Tzvi's Trees: Stories About Weed




#04 Droppin’ Buds

by Tzvi Peckar the Third, 2015


I swear I had a good grip on that little nugget. I had my index on the stem and my thumb on the head, glitter and golden, two untrimmed purple leaves popping out like Dumbo ears, and poof, it was gone, just like that, didn’t hear it hit the floor, didn’t hear it bounce—Weed so light the air ate it.

            When I moved into this place it was “alright,” but what really sold me on this half a room of an apartment was the green fluffed up carpet. The few footsteps could make, felt like walking on good soft grass, tickling your toes, warming your feet; wooden floors are cold in Alaska, but as of right now, tonight, and a few nights before tonight as well, the aesthetic of my green grass lost out to practicality. I need to find the nugget. What’s this? A dust bunny, but it’s firm, has bulk, there’s something in there. I got to sit down, I cross my legs, American Indian style, Om, oh wrong tribe, so stoned, not stoned enough. When I find my missing bud I can smoke it, and that will start my dream. I made myself a promise. One bud at a time, the mountain of weed will have to wait. It is my sworn duty to find this first lost nugget that I picked out of the three and a half pound pile of fresh Cali Kush, hydro-grown, birthed on some cruise ship to Alaska that left port in Long Beach. Sure I could pause, pick another and smoke from the mountain, but I meticulously chose this one bud, and I swore one bud at a time, and I must respect the plant. I must respect the first pick. Amber Alert—Lost Nugget, Green, .02 grams, Red Hairs, Purple Ears, speaks English and Mexican, answers to the name Kushy Kush Kush.

    “Dusty, you gonna help me find Kush Kush?” I ask the bunny in my hand.

    “Kushy, cuz. The bud’s name’s Kushy Kush Kush. Not Kush Kush. And I’m no Dusty. The name’s Chuck Sucker. Got that, fool?” Dusty responds.

            I look to the Mountain of Weed for some logical advice, assistance, a sign of life, something to say back to Dusty—But nothing—The pile of weed is stoic as can fucking be and the commercials on the TeeVee are starting to drive me up the wall. I do not have hemorrhoid flare-ups—I lost my weed—You got a commercial for that? I swipe my wallet from the table and toss the leather at the Power button—Thump—Side Effects include Diarrhea, lame, find the weed, get high. “Check your chest hair?” Chuck Sucker says.

            It’s a possibility. My pectoral jungle is filled with twirling hairy trees, so there might be something deep down below the level, in the valley, maybe the belly button—nope just a Jelly Belly, licorice, fuck that. Here, Dusty, dessert. I stick the black Belly Jelly into that bunny of fuzz, but I can’t get it in there. Dusty’s too thick, something’s in there, deep in there—

            I got my magnifying glass out, Dusty on the table, and I’m going to strip him apart one fluffy lint flick at a time—this one's called Blonde Sally, this one's Candy Red Rene, Black Beauty Betty, Arabian Knight Felicity Brown, one of my pubes, two of hers, five eyelashes, sixteen torn paper doobie tips, resin coated, unfolded roaches that I should save so I stack them beside the mountain, and I’m seeing little buggies feasting on mini-micro mushrooms growing inside Dusty a.k.a Chuck Sucker, and the bugs are all tripping balls and I’m the giant disco eye in the sky and it’s on, and they got a little DJ, and they got the lights, and the show, and the rainbows to go, and below, underneath it all, a beautifully mummified Bud of Marijuana, Cannabis, the tree's treat, not the one I dropped tonight, but the one I lost eight nights ago—


—“You gotta help, bro,” Kenny begged over the phone.

But what was I supposed to do? I’m living in Asshole-Alaska now, fishing. So I just say, “You’re in New York, you figure it out,” as I start picking apart my last bud. New York was calling me as I rolled my last Philly, the last of the NYC stash, the last of my NY Train Wreck, a gift package from my old roommate, the Terminator, T-Man, T2 for short. That’s like pure gold for 1995. “What about T2?”

    “He’s with Tzvi at the Tunnel Club,” Kenny claimed, “Come on, just call the guy for us…” Kenny’s paused, he hoped I’d just hop in and be cool with it, ask for the beeper number, but he continued to make his argument, “You taught us how to sell, man, come on, her brother won't pay us...”


    “Page him. 911. Otherwise she ain’t gonna answer. Berrr (I hear him call my other old roomie), what’s the number?” Kenny yelled. Berrr, a bearded weed smoking, bottle sucking Upstater was living in the city trying to make money selling pot so he could move to South America, find a chica, settle in, write a book, get eaten by a python, just cackled. I could hear him laughing, a deep bark of cackle, and the grin could be seen through the phone, then a mumble of numbers, more laughter, and Kenny’s back talking to me as I sparked my night, noticing I still had one last bud sitting alone at the back of the table. “Hold on,” he said, and I toked a gogo, and I held it in, seriously holding, waiting 'till he came back, holding it 'till then, “Got a pen,” and boo, I’m out, the smoke so thick it wouldn't even leave my throat, I pushed with all my lung might, and it was like thick clouds oozing out of my mouth, slow, slow motion, I could see the billowing of the cloud, the detail of the curving shadows that make up the cotton ball form of poofs, and ZIP—Time’s normal and I coughed, and I saw it, my last bud for the week, tumbled right off the table down into the abyss of the green carpet, and I coughed, and “Holy shit,” I say before I coughed again, and crawled to the desk to get my pen and paper, coughing, the blunt burning between my fingers, the trail of blunty smoke animating its way into my nostrils; nostrils dripping from doobie snot, and I wiped my nose, and I could breathe again, so I took another toke, slid the pen and pad off the desk, leaned against the wall, cool, nice, sweating, okay, I was ready, “Okay, K, I’m ready, (cough) shoot,” cough, and took another toke and took down the numbers, twice, no, still wrong, “Listen, dude, stop smoking,” and that time I guess I got ‘em right, “And if he can't pay, tell him to bring back the shit he took. Say it all mean, like Terminator would."

            So I got off the phone, I finished the blunt, took a good seven, eight minutes of  solid smoking, and you know what I thought? I will page him. I’ll page this kid and while I wait for his dumb ass to call me, I’ll find that bud. But I got a call back.

    “Hello?” I said answering the phone.

    “Is everything okay?” asked an old creaky voice on the other end.

    “Yes. Is this Kathy?” I ask.

    “Yes,” she says.

    “Is your brother there?” I say, “Um, younger brother?”

    “Yes?” she asks.

    “How old is he?”

    “Oh, he’s older than me, eighty-two,” she says.

    “Does he know anyone named Kenny? Berrr?”

    “You tell those pansy white college boys I take what I take. We old. We can’t be buying our weed all the time. They come‘n deliver—and charge me. Charge me? I’m old, I ain’t payin’ fo’ smoke no mo’. I ain’t never paid. Don’t be crossin’ my brother, you hear?”


     “My brother a pimp nigga’, what yo name?”


Well, one bud found in Dusty’s guts. Losing the bud eight nights ago amid the telephone chaos really got under my skin this whole time. That’s why I got so particular ‘bout smoking one bud at a time of my reward—Me and the little old lady talked for a good couple hours, she told me all about it—the sixties, seventies, eighties even, but now they’re tired of the game, too much too long, and they got grandchildren now. So she and I came to a general agreement—I’d store her 300 pounds of this Cali-Flower on my fishing boat until she and her man fully retire to Oregon to be with their daughter and grandchildren in their golden years. I don’t know how many people he killed or how big of a stable he might have had, but I saved my pals, and was finely rewarded by her. I should call Kenny back. Hey, Dusty, now where’s the pipe?

Tzvi’s Trees: Stories About Weed - are original short stories inspired by the culture, people, music, scene, and existence of marijuana in the lives of Human kind. Much like all of Peckar’s writing, Tzvi’s Trees teeter on a fine balance between Absolute Fiction and Personal Memoir, and yet Mr. Peckar himself will admit that to him they are one of the same and cannot exist without each other.