The blaring ringtone that was his alarm clock zapped the boy awake. He fumbled around in the dark, seizing his phone, squinting at the bright light of the screen as he swiped the STOP button. 

He swung his legs off the side of his bed and rubbed his face with his hands. He made his way to the bathroom and urinated, washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth, and popped a zit that had formed at the tip of his nose.

The boy returned to his room, and completed his daily routine of 50 push-ups and 50 sit-ups, before standing up to stretch. He grabbed a pair of pants from his closet, and rummaged through his drawer to find a plain black t-shirt. He slid a few of the many shoe boxes out from under his bed and chose an all black Nike shoe. 

As he went into his sock drawer, he remembered the gun stashed in the back of the drawer. The boy got dressed, threw on an all black hoodie, and grabbed the gun. He grabbed the magazine then clicked it back in, and put it in his pocket. He decided on wearing a New York Yankees before heading downstairs.

Exiting the front door, he felt the crisp, cold morning air brush his face as he raised his hood, passing the front gate he made his way downtown.

Even though the sign on the door said closed until 10am, he found the door unlocked, stepping inside as the little bell above the front door rang behind him. He could smell the scent of incense burning, and what was most definitely weed. 

“Lock the door.” Said the old man, appearing suddenly at the doorway behind the counter, the cherry from his blunt burning ember red as the smoke shrouded his face.

The boy locked the door behind him, and approached the counter.

“You’re alive.” Said the old man. “I heard reports that a man had been killed not so far from my shop, not long after you had left.” 

The boy’s heart dropped to his stomach. So he did die, thought the boy.

“Yea, that actually happened right next to my house.”

The boy told the old man the events that happened after he got home, and even the silent moment of realization he experienced while alone in his room.

“Good.” Said the old man. “I thought I felt a difference in you. So now you know the value of protecting your life, and the certainty that is death.”

The boy nodded solemnly, putting his head down. He couldn’t help but to shed a few tears. He didn’t know the man, but he still felt bad that he lost his life.

The old man reached across the counter and put his hand on the top of the boys head gently. The boy felt immense compassion from this gesture, and began to cry.

“Yes, death is a very scary thought, seeing its horrors first hand can feel like an insurmountable obstacle. Death is the greatest unknown. But by the end of your training, not only will you not fear death, you will come to accept it as a necessary part of life.” He patted the boy’s shoulder.

The old man grunted, causing the boy to look at him, he held his blunt out as an offering. He took it, taking a long drag, and then a few puffs before handing it back to the old man.

“Cannabis can calm the mind into submission.” The old man said as he continued to puff away.

“It can also help with nausea, pain relief, depression, anxiety, seizures, fights cancer, improves lung capacity, heals broken bones and joint diseases like arthritis.” The old man blew away the ashes at the end of the blunt and continued, “Spiritually, it helps us accept things for what they are, the way they are.” 

The boy stared at the old man. He always thought it was just something you do to get high, make you eat everything in sight, and go to sleep.

“It also helps to regulate the balance of your chakras,” the old man said, “If you have enough insight to do so.”

“I started growing weed three years ago.” The boy told the old man. “My grandfather taught me how before he died. He always called it medicine.”

The old man raised his eyebrows, amused. 

“The process of growing cannabis is very sacred. Most people abuse this rite, growing in unnecessary amounts merely for profit, mixing chemicals with the soils, spraying pesticides upon the leaves.” The old man sighed as he began blowing out a series of smoke rings.

“My grandfather only ever grew one plant at a time.” The boy said. “He told me to do everything organic. He would take coffee grounds and banana peels and egg shells then mix them in with the soil. He had this compost pile that he would put kitchen scraps in and then mix it with soil and let it sit.” 

The old man smiled at this. “Are you growing one right now?” He asked.

“Yes.” The boy answered smiling back, “She’s very beautiful too!”

He laughed, and the old man laughed with him.

“What was your grandfather’s name?” The old man asked.

“Edward.” Said the boy. “But my mother named me after my father, Jovan Johnson, so everyone calls me Junior.”

The old man grinned heavily.

“I am Labiba.“ Said the old man, extending his hand, “Labiba Mashama.”

The boy shook the old man’s hand as he looked him in the eyes.

“Nice to meet you.” Replied the boy. 

Labiba sat down on the stool behind the counter, stamping out his blunt in an ashtray the boy didn’t remember being there before.

“Would you like a job, Junior?” Asked the old man firmly.

“What?” The boy asked in surprise.

“A job.” Said the old man. “I need help keeping the shop clean and bringing in business.” He slapped his knees softly, “Knees aren’t what they used to be.” He laughed wholeheartedly. “You can work the weekends, Saturday and Sunday from 10am-6pm. I will pay you $100 a day.”

The boys eyes widened, $200 every weekend! He thought.

“Sure!” He responded with vigor.

“Good.” Nodded the old man. “I will train you periodically throughout the day.”

The man pulled out the shoebox from behind the counter, laying his hands on top of it.

“Forget what I told you earlier.” Stated the old man. “Everyday you are here, You will learn something new from this box. Can you start today?” He asked.

“Hell yea!” Exclaimed the boy.

He removed the gun from his hoodie and placed it on the counter. He removed his hoodie, then placed that on the counter as well.  The old man tucked the gun inside the boy’s hoodie and stashed it behind the counter.

“When do I start?” He asked.

The old man pointed to a clock on the wall.

“In one hour.”

The boy looked up and saw that the clock was at 9am on the dot.

“After you go get us some breakfast.” The old man said, producing $20 from his pocket with a smile.

Next Chapter: The Call