Diabetes on Wheels Shields Marijuana

There is an old saying that a smart man learns from his own mistakes while a wise man learns from the mistakes of others. I became a landlord less than two years ago. What now seems common sense wasn’t known back then. No pets. Nobody pays me except those on the lease. It is not my responsibility to drive a tenant to the bank. While advertising my rental as an adventure in permaculture tends to bring in eager beavers with deep desires to work on the urban farm beside my property, these desires are usually pipe dreams. Pipe dreams of those smoking pipes.

               I learned something new today while cleaning out a rental property in Atlanta. My lover said not to ever let someone move into a place because you feel sorry for her, especially after she tells you she has one kid and no boyfriend. You will find out she has six kids and two boyfriends, one of whom drives one of those vans that sing songs and send kids begging for change so they can get shitty freezer burnt popsicles and ice cream bars. If you do rent to the aforementioned you will end up with vents crammed with dead cockroaches cat piss dog piss and dust. Your base boards will appear to have been sprayed with mustard and your broken windows kept from letting in rain with T shirts and cardboard. It will take gallons of white vinegar and dozens of prayers to get rid of the smell.

               Based on how the place was left, I could only assume that these tenants didn’t have pipe dreams, but they did have something hidden behind the ice cream van no longer sings. The old Diabetes on Wheels blocked the street view of three eight-foot tall weed plants growing in a 25-gallon pot. Now that’s urban farming. Urban and farming, together in the ghetto, a block from Compton Street in Atlanta. The buds on the plants smelled like frightened skunks and looked as if they were the only vegetation in the neighborhood that received consistent care. Then again, there is a reason why these plants are called weed.

               I got to thinking what we might do with the pot. My first thought was to put the plants in the back of the VW convertible we have been borrowing and drive them to Aunt Boo. He lives on the corner opposite Carrie at his grandma’s house and can often found at two in the morning singing Britney Spears or NWA or Mariah Carey at the top of his lungs in the middle of the street. When I built the boxes for Carrie’s tomatoes he invited me to his yard to see his “tomatoes”. I do not find it strange that the ice cream man used Diabetes on Wheels to shield his plants or that Aunt Boo grew his behind a cluster of bushes on the other side of a busted up sofa. (There is another story to tell here, at another time, about the pot plant I left in my kitchen when I evacuated for Katrina and how, after being accused over the phone, I told my landlord that it was a green tea plant, grown from seeds I had collected while living in South Korea.) What makes this scenario strange is that I am not interested in smoking said plants, selling the buds, or any other activity that might be detrimental to society. Quite simply, I hate to waste and like to give, yet I could be arrested for driving down Jonesboro Road with three pot plants blowing in the back seat and my lover riding beside me. I can’t with good conscience cut them down, and, thankfully there is a positive update in our story. The handyman reported that the former tenant had come the night before and, oblivious to the condition of his broken down livelihood, sidestepped the van to make sure that what really mattered was still growing. There was a time when I understood this imbalance. I still understand. It’s a matter of perspective. Pipe dreams. If you can understand this, and you want three free pot plants, you better get here before the ice cream man gets back.

              Coming soon: How we spent sixty dollars on pralines and potato salad.