Big Weed (19 page)

What was the result of that momentous night?

The law didn't go into effect until New Year's Day 2014, a Wednesday. In Denver, people started lining up outside their nearest dispensaries on New Year's Eve, braving the chilly Colorado weather in their sweaters, parkas, and scarves to be first in line to buy the next morning.

The law was clear. Locals could buy up to 1 ounce at a time, visitors a quarter of an ounce. You couldn't smoke in public, and you could not hoard your stash by buying, say, 1 ounce a day until you had enough marijuana in your mattress to choke Tommy Chong. Anyone found with more than 8 ounces in their possession would be looking at felony charges. The most prudent course of action was to buy and smoke, buy and smoke again. When I heard that, I couldn't help thinking what an odd business this was. You sold people something that they took home and burned, then immediately sold them more.

For a few days the media descended on Colorado, beaming back salacious stories of our new favorite vice. A lot of people who were buying were quarter-ounce tourists, some of whom had flown in specifically to participate in what many considered a historic event. At about $300 an ounce, some shops were raking in close to $100,000 a day. Demand was so high that many dispensaries were hanging
out of stock
signs in their windows before the weekend was over.

At our dispensaries, we were seeing a similar influx of newcomers, but all of them were turned away empty-handed. That's because I had made the decision early on that we were not going to rush into the recreational market just yet. We had the proper licenses to grow and sell recreationally, but I didn't think it was prudent to do so until the market had worked out some of the kinks.

To run a business that sells consumable products to the public, you must be ready to meet or exceed expectations and be able to maintain what you start. You cannot showcase the best weed in the world one week and then abysmal product the next week—or, worse, be out of stock. I see entering the consumer market like running a marathon. Before you do it, you want to make sure you have trained well, that your mind and your body are both ready for the challenge that lies before you, that you've outfitted yourself with the correct equipment, and that you are set up to succeed.

When you sell to medical marijuana customers, you're selling to a deliberately small market and can easily field newbie questions. Once a medical user is up and running on a marijuana regimen that works for him or her, it's easy to tweak what the person buys over time.

When you're selling to newbies off the street, you have one chance to win them over. You need to make sure your packaging is correct and that your customer service is flawless.

Those who rushed into the adult-use market were destined to make mistakes—and many did. Dispensaries sold buds and edibles to newbie marijuana consumers who went home and proceeded to have alarmingly uncomfortable experiences. At the time of this writing, I know of one company that has been hit with a class action suit because of this very issue. Because the company lacks product liability insurance, it probably will go under—all because of an easily avoidable mistake.

Because of this and a host of other ramp-up issues, I didn't think it was worth being the first to sell to this new market. As a result, a lot of people who walked into our shops in 2014 left disappointed. But I know it was the right decision to make.

Before the night of the election, I had worked through different scenarios and variables with the Green Man team in an attempt to know a little more about the great unknown that was facing us. I predicted that in order to meet the adult-use market, we would need more than four times our current production levels.

On that New Year's Day in 2014, legal marijuana was a novelty. The market was so new that it was impossible to judge just how many people ultimately would become regular buyers. At this point, an accurate number was unknowable. To meet the expected demand, the state was allowing growers to make a one-time-only transfer of their medical inventory to recreational inventory. If you wanted to grow fresh plants for the recreational market, you needed to apply for a new set of licenses.

That was fine, but still: Four times the plants? That meant more lights. More facilities. More grows. More employees to service all those new customers.

We weren't there yet and wouldn't be for a while, but I didn't mind running in the pack early in the race. I had a game plan, a vision, for how to win the weed game in Colorado. I knew if I stuck to my plan, we would be in front when we came to the finish line. Now, finally, it was time to build the Cannabis Ranch.

13

Looking for the Win-Win

The business was thriving and growing, and we were looking forward to the 2014 Cannabis Cup in Denver. In the office, we buckled down and clarified the details of our booth at that year's event, which had moved to a larger location at the Denver Mart. That was followed up with our usual strain-selection party at my place. The next morning, Barb, Corey, and I made the final six picks.

There isn't a company on the planet that doesn't think twice about whether they should participate in their industry's next trade show. That's because it's always so hard to determine the immediate benefit to spending lavishly to attend a particular event. When times are great, companies tend to be freer with the budgets. When times are tough, they retrench. But if we didn't make an appearance at the first Cannabis Cup in the year marijuana went legal in our state, it would be as if we didn't exist. So we went all out, booking a 20-by-20-foot booth and erecting a custom-made Green Man tent nearest the entrance to the event's smoking area. I had twenty-two people working two shifts a day, lighting the company bong, selling a ton
of T-shirts, and getting happily baked outdoors with a lot of friendly faces.

We thought it would be smart to hand out munchies in that crowd. So anyone who came by the booth got a paper cup with our logo on it, stuffed with a (marijuana-free) serving of green-and-white-colored popcorn. By the end of the weekend, we had distributed twenty thousand servings of popcorn. If you looked out at the crowd, it seemed as if every person on the floor was walking around with a Green Man cup. I like to think we made an impression.

The third day of the 37,000-person event happened to land on Easter Sunday, and the trade show weekend coincided with a 420 event, a massive outdoor rally celebrating marijuana legalization that took place in the city's Civic Center Park, not far from the state capitol. The park was packed with 80,000 people. The marijuana-leaf bandanas and hemp clothing and marijuana edible kiosks were doing a brisk business.

So were the cops.

Remember: It was still illegal in Colorado to smoke marijuana in public. But despite the fact that police had posted signs to this effect throughout the park, ecstatic event goers largely ignored the ban. The cloud of marijuana smoke that hovered in front of the state capital was a taunt. The cops reacted well, I thought. If they saw you breaking the law right in front of their faces, they issued you a $150 fine. But by the end of the day, only twenty-two people had been arrested.

Across town at the Denver Mart, I was not nearly as clueless about the award program as I had been the first year we attended. I was in the room, listening, when the judges called our name.

Our Ghost Train Haze strain took the U.S. Cannabis Cup for best sativa. To look at it, it's not a terribly distinctive bud, but it gives off a rich, sharp, almost metallic smell. When you smoke it, you can taste that same metallic flavor. Its high is not incapacitating. Instead, you're overcome with a gentle, light euphoria that makes it a fine choice for newcomers.

A bunch of us in the back erupted with cheers. We ran up and took the stage. The presenters handed me the small cup, which was the highest award of that year's event. I waved it over my head and screamed, “Oh my God! We did it! We did it
again!
”

Scott Reach, the founder of a seed company called Rare Dankness and the breeder of Ghost Train Haze, was in the audience when our win was announced. He joined us on stage and joined in our celebration. We had won by growing his creation. It was good to have him on stage with us. Kim Sidwell, the de facto official photographer of the cannabis movement, snapped a picture of the Green Man team on stage together, accepting the award. That picture would end up in
High Times
magazine and today graces our conference room. It was one of my proudest moments because we'd won as a team.

We hadn't won in 2013, but we were okay with that. For most growers, the Cannabis Cup is a once-in-a-lifetime achievement. Which is why the 2014 award meant so much. We had won two of these in five years. We were doing something right.

As we were stepping down from the stage, some reporters were waiting to pull us aside. Could we go somewhere to talk? Would we let them film us for a short interview?

Fine, I said, and followed them out to the hallway to set up the shot.

I figured that they were with a local news program. Or part of the growing marijuana media that covered these events internationally. But they weren't.

“We're with
CBS This Morning,
” the producer said, and then before I had a chance to regain my composure over being interviewed by one of the nation's oldest and most respected morning programs, the lights came on, and the cameras started rolling. The following morning, before I'd had my coffee, I watched veteran broadcaster Charlie Rose introduce me to the nation as the man who grew the best marijuana in the country. That was nice, if not strictly accurate.
But then, you can't expect the media to nail down the details every single time.

Monday I had every intention of going into the office, but I was too exhausted from the previous week, so I just slept in. I woke to a backload of messages on my cellphone. My voicemail had been deluged with well-wishers, mainstream news reporters, cannabis industry journalists, and more, all of whom wanted to talk or get a quote.

Our accountant Patrick gave me the final tally of our costs for the weekend: $72,000. We had gone over budget, which is never fun. But I consoled myself with two things: (1) We had walked away with the event's top prize, and (2) we had staked out our claim with thousands of marijuana enthusiasts who had flown to Denver to attend this event. I could not put a price on that type of brand recognition. We wanted to attract exactly this demographic with the Cannabis Ranch in a few years.

It wasn't until a day or so later, down at one of the grows, that I got a chance to catch up with the man who is actually responsible for producing the best marijuana in the country—our grower Corey.

“Can I talk to you a sec?” he said. “It's kind of important.”

He then launched into what was on his mind. I don't remember precisely how he phrased it, but it was in reference to a recent deal we were trying to work out with a potential partner in Nevada. This partner had enough pull to get itself a medical marijuana license in that state, but the owners had no desire to be weed farmers or retailers. They wanted to contract their day-to-day management to a company with a proven record. I had a lot riding on this deal. If our application was accepted, we'd have a shot at setting up a fresh operation in a second state.

And now, here was Corey, telling me he wasn't going to be able to put his name on the Nevada application. You see . . . he, uh. . . . had been working with someone else.

My face was warm.

You're my friend,
I thought.
You can't do this to me.

“Where are you going?” I asked him.

He mentioned the name of a start-up medical marijuana company in Nevada. He'd been in negotiations with them—and other outfits back home in Georgia and Florida—for more than four months. Nevada wanted him. Badly. And the owners were willing to give him a piece of their company. Six months ago, we had granted him an equity share of our business without requiring a financial commitment from him. We wanted him to feel part of the team.

And he was walking away from all this?

“You don't do this this way,” I snapped. “You don't just
leave.
You could have come talked to me.”

“I tried to, a couple of times. But when I mentioned the possibility of doing something outside Green Man, you said no.”

He reminded me of several conversations we'd had, and he was correct. I had shut him down. I had not been open to hearing about any deal outside of Green Man, and Corey was itching to do something that would allow him to get a larger ownership position. He knew his time was ripe to grab the golden ring.

“You know what?” I said, “Let's do this later. When can we sit and talk?”

I was pissed. Fucking pissed.

I'd gone to bat for him to get equity in our company because he'd done amazing things for us. We had hammered out what I'd thought was a generous package for him. But it hadn't been enough, not compared to the other offers a man of his abilities can get at this time in this industry. Yet he had yessed me six months ago, the last time we talked about his future, and now it looked like he'd gone out shopping for a better deal.

There's no other way to put it. I felt betrayed. But I was just wise enough to realize that I was probably also just feeling vulnerable. In the last year, my wife and I had split; I had been betrayed then, and now the divorce was final. I had the feeling that I was wrongfully projecting the feelings I had about my broken marriage onto Corey's choices.

For a couple days, I thought about the Corey situation and realized that I had a chance to make it right. If I was honest with myself, I had to admit that I probably would have done the same thing in his position. I talked it out with Barb and Mr. Pink, and I came to understand how Corey had reached this point. Well, I thought, Corey wants to own a piece of something that corresponds to his contribution. He wants more, and he deserves it. He had helped me achieve my goals, and I would help him achieve his.

Late one afternoon, Corey was waiting for me when I got to El Diablo. I sat at the bar and ordered the usual: a Dos Equis and a shot of chilled Patrón. No training wheels—no lime, no salt.

“I'm not through being pissed at you,” I told him. “But I get it. I feel like you lied to me. You should have told me.”

“I tried—” And he again recounted all the times he had brought it up.

“I know. But, fuck, dude, we just won the fucking U.S. Cannabis Cup together,
again.
Are you fucking kidding me?”

Yeah, there was a lot of swearing. I put together a string of expletives that I would proudly look back upon later.

“Look,” Corey said, “I'm sorry you found out the way you did. But I can't go on your Nevada application. My name is already on one which has been submitted, and no one person can be on two applications.”

This was correct. This was going to make a lot of work for Barb and the team that was submitting the Nevada application. They had already written Corey into all the documents; removing him would compromise the quality of our document. But we had no choice.

“Can we just come clean for a second?” I said. “What do you want? What's the end goal right now?”

He seemed relieved that I had asked and launched into a longer explanation. He wanted a better future for himself and his family. He didn't want to wake up one day to find out that he was in his sixties
and still working for the same cannabis company for a basic salary and a few points. He wanted to make something for himself.

“It's different for you,” he said. “You already have a big equity stake in a big company. I don't. I don't want to work my whole life
for
someone like you. I want to
be
you. I want to be where you are.”

He was basically echoing something that Brandon, one of my earliest growers, had said. The world of cannabis was opening up. Guys like Brandon and Corey had expertise that they knew was valuable, but they weren't sure how to go about selling it to the world.

What I also heard in his words was poverty consciousness—
believing that you will always be trapped in a rat race where the wealth goes to the very few, which never includes you. I recognized the signs.

Corey and I had similar upbringings. We grew up with hardworking parents. And we were hard workers, hungry and resilient. I'd been working since I was eight years old, first on a newspaper route, then cleaning a women's resource center in Boulder where my mom volunteered and got them to hire my brother and me.

But over the years I'd internalized a radical message: The world is filled with unlimited wealth and opportunities. Why worry how much money you are making at
this
job? If you are unhappy, find your bliss. If you find a job that pays you more, do that. Or start a business because you're passionate about creating a new product. Quit your accounting job and start baking the best muffins in the world and sell them to local coffee shops. Do what you must, but find your bliss. The world is abundant when you are doing what you are here to do. I could tell Corey wanted to believe in this philosophy but was having trouble seeing it come to fruition.

I lifted the tequila to my lips and tossed it back.

In my head, I had a couple of thoughts: I like this guy. I like his family. He's a good, solid person, and I need to help him.

I reached over the bar for a napkin.

“What do you want to make?” I said, digging in my pocket for a pen. “A million, two million?”

He started protesting, probably assuming that I was making a joke. He knew our company couldn't afford to pay him that kind of salary.

“No,” I said. “It's all gonna come from
you.
You don't just have skill. You have intellectual property. You're the man who knows how to grow the best weed in the world. So you don't go to work
for
these guys. You get them to sign a contract with you and you
consult
with them.”

My pen was cranking out some numbers. What was he worth? Hell, what was he worth to
me
on the open market? A few hundred bucks an hour? A few hundred hours a month of his time?

“You just told me you know guys who could use you down in Florida and Georgia, right? Well, fine. They sign a contract with you, too. And then of course
I
sign a contract with you, too—”

“You would, too?” he said.