Savages

types in Laguna Beach, California, and Ben decided to take him up on it.
    “You know how many Jews there are in Laguna?” he asked.
    “Is your mother Jewish?” Chon inquired.
    “Yes.”
    “Three.”
    “Correct.”)
    Ben grew up listening to Pete Seeger and both Guthries, Joan Baez, Dylan. Subscriptions to
Commentary, Tikkun, The Nation, Tricycle, Mother Jones.
Stan and Diane (Ben was instructed to call them by their first names) were not upset when they caught fourteen-year-old Ben with a joint—just told him to smoke it in his room and of course asked him endless questions: Was he happy? Unhappy? Alienated? Not? Everything okay at school? Was he confused about his sexuality?
    He was happy, unalienated, pulling a 4.0 and relentlessly straightwith a series of Laguna girls.
    He just wanted to get high every now and then.
    Stop analyzing everything.
    Ben grew up in privilege but not wealth.
    Nice but not luxurious house in the hills above downtown Laguna, such as it is. Mom’s and Pop’s offices were in the house, so he learned to come in the side door after school so as not to walk in on the patients in the waiting room.
    He grew up Laguna cool.
    Hit at the beach, smoked herb, walked around barefoot. Hung at the basketball court, the volleyball court (was really good there, met Chon there, partnered up and beat a lot of other teams there), the playground.
    Did well in school.
    Genius
at botany.
    And business.
    Ben went to Berkeley—of
course.
    Where else?
    Double major—botany and marketing, and no one asked what was up with that. Summa cum, Phi Beta Kappa, honors thesis. But Ben was a SoCal, not a NoCal (and these are not only different states of mind, they are different countries)—he’s sun, not fog, light, not heavy—so he came home to Laguna.
    Hooked up with Chon—when Chon was home—and they played a lot more volleyball.
    And went into business.

20
     
    Every great company has an origin story and here is Ben and Chonny’s:
    They’re hanging out at the beach, Chon on extended leave between his two hitches, and they’re playing volleyball on the court next to the Hotel Laguna.
    Ben and Chon are the kings of the court, and why not? Two tall, lanky, athletic guys who make a great team. Ben is the setter who thinks of the game as chess, Chon is the spiker who goes for the kill. They win a lot more often than they lose, they have a good time, and tanned chicks in bikinis and suntan oil stop and watch them do it.
    It’s a good life.
    So one day they’re sitting on the sand post-match and start speculating about the future—
    —what are they going to do—
    and Ben brings up that old saw “Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.”
    Which sounds good to them.
    Okay, what do we love? Chon asks.
Sex
Volleyball
Beer
Dope
    They don’t want to act in or make porn films, so sex is out. There are only about two guys in the whole world who make a decent living playing volleyball, the whole microbrewery thing is a bust, so . . .
    Ben’s been playing with hydro in his room.
    A lot of trial and error, but lately he’s actually produced some pretty potent stuff that he and Chon and O have smoked up.
    And they love getting high, ergo . . .
    Ben has the scientific and business knowledge and Chon has . . .
    The baditude . . .
    And a pedigree in this sort of thing, given his legacy.
    “You were there when the Association tubed,” Ben observed. “What went wrong?”
    “Greed,” Chon said. “Greed, carelessness, and stupidity.”
    (Qualities that, to Ben, pretty much describe not only the defunct Association but the human species as a whole—greedy, stupid, and careless.)
    Vowing to avoid greed, stupidity, and carelessness, Ben and Chon decided to go into the marijuana business. Not as smugglers or dealers, but as growers.
    Their goal: to produce the best marijuana in the world.
    This was the seed (we’re getting there) of an idea, and, like any great idea, it all starts with the seed.
    The best cannabis seed in the world comes from . . .
    Afghanistan.
    No ocean, no waves
    But hellaciously fine cannabis seeds, the absolute premium of which is called—
    The White Widow.
    Coincidence or fate?
    You decide.

21
     
    The wine world is basically divided into red and white. (We ain’t gonna go far with this—wine types are almost as hateful as tweekers. Every great wine-tasting session should end with arsenic.)
    The cannabis world is basically divided into
indica
and
sativa
.
    Not to