Tzvi's Trees: Stories About Weed




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.

#18 Indecent Proposal


#18 Indecent Proposal

by Tzvi Peckar the Third


The bud was fucking huge. He could hardly believe it. Jake had been on a cleanse for weeks now. No weed. No sugar. No dairy—Nothing—but water and bottles of kombucha. That was over now. Three weeks in Palm Springs. Six dips in the mineral hot springs of the wealthiest Desert Hot Springs resort and no sex. Now it was time to feast, only after getting stoned as fuck. “How much you want for it?” Jake asked his dealer. “Not for sale brother,” replied the Burbank Californian off-the-grid druggist of green. “Everything’s for sale. How much?” Jake tries again. “Not. For. Sale,” he is told. Jake has to think about this. The bud can’t be smaller than three feet long. Sure there’s a massive stem in the belly of this beast of delicious green natural candy, but it’s all one piece. The stems are thin and the leafy buds have intertwined their transparent hairs so much that you could never decipher where one ends and another begins. It is all one big bud.

    “$500?” Jake offers.

    “Not for sale,” says the dealer.



    “Twelve Hundred”—

    “Not going to happen man”—

    “Sixteen Hundred. That’s my final offer,” Jake says and waits, patiently.




The dealer didn’t answer.

It was clear—There was going to be no sale—Jake was not satisfied.




This Jake guy came from a different world than his green-collar distributor. Jake spent his LA days rolling through the streets of Burbank in his jet-black BMW he kept washed weekly and parked only in gated, roofed garages. He liked to cruise around on lunch breaks from the Studio System. He could have bought a medical marijuana card years ago by now, but that wouldn’t be cool. Cool was to buy from a local dealer. Cool was living in Malibu and sitting in rush hour traffic for two hours on the 101 to have his “readers” do notes on scripts he was supposed to read. That’s how Jake-the-Make figured it. That’s what a gangster rapper would do to score his weed while he lived the good life in his beach side crib. Dre didn’t buy no weed, from no fake Rite-Aid. Hells no. Dre got his stuff from the street. Jake, himself, was as black as a white panther and bleached to even better resemble freshly fallen snow, so he can tan more. He didn’t come from rags either. Jake-the-Make was born in Beverly Hills adjacent to Bel Air. The boy was born with a credit card in his hand and an inheritance he’d kill for if his parents weren’t so financially hospitable to him. He listens to “The Chronic” like his Dad listened to Blood Sweat and Tears, and his Grandpa listened to “Elvis”—Classic Hip Hop all the way, Jake would say. This was his third BMW. First one was white and donated from his father’s collection for his sixteenth birthday. The second one Jake got for college and was blue. Jake’s Mom got him this new black one when he made Executive after selling his friend’s reality show. Jake’s friend is quite the basketball star turned male rapist. Outed. The coach and the league called it a set up. Jake knew his boy had roofied the Beverly High basketball jock and popped his cherry. Jake didn’t judge. Money is what money does. Now they had a TV show and Jake had a new BMW.

Jake was old already. Twenty Six didn’t look good on a young executive producer these days. He could feel it; some day soon his colleagues would notice the wrinkles along his knuckles. Jake figured he only had a few more months to lock down some celebrity actress sugar-mama before the folks cut him off. Maybe there was a surgery for knuckle wrinkles? What would Dad do? That’s what he always asked himself. What would Daddy do? What would Poppa Banks offer this guy for this massive marijuana bud of envy that he can show off to the script readers and assistants.

“Okay. How about a couple passes to Deja Vu?”—“Passes to a strip club? Really?”—“I know one of the girls. She’ll give you free time in the back. Might even blow ya”—“Not for sale bro”—“I have a brick of coke at the house?”—Silence—“Fine. Forget the lap dances and blow, I have something better”—the dealer was all ears although he would never budge on this point—“A few of us at the studio get these really high-class girls ya know? I get you like two, on me, and how ‘bout you give me the bud?”—“Pass”—“You gay?”—“Not a chance”—You want my car or something?”—The dealer just shakes his head—“Man, come on. Everybody has a price. What is it?”—Jake was not used to not getting his way—“Your grandma need to make her mortgage or something? Maybe you have a sick Aunt? You’re girlfriend want tits? How about a year long membership to a waxing salon for her? You like ‘em like a baby. I can tell.”—“Nope, my grandma’s dead. No aunts. And I’m not buying none of my girlfriends fake boobs or fucking children”—“A tranny with a supply of Viagra?”—“Go to hell.”

This guy had Jake sweating. Jake didn’t break a sweat. Jake bought everything he had ever wanted. He’d already traded up girlfriends with the bait of fur coats in LA. “But isn’t it too hot for fur,” she had asked. “Not in the Alps,” he had charmed her and then flew her to the mountains and said it was the coke that had prevented him from getting hard, so he promised to buy her a car when they got back to the states. This dealer was not going to go for that. Besides, the Alps were too classy to take a drug dealer from the Burbank—Maybe a meal at BJs and a round of video games—“You like video games?” Jake asks him. “Not so much,” the dealer replies without a beat. “Gambling? You want to go to Vegas? I’ll set you up big. Got girls there too”—“Don’t like Vegas since they got rid of the coin drops”—“Jesus Christ man. What the fuck do you want for it?”—“Nothing”—And Jake stomped his foot, paced around, whimpered like a caged dog, and nearly scratched his eyebrows off from all the spoiled rotten stress. “You’re going to regret this. I’m gonna leave. I’m gonna buy this dime bag off ya and leave and tomorrow you’ll wake up and your car won’t start, or you’ll find a lump on your balls, or…Fuck it—I’m just going to curse you and everything about your fucking life and then you’ll wish you had sold me your stupid bud,” Jake ranted, tossed a ten dollar bill on the table, took the weed baggy, and left saying, “You lost a client.”

The dealer shrugs as the door closes behind Jake. Another dude shows up. “How you doing man?” the new dude asks. “I’m cool,” says the dealer. “Shit, man, that is one Big Ass Bud! You want to smoke that?”—And that’s when the dealer said, “Sure,” and together the two men enjoyed the weed without a price, save for friendship and the mutual respect for the green ass bud.