Memoirs of a Suburban Drug Dealer, Part 2

Loadedog finally came through with the second payment, so here’s my next thousand words”

As you may recall, I left Canberra for Sydney at the age of nineteen. Almost immediately I hooked up with a dealer I knew from Canberra who had moved up some time before. He was a crazy Indian guy, possibly the most annoying dealer I ever had. He always wanted me to hang around when I went to buy, then he would assault me with his twisted logic. His pet hate was fags, something that always made me wonder about his own persuasion, though he’d left a wife and two kids in Canberra.

I tolerated this just because you have to. Besides being really annoying, he was a good dealer, with a constant supply of good hash, and I considered it a wise move to just bide my time, let him have his rant, and then get out of there as soon as I judged he wouldn’t find it rude.

His other annoying habit was trying to horn in on my social scene. I had got to know a crazy bunch of about seven girls, all 18 and 19 years old, who shared a small two-bedroom terrace down in Marrickville. One night he wheedled himself into coming along on a visit. After a long night of drinking I ended up leaving him there, asleep in a beanbag, only to hear later that in the middle of the night he had crawled into bed with a couple of the girls, stark naked, and startled fondling them while they were asleep.

I used to buy just a quarter ounce at a time sometimes, up to about an ounce (28 grams), at about $10 a gram, and sell it over the next week or two in $20 grams at the pub in Newtown where I had established a residency, so to speak. The pub was a great venue. There was music on every night, and it was situated right next door to the Social Security office, which was handy to say the least. I mostly spent my time watching and engaging in the titanic pool wars waged between the Croats and the teenage masseuses (who lived, but didn’t work, upstairs). There I discretely let it be known that I could provide certain goods and made a reasonably steady trade.

What did that mean in a financial sense? I really have no idea, being that every dollar I made was simply spent on beer and cigarettes and the next quarter ounce. I doubt that my profit would have exceeded my own consumption of the hash, including that which I gave away.

It was a very social business, and it was most often conducted in an atmosphere of mutual respect, businesslike but friendly, you might say. It involved many little trips around to fellow regular’s houses to smoke a bit of hash and drink some red wine and conduct some business in private. They were all mid-eighties urban-hippy pot-heads I suppose and they obeyed certain conventions of polite behaviour.

There were the times when people strayed from those conventions, however, and there were times when I was the victim of unscrupulous behaviour. In every case my own stupidity was the greatest factor. It’s embarrassing to relate it, but I have been the mug numerous times in my little career.

One disagreeable experience involved a deal with a stranger I met in the pub. I had severed connections with my Indian friend and was on the lookout for a new source of supply. In comes this fellow talking about some wicked pot he had. I invested a bit of money and straight away began peddling my wares.

A couple of teenagers approached me some time later, inquiring about a purchase. They wanted to inspect the goods and felt safer doing it outside. Squatting on the pavement. I showed them an ounce bag. As soon as he got the bag in his hands, one of the boys whacked me in the forehead, sending me over backwards, and the two of them bolted down the street.

I took off after them, enraged at their dirty trick, and when they split up, I followed the one who had the pot. He turned off the main drag and made his way to the schoolyard nearby. Peering into the darkness along a path at the edge of the school oval, I could see that he had slowed to a walk, apparently in the belief that he’d given me the shake. I swooped up behind him and tackled him to the ground.

He was just a skinny kid and he was terrified. Of me! I felt like a skinny terrified kid myself, but I was also hurt and angry. He had the ounce, in its flimsy plastic bag, held tightly in one soft hand. He was apologising profusely and begging me not to hurt him. I was merely intent on removing the bag from his grasp,” but despite his pleadings and apologies, he refused to let go, perhaps too shocked to realise what he was doing.

It was pitch black. I couldn’t see what I was doing, but I could feel, with a sense of dread, that as I pried his fingers one-by-one from the bag, the bag was tearing and the pot was being liberally scattered on the grass beneath us. This was making me steadily angrier, feeling my investment fluttering through my fingers, and this kid too dumb to just let go, staring at me in the darkness like a trapped rabbit.

Eventually he let go of the remaining scraps. Pocketing the bag, I made him go through his bag and pockets and took all his cash (about five bucks) and cigarettes before leaving him there in the dark.

The irony of the whole thing was, when I later smoked a bit of the pot that was left, it proved to be entirely worthless. I had been sold, without testing, without even looking at it closely, a bag of something other than good pot, something that might have been very old dry leaf, or perhaps even grass of the lawn variety. Admittedly I had not really smoked pot for years, but it is still embarrassing to remember being such a fool.

Shortly thereafter I started dealing LSD, and had some interesting experiences with that, but they will have to wait for another chapter (and another cheque in the bank) because I’ve reached (exceeded even) my 1000 words.

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