Memoirs of a Suburban Drug Dealer, Part 3

For a while I couldn’t find anyone to supply me with hash or pot to sell, and in my personal life things weren’t going so good, so I was pretty much open to anything that came along. The household I was living with down by the railway track in Enmore fell apart a bit, and I lost this job I had in an office packing financial reports into boxes.

I never was very good at that job. I guess my lifestyle was pretty unconducive to regular employment, and though I made it to work most days, I rarely felt happy about being there and toeing the stupid corporate line. I can’t really remember why I got fired, but the final straw probably was when I was working the night shift one night.

At home, a couple of hours before going to work at midnight, there was a little party going on. The two girls I lived with were young North Shore types, both going off the rails a little in their separate ways, with generous alcohol consumption and rohypnol abuse forming the major part.

One of them had this boyfriend who was as dirty and nasty as a dollar porn magazine, and he was there, shooting up speed and bragging about his various crimes and abominations. At one point he asked me if I wanted to buy a gun. I pretended to be cool, though I said I wasn’t interested, but honestly this guy scared the shit out of me.

I was feeling a bit tired so, later on, just for something to say, I complained about having to go to work. He offered me some speed. I hadn’t had speed before, unless you count those prescription cold tablets I used to take to stay up late doing homework, so I was curious, but I must admit I had to overcome a bit of fear about what I was getting myself into when I accepted his offer.

Strangely, the thing I really should have been afraid of never entered my mind. He did all the works, and prepared to shoot me up using the same needle he and all the girls had been using. Bear in mind this was 1987, admittedly one year before the Grim Reaper ads in Australia, but when I think about sharing that needle these days, a cold chill goes through me.

In fact, I think I was pretty lucky just to survive that night. The guy, whether knowingly or not, gave me a huge shot of speed, a good shot for a regular user, but way too much for a newbie like me. I managed to make it to work, but soon after arriving I started to feel real bad. I was shaky and sweating, clammy and jittery, my heart was doing drum and bass in my chest and my eyes were jumping around like Tattslotto balls in their sockets.

Eventually, after running through the computer room to unleash a torrent of vile spew into the toilet, my co-worker took pity and sent me home. Soon after I was fired.

Here’s a couple of diary excerpts from just after that episode:

9th Feb, 1987

Well things have moved along at quite a considerable pace. I’ve moved out of that house in Enmore. Just found myself an abode after a full week of relative homelessness, been mugged, ripped off, given up excessive drinking and smoking of dope, strongly contemplated giving up tobacco, gleefully contemplated giving up various friendships, taken a trip and rediscovered serious paranoia, then regained my confidence again. I’ve made a strong resolution to save money and live a quiet life.

7th Mar, 1987

A month later and I guess I’ve turned almost a full circle. The month was started with reclusiveness and has turned into a social revival. People have been very friendly lately, don’t know why? The unfortunate result of this is a return to a similar level of drug and alcohol consumption as was had at Enmore.

I lived in various places during that time, even renting a room upstairs in the Sandringham Hotel for a while, and that period is probably worthy of a story in its own right, but, being unemployed and dirt poor, I ended up having to find more, shall we say, creative means of providing accommodation.

Luckily I came across a crowd of people who had begun squatting in a building nearby. After a period of courtship, they allowed me to have a room and I put all my belongings in a shopping trolley and moved in. It was there that I met a guy who had access to bulk amounts of acid. Not only that, he was willing to give me some on credit, which was lucky because I had no stash.

He would give me a hundred trips which, if you don’t know, amounted to a little bit of cardboard about the size of a business card. This would cost me $600. The going rate was $10 a trip on the street, so if I sold them quickly, and didn’t take too many myself, I could make a reasonable income, given that I got a little over $100 a fortnight from the dole at the time.

Throughout that period, I used to regularly come home to Canberra, and it was a natural step to take the trips with me and sell them to my friends while there. I should point out that these were not the sort of crappy trips that are sold as acid these days around town. I can’t say with any certainty that what they contained was 100% real LSD, but taking one of these things resulted in a solid 12 hours of hallucinations, hilarity, revelations and, sometimes, deep and ugly fear. They were well worth the money and when I turned up at the Uni Bar, the word would spread around the crowd like oil spilled on water and the trade was brisk and often hectic.

That’s my 1000 words. See you next time.

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