Memoirs of a Suburban Drug Dealer, Part 4

By about my third or fourth trip down to Canberra selling acid, I was getting a bit jittery. This was no doubt caused by a combination of realistic fear of getting nabbed or worse, and the fact that I had been taking quite a few trips myself, on top of my regular consumption of pot.

One weekend I again made the trip down the Hume and after briefly meeting my parents, made the familiar trek down to the Uni Bar with a hundred trips and an ounce of pot rolled up into $20 ‘sticks’ in my jacket pockets. I parked my old Hunter Hillman and sauntered into the bar, meeting up with my old pals and settling into the first of many plastic schooners of beer.

A few beers and a couple of joints later, having sold about twenty trips to mostly my friends, I agreed to give a friend a lift somewhere, so we went out to the back car park to get my car. Finding the car proved more difficult than even a drunk and stoned person could find reasonable and after wandering around for a quarter of an hour, I had to accept that the stupid car was stolen and return to the bar in defeat.

Later I was sitting at a table with some mates, waiting for the trip I’d taken to start having effect and reminiscing about the Hillman’s many lovable idiosyncrasies, like how you had to turn the key in the ignition, then open the bonnet and press a little rubbery button somewhere inside to start it, when up to the table came a party of friends, babbling incoherently about their hilarious experience.

It seemed they had sent one of them off to score some pot in another’s car, which he had done successfully, only to work out on his return, how I don’t quite remember, that he had in fact driven off in another similar car parked somewhere nearby. Ha ha ha ha fucking HA! My car was, by this time, sitting safely in the same spot I’d parked it in before and I was soon able to see the humour in the situation, plus I’d learned the valuable lesson that the key of a Hunter Hillman will open and drive any other Hillman. Perhaps having to start the car in the aforementioned manner was what tipped them off?

Soon after this I was approached by a stranger who’d heard I was selling trips and wanted to arrange a purchase. He was a little paranoid, however, and requested that we do the sale outside, besides which his money was in his car in a not-too-distant car park. I was also a little paranoid so I made a few enquiries and it turned out one of my good and trusted friends had gone to school with him and vouchsafed his trustworthiness. Never-the-less I asked my friend to accompany us. He agreed and we set off through the trees to the apparently somewhat more distant than at first described car park.

Just as I was beginning to smell a rat, I was hit from behind by an accomplice of the ‘buyer’, who knocked me flat and proceeded to try and wrestle off my jacket. I fought back grimly and, strangely, found myself to be almost the match of this desperate dude. At one point I had my fingers poised on his eyelids, and was yelling that I’d gouge his eyes out if he didn’t stop, but it was a toothless threat because I couldn’t stomach the idea of doing any such thing, so the fight continued without any major damage being done to either of us.

At another point I caught a glimpse of my pal who was keeping the other guy at bay, jousting in a jujitsu sort of way with him in what must have been a rather uncomfortable situation to find himself in with a former school buddy. Finally I think I just got sick of the stalemate that was developing, me unable to decisively end the fight and my assailant seeming to have no intention of giving up. Bear in mind I had taken a trip some 40 minutes or so beforehand, which can sometimes make such things as a fight over drugs and money seem pretty trivial.

He finally got my jacket off and we watched the two of them move off to a safe distance and rifle through the pockets before dropping it and running off. The coat held the majority of a 100 trip card and a bag containing about 15 foils, all up about $1000 worth of drugs, plus about $400 in cash. There was also a few small piles of the assorted detritus that inevitably infests my jacket pockets, bus tickets, scraps of paper with names and numbers scrawled on, movie ticket stubs and so on.

When my attackers had moved off, we retrieved the jacket and headed back to the bar, the enormity of losing my stash and drugs starting to dawn on my fizzing brain. I put the jacket back on and was surprised to find that the bag of sticks was still safely in the pocket. I checked further and found, unbelievably, that the cash was there too! A further check revealed, oh my God, this was too too funny, the trips were also still safe in their pocket”

My attackers, clearly in a bit too much of a rush and too excited by their successful caper, had run off with an entirely useless pile of crap. I say again, HA ha ha ha fuckin HA! Sucks to you, you stupid freaking junkies. You went to all that trouble, at risk of life and limb, and made off with a pile of useless scraps of paper! Laughing hysterically, with relief flooding every vein and artery, we made our way back into the bar, rejoining our other friends to toast my good luck, and continued on, in my terribly cute little Hillman (still safely parked where I’d left it), into the night and a party at a friend’s house somewhere in the Inner North.

Count those words above readers and you’ll find they add up to 1017. Whether they be good words or bad, they fulfil my quota for another instalment and so, in the immortal words of Peter Cundall, ‘that’s your bleedin’ lot’.

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