Poster Boy by Dede Crane

Dad.
    â€œI doubt it,” I said.
    â€œLet me guess. Costs twice as much as regular shampoo.”
    As I stuffed the shopping bags under the sink, I saw two Slurpee cups in the garbage. Dad must have taken Maggie when we were out. The amount of food coloring in that shit!
    Just to prove Dad wrong about the shampoo and tell him so, I looked Organics up on the net.
    Turned out it had just as much chemical crap as normal shampoo. Piss me off. Using the name Organics. Didn’t anyone have any morals anymore? Or was Dad right that these small amounts weren’t a big deal? But then what about the billion people flushing these chemicals down the drain into streams, lakes and the feckin’ ocean. And what happened when they got mixed up with chemicals in bleach, detergents, turpentine and whatever else was going down our drains? The fish bathed in it, we ate the fish… man, this world was messed.
    Just to screw myself even more, I looked up babies, breast milk and carcinogens.
    A newborn baby in America has 230 industrial chemicals in its blood and urine the morning it’s born — 190 of which are linked to cancer.
    Jeez! I punched off the computer screen. I needed to go find Davis and nuke some brain cells. No doubt dope was grown with killer pesticides ’cause the bikers and gangs who grew it wouldn’t give a crap. But I refused to think about that.
    Davis’s line was busy so I grabbed my camera and went over there.
    10 Spermbags
    Davis lived with his dad because his mom traveled so much, teaching yoga at various “voodoo centers,” as his dad called them. Yoga was what she got into after being married to Davis’s dad. “Her detox,” Davis called it.
    In his room, Davis was sprinkling leaf onto some papers.
    â€œLook in there,” he said, pointing to his desk.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œJust look. Side cabinet.” His eyebrows did a little dance.
    I opened the cabinet door and was literally blinded by the light. A hole had been hacked into the cabinet’s back wall, and a lamp set in the hole was shining on a half dozen little plants.
    â€œGrow light,” he explained. “Gray, meet my girls.”
    â€œAre you kidding me?” I shook my head.
    â€œWell, I hope they’re girls because the females are the only ones that produce bud. And I’m going organic with them, you’ll be happy to know. They’re grown with love, organic compost, and some of this stuff.” He picked up a little plastic bottle. African violet plant food. “They go nuts for this stuff. Makes them sing and do the hula.”
    â€œWhat do you do when they outgrow your desk?”
    â€œPlant them.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œDunno yet.”
    â€œYour dad wants you, Davis,” called Laurie, rapping on the door.
    â€œDad’s slave,” whispered Davis, hooking his thumb at the door. Laurie was stepmom number two. Mom Two, as Davis called her. There was Mom One, and his actual mom who he called Real Mom.
    Davis’s dad met Laurie at an AA meeting. Davis said the only reason his dad had gone to the meetings was that he’d heard it was an easy place to meet women because they were all vulnerable with shame.
    â€œOne minute,” called Davis, licking the rolling papers.
    â€œNow,” called back his dad.
    â€œHe wants to show you something with the fish,” said Laurie anxiously.
    Davis pulled the joint through his lips and slipped it in his jacket pocket. “He got a fresh salmon off a buddy who’s a commercial fisherman. He’s all proud. Thinks he caught it himself.”
    * * *
    Davis’s dad stood over the sink, a bloodied knife in one hand, a beer in the other.
    â€œCome here, Dave. You, too, Gray,” he ordered.
    â€œGo see,” urged Laurie.
    There was a crucifix over the sink, a large cheesy pink thing that must have been new because it was too big for me to have not noticed