Opening day, September 12, 2009, had arrived. The week prior had been a mad scramble that involved driving for two and a half hours to the nearest Ikea for lobby furniture and decor, cussing heatedly during the assembly of that furniture, hooking up the computer and printer for the reception area, meeting the security and internet companies on-site for installation of their respective equipment, creating patient intake forms, building the database for internal record retention and ID cards, and finally stocking the six-foot display case with the pitifully small amount of inventory the store could afford at the time: a few strains of cannabis flower, a jar of hand-rolled joints, and the brownies and Rice Krispies Treats I had made and wrapped myself. Most important, I had received 530 Collective’s business license from the City of Shasta Lake and hung it proudly on the wall next to the California Board of Equalization seller’s permit.
The finished space looked exactly the way I had envisioned it: the lobby was light and bright; the rooms were clean, contemporary, and inviting; the music quiet and soothing; the 530 Collective logo I had created was in as many places as I could put it, including on the black T-shirts that I’d had printed to create an employee uniform. Even the name “530 Collective” was intentionally nondescript, the numbers “530” being the area code for the greater part of Northern California and “collective” referring to a group of patients. The absence of the word “cannabis” or “marijuana” was also intentional; I wanted a clean and simple name. 530 Collective looked and felt like no other cannabis store of the day.
It was a Saturday, which meant John was off work and able to be there. There was no money to hire any staff, but one of his buddies, Preston Cross, was excited to be part of the process and had volunteered to help out. There also wasn’t any money for advertising, but there had been some media coverage, and with cannabis having been a hot item on the city council agenda, there was fair community buzz about the opening.
We plugged in the neon “Open” sign and waited. And waited. For two full hours, the three of us sat around staring at each other, the new Ikea clock mounted on the wall ticking away the minutes. I wondered if I’d made a horrific mistake. Finally, that first car pulled into the parking lot. Elation! This was it. 530 Collective was off the ground.
Cannabis had given me back the joy of beautiful, uninterrupted sleep, and I had become a believer in its medicinal properties. However, I was still a newcomer to its regular use. With only fleeting nights of indulgence, I was still a stranger to cannabis. Ironically, it was this lack of familiarity that enabled me to envision a new type of store. It was also what led to a problem shortly after opening.
Because I did not come from cannabis heritage nor, unlike John, had I been a lifelong cannabis consumer, there were times at the beginning when I was uncomfortable—uncomfortable with how to talk about cannabis, how to fit it into the conversation. I knew the subject was highly controversial, and in 2009, I did not yet have the confidence that I have today.
I believed in the product medically without question. I had seen it work wonders in my own life. I also didn’t feel that it was any worse than alcohol for those who want to use it recreationally. But I wasn’t prepared for the awkward feeling I would get when, in the first weeks and months after opening the store, I found myself being asked a very simple question: “So, what do you do for a living?” I hedged. Or I gave a generic response like “I’m an entrepreneur.” I was uncomfortable with the question and just as uncomfortable with the awareness of my discomfort.
But every day in those early weeks, I encountered more individuals for whom cannabis was a godsend.
“Mark” was one of 530 Collective’s first regular customers, and I saw him about once a week when he would come in to buy joints. He did not like to shop when other people were in the store and would often wait to come inside until he saw that it was empty. He had a soft voice and a sweet nature. He was also very, very thin. I knew from his ID that he was in his forties, but he looked much older. As Mark became more comfortable with me, he started to open up. A doctor’s medical cannabis recommendation never states the condition for which it is written, so I rarely knew what each customer was using cannabis for unless they told me. Mark eventually disclosed that he had AIDS.
He told me that unless he smoked a joint before a meal, the wasting syndrome that was literally consuming him would not let him eat. Sometimes, even with a joint, he could not always keep any food down. He shared his experience with Marinol, the synthetic THC prescription medication, and how, despite repeated assurances from doctors that it was the same as “pot,” it did not work for him. The joints did, sometimes. It was heart wrenching to watch him grow impossibly thinner every week. Then, one day I realized it had been several weeks since Mark had been in. I never saw him again. It was easier to tell myself that he moved away.
“Doris” was a conservative-looking sixty-year-old. She had her own doctor’s note, but she told me she was really shopping for her eighty-year-old mother, who was battling stage IV cancer. Her entire family had been opposed to cannabis for as long as she could remember, but they had decided to see if it would help their mom as a last resort. The chemotherapy had been unsuccessful, leaving her mom deteriorated and listless. Along with bringing back her mom’s appetite, the cannabis also brought back her laughter. It was hard to say which was more valuable to the family waiting for the inevitable.
“Martin” walked into the lobby one day and wanted to know where he could find information on the negative side effects of cannabis use.
“The negative side effects?” I questioned.
“Yes,” he replied, “I want to know exactly how bad it’s going to be.”
This was the first time I’d been asked this question.
I jotted down some websites that I thought he might find helpful, and he left. A few weeks later, he came back with some more questions, this time about privacy—specifically, what did we do with patient information. I explained the documents I was required to retain on any patient who wanted to shop in the store and that this data was not shared externally. When he came back the following week, he had a doctor’s recommendation for medical cannabis. He told me that he had become addicted to OxyContin after undergoing back surgery two years prior. The addiction was tearing his family apart, and, despite being staunchly opposed to cannabis, he was willing to try anything to reclaim his life and keep his family together. His plan was to use the cannabis to get off the Oxy, then to discontinue cannabis as well. He wanted to get to a place where he didn’t have to use any drugs, period.
I saw Martin for several months, when he came in to buy cannabis edibles. The last time I saw him, he told me that the cannabis had helped him get off the opiates; he had not taken any for weeks. Now it was time for him to drop the cannabis as well. He thanked me for being there, for my knowledge and support, and for helping him keep his family together, and then Martin made his exit through the 530 doors for the last time.
These types of stories never stopped in all of my eleven years as a cannabis operator.
I also came to understand the more varied ways people might use cannabis. We had many customers who were using it simply to unwind and de-stress at the end of the workday, to elevate their mood and feel better. I realized there was a therapeutic aspect to this type of use. It wasn’t strictly medical or recreational, by definition, but by improving someone’s quality of life, improving their well-being, cannabis played a therapeutic role.
Witnessing day in and day out the positive, life-changing impact cannabis was having on so many began to cast not only the product but, more significantly, what I was doing, in a new and different light. The concept of elevated customer service that I had envisioned before opening had evolved yet again into something even more significant: helping customers elevate their quality of life. It was because of those patients, my very first customers, that I started to become a genuine cannabis advocate.
And in becoming an advocate, I realized how important it was to not just champion cannabis; the conversation was bigger than that. More specifically, I began to see the importance of furthering the industry not for its own sake but to further its legitimization in our society; to both make it more accessible to those who needed it the most and to destigmatize the product and its industry.
More often than not, new customers who had never been in a cannabis store before came in fearful and nervous, like the cops were going to show up at any second and drag them away in handcuffs. Recognizing this fear in the customers was the first step, perhaps the most important step, in helping them. Once I recognized their fear, I would take as long as necessary to get them to a point where they noticeably relaxed. I did this by expressing gratitude for the City of Shasta Lake. This always caught them off guard. They weren’t expecting me to speak highly of the city, and this surprise took their focus off their fear and also provided some reassurance. I talked about how welcoming the city had been to 530 Collective and how great they had been to work with through the opening process; I talked about how pragmatic the city council was with regard to the city’s cannabis ordinance; I talked about some of the friendly visits we had had from local law enforcement officials; I started asking open-ended questions about their previous experience with cannabis. The longer we talked and the more I was able to draw out the customer, the more relaxed they became. Only at that point could we really start to talk about the store, the products themselves, and the reason for their visit that particular day.
Although I was able to assuage that fear rather quickly through conversation, I wished the anxiety didn’t exist to begin with. I knew this apprehension could only be eliminated through legitimization. Once I saw their fear and knew the solution, my vision began to evolve and expand.
I started actively looking for local outreach opportunities in the form of community groups and organizations to join and support. I searched for local cannabis advocacy groups to get involved with but was disappointed due to the hostile and combative attitudes I encountered from other local advocates toward cities and law enforcement. I began to look for and join statewide advocacy organizations like California National Organization to Reform Marijuana Laws (CANORML) and fledgling national organizations like the National Cannabis Industry Association (NCIA) and its later state affiliate, the California Cannabis Industry Association (CCIA). These organizations were doing solid work to change the conversation about cannabis, and they were my first entry point to being a part of that change.
However, I knew that if I was to try to further the industry’s legitimization, I had to start with myself. Hanging on to any level of discomfort about what I did, and any behaviors resulting from that discomfiture, simply would not do.
I had discovered a new mission above and beyond just running a cannabis store: I wanted to be a part of the change that this industry so desperately needed. Knowing my customers and their fears and needs, I wanted to break down cannabis barriers and shatter the cannabis stereotypes.
The wrecking ball I would use would be my voice.
I stopped hedging my answer to that once-dreaded question; instead, I held my head up when asked what I did for a living, looked people directly in the eye, and said with complete confidence, “I am a cannabis operator.”