Drug Dealers Were Criminals.
Growing up in my Brady-esque household, I never dreamed I’d meet an actual drug dealer. In spite of my own illicit drug use, I mentally categorized drug dealers with rapists and murderers.
It never occurred to me to wonder where the cocaine came from. I never even wondered where the marijuana came from, back in high school when it was everywhere. Drugs were just there – a fun thing to do along with drinking – and I just did them.
But buying drugs was illegal. Drug dealers were criminals. And purchasing illegal drugs was as wrong to me as stealing a car or breaking into someone’s house. Even as my insanity with addiction spiraled, I still believed I knew right from wrong.
So when Larry told me I should smoke pot, and headed out the next day to buy some for our weekend, I tried to stop him.
“You said you’d never buy drugs,” I said. “You said you would never be like that junkie roommate who sold all of his guitars.”
“I’m not gonna be a fuckin’ junkie for buying fuckin’ pot,” Larry spat.
So Larry found a guy who knew a guy who knew Jimmy, who sold pot. And every week, Larry would stop at a tiny bar in Braddock, not far from where Larry worked, to meet Jimmy and buy a “dime bag” – which did not look like a dime at all. It looked like flattened hay and mowed grass.
Larry would roll it up in rolling papers – which he also had to buy – then he would spit all over it, which was disgusting, so that it stuck together and we had a joint ready for after the bar closed.
Then, when I was plenty drunk and wanted to keep partying, Larry lit the end of this fat cigarette and inhaled, holding his breath so that no smoke escaped until he started to cough. This was apparently how it was done.
Then Larry handed it to me, so I could do the same saying, “It’ll take the edge off.”
And wouldn’t ya know: after six years with no marijuana in my system, suddenly I found it to be a fine thing. Especially after the bars closed, the beer ran out, and the cocaine was gone.
Pot did exactly what Larry had anticipated: it gave me something to do besides fight. I would be high long enough to leave Larry alone. Instead of screaming and throwing stuff, I drew pictures and played guitar.
Our drug dealer, Jimmy, was a short, bearded man who – sometimes if I was lucky – arrived late to the bar, so I got beer while we waited. Jimmy showed up without fail every Friday, and sometimes we had to get a little extra a few days later too, to “take the edge off” after a particularly long weekend.
But one Friday, Jimmy didn’t show up. So Larry called a guy who called another guy and called Larry back.
“Where the fuck is Jimmy?” I asked.
“He’s in prison,” Larry said. He shrugged. “Guess we’ll find someone else.”
We never once considered Jimmy’s well being.
While we were finding someone else, we got everything we needed from Ronnie.
I had crossed another invisible line.
I subtly changed from getting as wasted as possible to experimenting with drug cocktails to “make me” consistently happy.
For some reason, I never found the perfect solution.