billy

Young Billy is an entrepreneur, though he doesn’t look like it as he approaches the car at night in the pouring rain, picking his way cautiously through the puddles in his gravel driveway in his slides and flannel pajamas.

In fact, when I ask how his day is going, his answer is anti-entrepreneurial. 

“I just chilled.”

“Oh, that sounds nice.”

“Yeah. Got pretty crazy with the partying last night.”

“Right, so today was a recovery day. That’s cool.”

“Yeah.”

Some time passes in silence. Billy suddenly tilts forward.

“Oh! I did have a business meeting today!”

“A business meeting? You mean, you just thought of it, and you missed it?”

“No, no. I mean, I just remembered what I did today. I had a business meeting. I forgot to tell you.” He relaxes back into the seat.

Billy looks too young for a business meeting, even younger after his scrupulous correction of his oversight. 

“What kind of business meeting? Sounds interesting. Tell me about that.” Almost before I finish the sentence, a small flat rectangle wrapped in what looks like brightly colored paper appears between the seats next to my right shoulder.

“I make these.” I glance down, but it’s raining hard and dark, so I don’t want to take my eyes off the road. Billy pushes the rectangle closer to me. “They’re chocolate bars.” Aww! Band candy! I remember the thrill of a sale.

“How much?”

“This one is 25 or 30.” 

It’s really cheap for band candy. 

“I designed the graphics on the wrappers myself.”

I take a closer look. I still can’t see. But it looks like maybe a skull, grinning, and maybe on fire. For sure, orange flames are shooting out of its holes. 

“Impressive,” I say. “And 25 or 30, you say?” I start fishing for change in the little tray below my door handle.

“I’ll let you have this one for 25.”

“Billy, man, I’ll give you 30. You don’t have to haggle with me over 25 cents.”

“Noooooo, bro! 25 or 30 dollars.”

“Whoa! What? I’m sorry, I can’t afford $25 for a chocolate bar. I’d like to support you, but I can’t swing that. I’m sorry.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s alright. You’re good.”

“What’s in them that makes them so special, anyway.”

“Psilocybin.”

I start laughing. 

“No shit! Well, that explains the price. So, where did you get these? Oh, wait, you made them, you said? How? Was that the business meeting?”

“No. Well yeah. The meeting was with some guys in New York. But I make these at home. Well, me and my girl. These guys from New York came up to check them out ‘cause they might want to sell them there.”

“And you make these yourself? How?” 

“Yeah. I cop like $1,300 of ‘shrooms and then me and my girl, we go to Big Y and buy a bunch of chocolate. We melt it down, mix in the psilocybin, pour it into molds and then freeze it. It’s very professional. We got gloves.”

“That does sound professional, Billy. I’m impressed.”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m just in high school.”

Normally, when I drive a high school kid, I ask what classes they like, if they’re into sports, music, or theatre, and whether they are considering college. These questions seem uncool under the circumstances. I try to shift gears.

“When do you graduate?”

“I was supposed to graduate a year from now, but I sped things up. I’ll be graduating in two months, a year early. I’m an entrepreneur.”

“I’ll say. I guess you are. I admire your initiative! Congratulations, man!”

“Thank you, thank you.”

“Just one question: is it legal?”

“Not here, technically, no. It’s legal in Oregon. But I think Mass. was the first state to legalize weed, so I bet we’ll be ahead on this too.” 

“Gotcha. So when that happens, you will be in on the ground floor. That’s awesome! Maybe you should talk to some dispensary owners or something.”

“I already did. You heard of INSA?” 

INSA is the biggest cannabis dispensary chain in Massachusetts. I live next door to the mothership, and I tell him so. 

“So, my counselor grew up with the guy who started that, and he set me up with a meeting with the dude. He was basically same as me: smokin’ weed in his parents’ basement. But then he saw legalization coming he partnered up with some college boy. Imma do the same.”

“That’s amazing. Sounds like you’ve done your homework.”

“Yessir, I am.”

“But, until it’s legal, be careful with that, right?”

“For sure.”

“Because, like, I could’ve been a cop, you know, and you just tried to sell me psilocybin and told me all about your operation.” 

Billy laughs.

“But I knew you weren’t a cop.”

“Yeah, I know. But what if I am?”

“But you’re not.”

“Nope, you’re right. I’m not. Unless I am.” 

Now Billy is quiet. 

“I’m not a cop, Billy. But, dude, you have to be careful. This might be just what a cop would do. And just think: if I had been a cop, instead of being on the ground floor of the next legalization boom, you’d be on the ground floor of the county jail.” 

“Well, technically, that’s not true. Even though it’s illegal in Massachusetts, it’s classified as a Schedule C, which means the first offense for possession is only up to one year in jail. But also Cambridge and Somerville, and even Northampton already legalized it. So even outside those places, nobody gets jail time for the first offense.”

“I see,” I say, “Good to know. I’m glad you know the situation.” Then I shut my ignorant mouth.

When we reach his destination a few minutes later, Billy thanks me for the ride, shakes my hand, and says something I can’t quite make out.

“What’s that?”

“The name of my company.”

“No, I mean, I didn’t hear.” He repeats it twice more. I still can’t make it out except that the first word is “grow.” But I’m embarrassed to keep asking, so I just say, “Got it! Awesome! I’ll be looking out! Congratulations on what you’ve done already, and good luck! Stay safe.”

“Thanks! You too!”

Later, I saw that Billy had taken time during the final silent minute or two of the ride to leave a message in the passenger guest book:

“Live it to the fullest in the moment, live for the future,—GrowKob.”  

---