Memoirs of a Suburban Drug Dealer, Part 5

Loadedog must have had some money woes, but they seem to be over cause another cash instalment arrived in the mail, so to speak, so here’s the next chapter. With the money came a request for me to describe what it’s like being a dealer these days so here we go.

I guess some people would be imagining a filthy house, cats eating the leftovers on the table, and squalling unattended brats in shit-filled nappies eating the cats leftovers on the floor. Or maybe that’s just me, because I’ve been to a few houses like that and it ain’t pretty, unless you’re really into that urban realism crap.

The problem with most low-rent dealers like that is that they can’t keep their shit together. They’re either getting ripped off because their clientele is too large and full of fuckwits, or they’re getting busted for similar reasons, or overdosing, or attracting attention with domestics or whatever. And they smoke too much of their own shit. And talk too much. And have terrible taste in clothes, furniture and women. Unless they are women in which case the reverse applies, but worse.

I’m not trying to turn this into a manual, but really, running a small to medium marijuana distributorship is not rocket science. There’s supposedly a war on drugs going on, but from my point of view, drug enforcement is a fantasy, cooked up by crooked cops to keep the price up. Yeah, so, thanks cops, for keeping me in fish fingers.

So, you know, what dumb bastard gets themselves caught? And you’ve got to get a handle on how much pot you smoke. I’ve seen dealers chain-smoking joints. Stupid pot heads. As opposed to smart pot heads.

I run my business from home, if you were wondering. I sit here all day doing the stuff I do with the rest of my life, and occasionally someone will ring me up and ask if they can come over. Maybe three times a day, or none, five or six on the busiest. And depending on who they are and how busy I am and they are, we might have a cup of tea, or a beer, smoke some cigarettes etc. or not, just do the business.

I use a set of scales, weighing out amounts from a gram for $20 (discouraged) up to an ounce (28 grams) for $320. A pound of marijuana (16 ounces) costs around $4000, so do your sums and you’ll see I don’t make a substantial profit, probably less of a margin than most shops around town, particularly as pot loses weight over time and can crumble into useless chaff (I still smoke it, just can’t sell it) if kept too long.

My small clientele, around 20 or so, appreciate the consistency of my product, the reasonableness of the cost, and the continuity of supply. I think on the whole they enjoy a little chat and not feeling like they’ve stepped into a Mike Leigh film.

Most of them are friends, or friends of friends who might be becoming friends. Then there are the plain old customers, always introduced by friends, and always to remain customers, usually because of some fundamental flaw in their personality being incompatible with one of mine. With them it’s just business, polite and friendly enough, but business.

All my clients are adults, early twenties and up, with some being in their fifties. Some are working people, public servants (of course, this is Canberra), tradesmen, some are artists or musicians, some are unemployed and some are single mums. I’ve sold pot to bikers (when they ran out?), teachers and PhD students.

I rarely share my pot with customers. This is part of the training that you have to do with customers if you’re not going to go out backwards. There’s no special deals and if they want to have a smoke before they go, they can smoke some of the stuff they just bought off me. Start feeding people free drugs and you’ll never get rid of them, your girlfriend will get the shits and you’ll wake up in the morning with your stash depleted and nothing to show for it.

Then there’s credit. I do credit because, like any retail business, I want to make sales, and while at times customers can stretch the friendship thin, in the end everyone pays up because they want to come back.

On the other side, obtaining my supplies, I was lucky enough to meet a guy who knew a guy who seems to know a lot of guys. After some preliminary discussions, poolside, at some house in the bogandocks, we agreed on a price and exchanged numbers. Now when I’m nearly running out, I call him and he magically appears, some hours or days later, with a little package, varying in size (though not weight), but generally around the size of your average footy. A nice clean transaction, check the weight, count the cash, and off he goes.

So, that’s pretty much it. It’s not all that exciting, but if you’ve read some of my earlier exploits, maybe you’d understand why I’ve learned to keep it nice and boring. No rip-offs. No getting busted. No constant stream of fucktards. No crazy girlfriends, no bad furniture and no shit-filled-nappy-wearing squalling brats.

Admittedly I could make a lot more money than I do, but as I think I mentioned in an earlier piece, I really only deal so I don’t have to pay for my own pot. If I make a small profit and can pay for my ciggies with it as well, then all good I guess, but somehow I think the karma gets a bit murky if you try to make a living from trading illegal substances. Besides, now I’m a ‘professional’ writer, I’d much rather make money tapping out crap like this than selling pot, believe me.

Word tells me that before this sentence there were 982 words, so with this sentence I fulfil my quota.

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