Oliver Benjamin
5. Dread
Meanwhile, another unhappy Rastafarian stretched out in the World
O’Partments lobby, mixed in among the castaways and nuts. Niles as
well knew about Colin and Sprout’s tryst. He had watched them head
upstairs together. But that was not why he was down. He had lost his
job. Blue Mountain High Import Company had just been shut down
for legal indiscretions.
The tree of life had been cut out from Undergrounds. As Niles no
longer sold the fruit of that tree, he was here to talk with Partment
about distributing another.
“Okay, Johnny Ganjaseed, when can you get the stuff?” Partment
slapped his palm on the table. The negotiations had previously
stalled over Partment’s reluctance to transport a ton of marijuana
seeds. But Niles was now out of a job and had plenty of time to haul
stash.
“Each bag weighs twenty kilos,” Niles figured, “I can get about
ten in my old truck at once. It should take me about five trips. I don’t
want to be obvious. Give me a week.”
“Done. You’re a hero to your people.”
“Which people is that?”
“Rastafarians, mon,” Partment hazarded a Jamaican accent,
“Haile Selassie would be proud of you. Jah love and all that.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Niles replied.
“What do you mean? Isn’t weed a sacred herb to you? Won’t
helping to grow more put you in good favor with your God?”
“All the weed in the world won’t put you in favor with God. If
you’ve got God in your heart, herb only helps you hear him. If you’ve
got nothing in there, all you hear is your own emptiness.”
“Yeah? All I hear are murmurs. My God has a speech defect.”
Izzy came in the door. “Where have you been?” the old man
whined, “You haven’t been around for days. I thought you finally
went and drowned yourself.”
Normally the boy said nothing and shuffled up to his room or fell
over and was carried there, but this night he walked over and sat on
the couch across from Partment and Niles.
“What’s wrong with your hair?” Izzy scowled.
Partment answered him, “Oh, you know how it is, The whites
always end up taking over.”
“Not you,” the boy said, pointing at the Rastafarian, “I mean
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