Page 2 of Evergreen Desires
Reaching the barn, I circled around its exterior as was my routine, ultimately facing the grove of trees that lay beyond. There, seemingly out of place, hung a large metal mailbox. It appeared almost random, capable of holding catalogs and small packages. Standing in front of it, I stripped off my T-shirt, stuffing it inside the mailbox.Swiftly, I pulled down my sweatpants and underwear in one fluid motion, kicking them up with my foot and depositing them into the mailbox. Taking the opportunity to shake my arms and legs out, I gave a small tug on my penis from being bunched in my underwear. As I stretched, I rolled my neck and shoulders. Then, with a deep breath, I allowed my Sasquatch form to come to the surface, turned left, and began jogging through the Christmas tree grove to the east.
My feet rhythmically carried me forward, and I reveled at the familiar prickling feeling coming from under my skin as the trees gathered their fill of energy from me.The grove and land singing as their guardian.Despite the pleasure it brought me, ultimately, I hoped that the physical exertion of a nocturnal run under a waning moon and a release of power would silence the odd feeling that was now developing into a rock in the pit of my stomach.Not to mention still my racing mind. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
***
As I stood in the greenhouse, morning sun pouring through the clear ceiling panels watering the plants, I relish the sensation of the industrial hose in my hands, the water flowing through the rubber along my palms, both relaxing and mildly exhilarating. The scent of damp earth and fresh foliage fills my nostrils, grounding me in the moment, reminding me to get out of my head.Or at least try to.
"Beau, you've installed an expensive, sophisticated system to handle the watering. Not to mention you pay meto run this place," Will's voice calls out, pulling me back to reality. His voice carries authority, but his grin reveals he’s just teasing.
"Yeah, but I'm the owner, so I can do what I want. Besides, you know how it works. I know how much each individual plant needs better than any machine," I say, defending my unorthodox approach.
"I know…it's your thing. It's the same reason I have to mop the office every day because of your muddy bare feet," he says, smiling. I looked down at my barefoot feet and spread my toes in a puddle of mud. Just then, the phone in the office rang; perfect timing to get me out of this conversation. Will shoots me a sidelong glance, his mischievous grin intact, but he heads to answer the call before I react.
As he turns away, I shout at him, spotting the opportunity: "You don't seem to complain when it's payday or time for harvest bonuses!"
Will slams the door shut, leaving me chuckling this time. He reemerged from the office just a minute later, his amusement faded.
"It's Rich on the line for you."
I rolled my eyes in exasperation. "I've been avoiding him on my cell phone for a week. Guess it was too good to be true," I reply, switching off the hose nozzle and dropping it in place before making my way to the office.
"Wash your feet!" Will called after me as I reach for the door handle.
I stomp into the foot rinse bucket he keeps by the door, obediently cleaning off the mud before stepping inside.
"Thank you," I hear as the door swung closed behind me. Yes, Will and I are like an old married couple, but he’s been my best friend since grade school. We’ve worked on the farm together since our teenage years. When he came out to his parents in high school and they kicked him out, my dad even took him in and set him up in the cabin on the property since he had no place to go. He's not blood, but he might as well be my brother. He knows everything about me. Quite literally.
Grabbing the phone, I answer professionally: "Boon Christmas Tree Farm. This is Beau."
"I'm not sure why you keep up the charade of the Christmas tree farm," Rich says, his tone dripping with condescension.
"Oh, hi Rich." I bite back my contempt. "We’re a family-owned Christmas tree farm, as you know. We've been supplying most of the trees in the region for generations, including the one for the town square every year." I recite the familiar spiel as if I've said it a hundred times before, which I have.
"Yeah, yeah, I know."
Ignoring his interruption, I continue, no longer pretending to be professional, my grip on the phone tightening. "We've also branched out into a fully compliant, LEGAL cannabis growing operation. Something else you're fully aware of since after getting my state license, my town license had to be approved by the city council, where youhappen to sit." My knuckles turn white as anger welled up inside me. "And we've been prohibited from any form of advertising that could be associated with that business, even being dictated by your own council that our phones cannot be answered with that information.” I explain as if he doesn’t already know, grinding my teeth by the end.
"Don't get so touchy. I'm just calling with some information you might find interesting. Looking out for you," Rich says, attempting to draw out the conversation.
"And what would that be?"
"Competition."
I bit my tongue, playing along. What the hell does he want now? "What's the competition? Want me to donate a prize or something?"
"No, you misunderstand. YOU havebusinesscompetition. Another operation has filed for rezoning through the town council to set up a pot farm."
"Huh, okay,” I reply, unsure why he’s telling me this. I’m confident in our position and our business’s success. “Thanks for the heads up. But I'm not too concerned. Probably just a copycat trying to replicate our success."
"Well, you know I have the power to help you. I can delay by requiring studies, fake licensing problems, maybe even demand a fire inspection or a police background check. Or you know I can convince the council to outright deny it," Rich offers, his true intentions unveiled.
"And all that for a facilitator fee, right?" It comes out a little growly. I see right through his ploy.
"I'm sure we can work out something mutually beneficial,"
"Thank you for the information, but like I said, it must just be a copycat startup trying to replicate our success here. We're not in the most ideal weather for growing the stuff. Eastern Washington is much more suitable. I'm not terribly worried." My mind wanders again, trying to identify what’s gnawing at me, other than Rich’s obvious ploy.
"But you're one of the premier growers in the state. I can’t believe you would jeopardize that." Rich retorts, clearly frustrated that I’m not taking the bait.
