High Horse Super Lemon Haze

I’m not a novice cannabis enthusiast, but today is my first time venturing into the local cannabis shop. It has a pun for a name. Retro inspired, pumpkin orange, and harvest gold bands trace the upper wall of the store and remind me of my dad's vinyl collection and of those earthy, clouded, scenes from That 70’s Show.

After being inside a mere moment an adorable, petite human bursts through the door to the back.

“How can I help you?” The clerk has all the added enthusiasm you’d expect toward a solitary customer. Stylish, in a tailored dress shirt, flashing tiny peeks of artwork on flawless skin showing under the short, straight-cuffed symmetry of the sleeves.

“A friend of mine was smoking a vape pen that piqued my interest,” I say, suddenly self-aware of my appearance, and then my age, in that particularly dreadful way younger people can intensify for you so completely. Thankfully, today is a day I’ve made myself presentable.

“Ok, and do you need the charger as well?” The heaviness of breath, near-hyperventilating, makes the words sound like timed gasps, acknowledged by informing me that, “I’m out of breath from running out to you.” The clerk’s body leans in rigid tilts, doubling over and up-right again.

“Some great customer service around here,” I say, as we share a smile together.

I’m comfortable in this place. Not all retail feels this way. It falls upon us. For people who use cannabis there is kid in a candy store magic here. In fact, just behind my new friend I see the edibles confection, gummies, chocolate, pretzels and popcorn.

Here is a young person who has always had all these options: their sensibility about being a user of cannabis has never had to share space with the guilt of sneaking around and fear of getting in trouble.

I’m newly transparent about my vice. Still not so sure I want to step right out into the light about it - but this person, this too-young clerk, seems cool and this is as safe a space as I’m going to get.

I love the store set-up - glass pipes and bongs in display cases like sculptures behind glass in a gallery. Extraterrestrial vaporizers gleaming from top shelves and walls of product.

“I’m looking for something light and outdoorsy, like the plants I grow, but that I’m now so sick of. I need something new,” I say.

“Over here.” I’m led towards some slender vape pens. “The product is in cartridges, you screw the cartridge into the end, which is also where you charge the pen.” I’m shown the cigarette size battery and the tiny threads at one end. “It depends what kind of smoker you are. I like a little lift while I’m doing the dishes,” the slick clerk relays.

I can relate immediately. Doing dishes is why I smoke pot. Or an example of why I smoke pot, at least. I have given the example many times.

“Thank you. Yes! That’s exactly right for me, too. What else makes such a mundane task more like a little escape?” I tweak my hand up near my temple to show the type of adjustment I like made.

“This pairs well with lofty escapisms and citrus scented dish soap.” I’m handed a silver foil package to inspect. It reads: Back Forty: Super Lemon Haze. “It has a light citrus note.”

“Sign me up,” I say.

“The difference between the two pens here is that one has two heat settings, and one has no options: just inhale to activate.”

“So neat,” I declare, mimicking something my dad would say, and wondering why I would, simultaneously.

Quizzically, the clerk asks how I consumed my cannabis up until now.

“A few years ago, I started growing, and the plants are remarkably successful, so I haven't switched it up for a while. I roll it up or hit bowls. This is the first time I’ve ever been in a cannabis store. It’s amazing. I’m sold. And beats my days as a barista as far as jobs go.” I shoot a nod of approval in their direction.

“Yeah, I get to play with pot, literally,” the server says, eyes the display of hand-blown glass bongs, nuggets of green laid out beside each in complementary arrangement. “I’m a Cannabis Educator and designated bud tender.”

“Bud tender is a high school dream job of mine,” I admit aloud.

This kid is just recently out of high school. I am approaching forty, rapidly now that I’m in the dog days of thirty-nine. I’ve been feeling this acutely in recent interactions with younger people.

People like the particular creature who works in this store intimidate me with their easy cool. They seem firmed up and sealed, vacuum packed with cool. I’d have to try hard to melt into that mold and trying too hard is likely what repels young, flighty things.

I could never be as neatly tucked, not with all my frays and fly-aways. The trying would delegitimize any cool I get from being OG. As OG as half the strains here labeled as such.

Scanning my outfit again, I am thankful I wore my wool coat as two of my friends think it’s nice on me. Plus, I got paint on my ski jacket the last time I painted outside, and I never bothered to clean it.

That’s bad, I think. I should apply a bit more effort than wearing a jacket with paint on it.

Maybe the paint could have led to my endearing moment? Surely this person is a creative type. They look the part. I should volunteer that I’m a writer. Occasionally, I indulge in a smoke before a writing session, so it is relevant.

“I recommend this plug and play type,” they interrupt my overthinking. “That way you can figure out how you like vaping and narrow in on a strain. We can build you a taste profile. If you are going to be coming here now, you should be part of our loyalty club. It’s called the Kilometer High Club.” The clerk’s eyes roll at this last bit, dramatically.

“Yes,” I nod. “A layered pun involving the metric system. I expect no less from a place with a name like High Horse. Well done.”

“I didn’t create the club, but I am a member, and we have a Facebook page. You can post your thoughts on and review the strains. I’ve found it a great place for anything from podcast recommendations to recipes. First purchase is 10% off when you join the club and you get something special at ten purchases.”

“Enticing. Sign me up,” I say, as we move towards the sales point.

My items – I chose the ivory and rose gold vape pen without heat settings and the recommended lemon-flavoured sativa - are scanned before I’m asked for my name, number and email address.

I dutifully spell out my name, otherwise it would not be correct. I give my number, and email address, to which I am met with the standard reply from anyone more than ten years my junior; “That’s it? It’s so simple.”

“Yes. I’ve had it since I was fourteen. Before all the e-mail addresses were taken, I guess.”

“Huh. Nice.”

It's almost a compliment, and I relish in the ‘nice’ feeling, my cheeks flush a bit.

I’m told to reply ‘Y’ to the text I receive for the club membership. When I’m handed my brown paper bag, I can feel warmth though fingers and smile.

Lovely, dark and glinting eyes meet mine. “Thank you so much. I hope you come back to share your thoughts.”

“I will. Thank you for the help.”

I leave the shop feeling happy, already curating a 70’s inspired playlist in my head. I hear Stevie Nicks. Next, I must pick up some groceries and ferry children around. I’ll find a moment, after my family is satiated, to enjoy my new treat.

Good music with dancing, lemon-flavoured thoughts and smells bringing with it the miracle of clean dishes.

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Thank you for reading! This piece was originally published on Medium and is the result of a personal challenge to write a story with non-gendered characters. More stories by me can be found :

On Medium: https://medium.com/@cristen.hoyle

On Vocal: https://vocal.media/authors/c-d-hoyle