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As he finished a joint of Pure Beauty Spritzer, a budtender delivered a roll of Starburst candy and a box of water to him on a silver tray.

The budtender unscrewed a jar to let me sniff the fresh aroma, but since rolling a joint for me is like solving a Rubix Cube, I bought a pre-rolled Thai and went on my merry way.

They can’t display cannabis in windows, and although customers can inspect potential products, the budtender does most of the handling.

Then I’m leaving town for the closest weed-legal state, with the singular goal of chiefing so hard the local budtender nicknames me “ISS” — because nerds with a death-wish have been trying to get inside and fix me since 1998, but I’m so complicated and high it’ll take two alphabets and a billion-dollar international consortium to make me come down safely.

At the dispensary, consult with a budtender, a role that is sometimes half-pharmacist, half-mixologist.