Turn the clock back to the beginning of my time in illicit commerce of illegal substances and you would find an average moody and petulant teenager selling joints for pocket change. From there I escalated to buying quarter pounds and selling them off in ounce and half-ounce quantities. I did so in pursuit of that most holiest of grails of a pot smoking teen: Free dope.
What a thrill it was to gather in the apartment of a friend and break the seal of a one-gallon size plastic baggy stuffed with a quarter-pound of pot and breathe in deep its earthy aroma. I'd dump out the contents on a coffee table and revel in the pile, digging my hands through it. Using an album cover or a shoe-box top I'd set it at an angle and sift some pot atop it ridding it of seeds before rolling up a joint to give it a try. Then I'd divide up the dope and heap it into sandwich size baggies. I'd measure by eye, two finger height for twenty dollar half-ounces, and four fingers high for a forty dollar ounce. Rarely did I ever resort to using a scale. Once the work was done bagging up the dope we'd smoke another joint and listen to music or stare at TV before I went off to recoup the money I'd invested in the weed.
And seldom was heard a discouraging word. For pot smokers were for the most part a forgiving and accepting lot. Such was not always the case with imbibers of powders and pills. They tended to be while under the influence, as friends and I put it, Skooky.
One time I was selling hits of what was purported to be THC - the active mind altering substance in Marijuana - and which was in all likelihood some form of animal tranquilizer. I was at a concert at a civic center and I'd taken a hit myself and was, as I can best describe the high, like an alzheimer victim lost in a penny arcade going full bore. I was dressed in a yellow T shirt with a shiny silver and black image of Groucho Marx and about an hour after I'd sold off all the dope two guys confronted me and my companions. One of the guys could barely stand up. The other pointed at Groucho and said blah blah blah. It took several moments in my addled state to understand what the guy was saying. It turned out he was claiming he hadn't gotten off, that the dope I'd sold him was no good. It must have taken a full minute before this sank in. Then it hit me. There was no fucking way he couldn't have been high if he'd swallowed the hit. I told him he was full of shit. He wouldn't let it go. Finally one of my unarmed companions had to threatened to stab the guy before he gave up and skulked away leaving us alone. Lesson learned: Don't dress so conspicuously when dealing dope.
A few years later I was introduced to cocaine at $90.00 a gram and $50.00 a half-gram. After several snorts I was scheming to get it for free. The solution? Become a dealer. I bought an ounce and with a half-ass scale I was in business. The price for the ounce was such that I wound up with four free grams of coke for my troubles. I never stepped on it. That is I did not dilute or add to the cocaine's weight with such substances as powdered milk, laxatives, or procaine. I sold the coke as is. And most of my customers came back for repeat business. There was however moments of buyer's remorse after all was snorted and pockets were poor, and there was at times hemming and hawing over whether or not the gram looked at full weight. But for the most part everyone was satisfied. I did get one late night frantic call from someone wanting to know what I'd cut the coke with. Turned out he and another guy had injected the coke and had painful complications. But that was just a one time thing.
My customers were almost to a one weekend recreational snorters. We'd lay out lines together and chatter away, smoking and drinking, before laying out another line. It was all so fine and dandy, cash and carry. But then I made the lazy mistake of fronting Timmy C. four grams over the course of a few nights with his solemn promises to pay me in full on the upcoming weekend. Timmy however was on a cocaine and alcohol fueled bender, I would later learn, shirking off work and all responsibilities and before he knew it he'd lost his job and had no means or money to pay me back. I began dogging him. And at one point in a bar room confrontation I jammed a child's toy gun in his neck and said, bam bam. I wanted my money.
Some weeks later there was a graduation party along a seldom used paved road. Friends and I had just smoked a joint rolled with the album-jacket sized rolling paper that was included in the latest Cheech and Chong record, Big Bamboo. We were blitzed and stumbling about. Out of nowhere Timmy C. was in front of me. He said he was sick of me bugging him. It didn't make any sense. He owed me money. He was the bad guy here. He punched me in the face. I shook it off. He punched me in the mouth. I cleared my head and took a swing at him. I'd never in my life swung a punch at anyone. Billy B. Stepped in between us saying I was too big to fight Timmy, that it wasn't a fair fight. Then he punched me in the face. That's when I got Billy B. in a headlock that would end with a bottle breaking over my head.
Man after that was I holding a grudge against Timmy C. I swore I'd get even. But a short time later with out resolution my brother and two friends I headed west in a van. The following week in a call home my sister told us the latest. Timmy C. had gone on to rip-off Billy B. who responded by beating Timmy C. so bad he later woke up with one side of his body paralyzed. With thoughts of divine retribution I let go of my obsession of getting even with Timmy C. He would it turned out walk for the rest of his life with a noticeable limp. As for me I gave up dealing drugs from the bottle day forward. It wasn't worth the hassle. And in the end I made it through that time period relatively unscathed and with all debts forgiven. I no longer imbibe mind altering substances. Life as it is is mind altering enough.
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