At the speed of weed...

Sitting in the dispensary waiting room yesterday, there was a tall trans woman sitting behind me extolling a litany of natural curatives as though they were items to be found at Hogwarts. Garlic, it seems, is the panacea to all of mankind's ills. Ginger is a gift to us from the priestesses behind the veil at Glastonbury Tor and tumeric, well, there's even a photo of Zeus handing it over as a gift to cover whatever inconvenience his animal-form one-night-stand may have caused whatever hapless virgin caught his eye.

I flipped through my usual assortment of cell phone distractions.

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My badge says #7, though there are only two others in the room. The guard explains that they aren't reusing the badges until they have to, so today it means I'm the 7th client seen that whole day. I was here just the other day to renew my license. I made a purchase that day because the tendrils of worry were already caressing the lower part of my diaphram.

I get called into the next room, the antichamber. You can sit in the waiting room if you don't have a cannabis license, like if you're the client's ride or whatever, but you cannot pass to this next room unless you've got your little card in hand.

There's AC in here. Thank god.

Other than the armed guard, there is only one person working in the entire establishment. We'll call her Clara. That's not her name, but she's not here with me writing this, so... Clara. I like her very much. Super sunny disposition, always very friendly with me. She's a European-kiss-on-both-cheeks kind of person.

But not today.

Today she's masked (she's never masked) and has purple hospital gloves on (she's never gloved), and it's the first live visual evidence I've seen of the inner clockerwork of others during this situation. I've not left the house save for must-do errands for at least two weeks. I'm one of the people who actually has to worry. I have a pre-existing situation.

I don't blame her in the least for the mask and gloves. I don't give a borrowed discount flying fuck about the opinion of others. I know this woman, and she is a kind, thoughtful person. She's the kind of person who will absolutely treat you with what was once thought of as "southern charm". Southern charm was made morally reprehensible a couple decades ago, but it's alive and well in my culture since we weren't infected with the P.C. bug that has crippled the social niceties of the U.S.

She never fails to call me corazon or cielo or amor. Those equate to dear heart, heavenly creature, and my love, though trying to understand those term via their damaged, broken English counterparts is going to lead you down the wrong path.

My culture is not your culture. Don't get it twisted.

"Deart-heart, so nice to see you again. But you were here just the other day. What's up?"

"My card expires on Sunday and I know it takes a few weeks for the new one to come, so..."

"No, no, sweetie. You're a renewal, and I know the reasons for your approval, so don't worry, you're good to go."

"You sure? I follow rules and I don't want to get anyone in trouble..."

"No, no. Trust me. I get 10 people a day who want to buy and haven't even been seen for a consult. You do follow the rules. Your ducks are all in row."

She shows me on the computer screen that my validation is stretched to the new voucher. I'm covered. She gives me the kind of smile that says see, no worries.

I still make another purchase, just in case.

She rings me up and I leave with another month's worth of Northern Lights. I already have a month's worth at home. This new one will go in the fridge or freezer.

She's checking me back out through to the waiting room and she gets a text message from the Puerto Rico Department of Health and Human Services (Departamento de Salud de Puerto Rico). The trans women who was next after me will be the last person they see. They must close until further notice.

Her mask is back up because we're out with all the people (though it's just myself, the chatty trans woman, and the guard), but her eyes say everything.

We tell each other to take care, be careful, do the smart thing, wash your hands.

I'm worried about her.