OAKLAND'S HIDDEN POT CLUB

But a discerning nose can pinpoint location

Under the watchful eye of a security guard, a few people gathered one day
last week outside an Oakland office front that blends in with its
surroundings on Broadway.

The absence of signage marking the building as the home of the Oakland
Cannabis Buyers' Cooperative is by design. Still, to some the location is
no secret. Federal agents, local police and the city officials who endorse
the club know where it is. Citizens are informed on a need-to-know basis.

Just because California voters made medical marijuana the law two years
ago, and the group enjoys the full backing of Oakland City Council, doesn't
mean you have to flaunt it.

The organization is so low-key that some residents who need such treatments
don't know it exists.

Oakland resident Keith Davis, 41, went to a San Francisco pot club until he
discovered that Oakland had one of its own.

``It took a while to find this place, and I had to go through a friend in
the health care field,'' said Davis, a registered nurse who is HIV
positive.

It is a far cry from the rebellious, in-your-face tactics of Dennis Peron,
the vocal and brash director of one of San Francisco's two pot clubs.

The Oakland cooperative's low- profile approach reflects both the East
Bay's less flamboyant style and the character of Jeff Jones, the marijuana
dispensary's executive director.

The organization boasts more than 1,000 card-carrying members. Another 500
have applied since it opened in July 1996 -- four months before state
voters approved Proposition 215 and medical use of marijuana -- but they
failed to provide adequate personal or medical documentation needed to
become a member.

In spite of the club's best efforts, some people, including federal drug
agents, have beaten the security measures. A federal case against all six
Bay Area clubs is scheduled to start March 24 in U.S. District Court in San
Francisco.

Jones said that in one case, the Oakland club was taken in by an agent
posing as a primary caregiver in dire need of a one-day supply for a
patient too ill to come in. The club gave in and sold him a small amount.

Jones argued that a pharmacist would do the same thing. That may be true,
if you were a regular customer. Otherwise, it sounds unlikely.

Still, the straight dope is that federal drug agents don't give a hoot
about Proposition 215, and are eager to see the pot clubs closed.

In spite of the generic look, the skunky smell of potent pot in the Oakland
cooperative's third-floor offices is a dead giveaway.

Down the hall from the elevator sits another security guard. He requires
identification, in this case a membership card, before granting permission
to enter the next room, because that's where the smell is coming from.

Glass cases in the members-only room are filled with various strains of
cannabis, papers, pipes -- everything needed to light up and get your
impulse engines to kick in.

Maui Wowie, Humboldt Green, Mexican, hash oil and Canna-Med, concentrated
pot in pill form, are all inside. The atmosphere is casual and remarkably
quiet. One member sits on an old couch and rolls a joint on a small table
in front of him. Six feet to his left, marijuana plants flourish under a
horticultural high-intensity light. Jones urges self-sufficiency, learn to
grow, just in case the law is repealed one day.

Unlike Peron's Cannabis Cultivators' Club, where members are encouraged to
light up at their leisure, the cooperative's office lease prohibits it,
Jones said.

``I wouldn't put it past one of our members to smoke in the streets''
outside the building, Jones said.

Jones' approach is mild compared to Peron, who has been criticized by
colleagues for bringing the wrath of law enforcement down on all the Bay
Area pot clubs.

Nonetheless, Peron is Jones' guru, a founder father of the movement. The
gangly 23-year-old met met Peron four days after arriving here from South
Dakota in 1994.

``I would never step away from Dennis and the work he's done in the past,''
Jones said. ``If it wasn't for Dennis, there would be no 215.''

In at least one instance, Peron's sometimes outlandish and verbose style
has proved to be a benefit.

``I had no idea it was available until Peron got busted,'' Davis said.

)1998 San Francisco Chronicle