brief and self-mocking. "I'm crazy, after all. But, thank you. For the primer in cannabis, and indulging my questions."

Greg doesn't look much comforted by those answers, but he slowly nods. "We need something better," he states firmly. "A weapon -- a way to fight back and hurt Them. I've been wondering... what can be Dark, where Light is bright enough? What darkness could ever be so deep that a bright enough light can't chase it away?" Oddly philosophical, given the source and setting, and Greg seems to realize this, laughing softly. "I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about," he admits.

Corey, still quiet, drags a bottle of water from his satchel and takes a quick sip, mouth dry. The bottle goes back into his bag a moment later, and he looks between Poe, Alexander and Greg. Still silent, but definitely paying attention. Alexander's apologetic smile gets a slight quirk of a smile in return, but anyone could tell it is a little forced.

"Thanks." Poe says, squinting down at his phone as it begins to ding with some urgency when a number of messages come in. He sighs and then closes his eyes for a moment, raising a hand to touch his own cheek and then refocusing on everyone in the room. "Sorry, I think I'm going to slip out. I - don't feel great. Good to see everyone. Greg - man - thanks. And we need to catch up sometime. Not at work. Alexander, I'll say hi to Lex." He looks to Corey and pushes a smile to his lips. "I don't know who you are man, but the food you're talking about sounds great."

"You can't hurt them, Gregory," Alexander says, gently. "You can survive them. Deny them their feasts. But nothing I've ever seen has ever hurt them. If they are a 'them'." He shrugs. "Just be careful." When Poe checks his phone, Alexander shakes himself, and murmurs, "Yeah. I should be heading out, too. Got promises to keep, miles to go before I sleep. All of that. Corey," another apologetic smile, "sorry about the digression. I'll bring by the plums soon. Before they go all mushy. Nice to meet you, Mister Sumpter, Mister Little."

Greg makes solid eye contact with Poe for a moment, and nods. "I'll look forward to it, bro," he says with a smile. "Be safe dude." His impossibly deep brown eyes drift to Alexander, ineffable. "Good to meet you, my dude. I'm sure it won't be the last time." That gaze finally drifts over to Corey and rests a moment, sympathetic. "You good, kid?"

"Come on by 7 Oak sometime," Corey quietly invites Poe, then nods to Alexander and his plum talk. "Sure thing, Mr. Clayton." Then, there's a vague not-quite-smile at Greg and he lifts one shoulder in a slight shrug. "Not super good, no. But that's what the herb is for." He pats his pocket, then turns to head to the door.

Greg chuckles softly, heading back behind the counter to grab his board. "Keep an eye on the joint," he tells Karl, bringing the poor kid to a place adjacent to a full-blown panic attack. Greg doesn't seem to notice as he heads out behind the others, quickly dropping onto his skateboard and speeding away.