Various Wholesalers (Late Early February)

The wind bears down, mixed with sleet and rain, on the parking lot of the kitchenware wholesaler, agitating turbid pothole water, a film of exotic hydrocarbons overtop, as the business-school nephew of the owner-proprietor uncle treads cautiously, in defense of limited-edition sneakers, to the staff entrance, its metal door dented and smeared with indistinct human detritus, the standard architectural ornament to a white-hot real estate market. The nephew swipes his keycard once, twice, three times, the same thin negatory beep resulting, a fourth time answered with a shrill alarm, seemingly, but at the cannabis wholesaler, a large cargo van reversing in departure to the many various, nominally independent cannabis dispensaries the wholesaler services, each with its own twee variation of leaf or herb or green for a name, the wholesaler itself operating unmarked and unbranded, for fear of theft or robbery, a fear unrealized but still potent in the minds of all the various neighborhood owner-proprietors, who post social media posts from neotropical locales, working remotely, that is to say cutting checks, that is to say signing off—or not—on equipment and repairs. An away message flashes on a messaging app. Nephews and uncles commune instainously across continents. The keycard reader beeps negatory. The door opens nevertheless. The life of the entrepreneur is sacrifice.