Chapter Seven – Paperwork & Pipe Dreams
The motel room was unusually quiet.
No music.
No rolling tray clicks.
Just Darius, hunched over the corner table, flipping through Maya's sketchbook like it was some kind of gospel. Every page spoke to something deeper than weed—it was vision. Voice. Brand.
And now?
He wanted to protect it.
"From the Dirt" wasn't just a name anymore. It was his story. His mission. His legacy.
And in the back of his mind, a thought was blooming louder than ever:
"What if I could go legit?"
The next time he saw Maya, they met up at a tiny park two blocks from the grow. She sat on a bench beneath a half-dead tree, doodling in the corner of a page. Darius dropped down beside her, hoodie up, fingers twitching.
He didn't even say hello.
"How do I make this legal?"
Maya paused mid-sketch.
"Make what legal?"
"This," he said, motioning vaguely toward his chest, his backpack, his whole life. "The weed. The brand. The hustle. How do I stop being just another dude ducking cops and start being a real business?"
She blinked, surprised. "You serious?"
"I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't."
She closed her sketchbook, turning to face him fully.
"Okay… First thing you need is a license. New York's got a program for people like you—justice-involved. If you've been arrested for weed, you get priority."
Darius smirked. "What if I've been killed for it in another life?"
She didn't laugh.
Just tilted her head and whispered, "You got arrested before?"
Darius hesitated. Then nodded. "Yeah. Back when I was… someone else."
She didn't push.
"Then you're eligible," she said. "There's this license called CAURD—Conditional Adult-Use Retail Dispensary. It's made for people like you. You apply, pay a fee, and if you get approved, you can sell legally."
"How much we talkin'?"
"The license fee's like a thousand. But the startup costs?" She shook her head. "Tens of thousands. Maybe more. You'd need a legit location, inventory systems, taxes, the whole nine."
Darius let that sink in.
A thousand wasn't crazy. But tens of thousands?
That felt impossible.
"So basically… I'm still stuck in the streets."
"Not necessarily," she said. "There are programs that help with funding. Grants, even. Plus…" she looked him dead in the eye, "you're already building a movement. If you can prove that 'From the Dirt' has value, people will invest. You just need a pitch. A plan."
Darius stared out at the street, watching kids run past with dollar pizza and soda cans.
He didn't say anything for a while.
But his mind was racing.
Brand. Licensing. Legal packs. Real deals.
"You'd help me?" he asked quietly.
"You already know I would," she said, reaching into her bag. "In fact…"
She handed him a folder. Inside: a rough logo mockup. Brand mission notes. Even a sample label with From the Dirt™ printed at the top in bold, cracked lettering like it had been pulled from the pavement itself.
Darius felt something tighten in his chest.
Not fear.
Hope.
"You really believe in this?"
"Nah," Maya said, grinning. "I believe in you."
That night, back at the motel, Darius rolled a blunt with slower hands. More deliberate. He took the first puff and stared at the ceiling.
"Time to grow bigger," he whispered.
And this time, he wasn't just talking about weed.