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KLON WALDRIP
arts & culture
420 feature
How Not to Score Weed
ANONYMOUS TALES FROM THE TRENCHES
Compiled by Kat Khoury and Maria Lewczyk
Fries With That?
I used to buy from this dude who would meet you some
place and make the deal real fast—quick high five, little
dap, etc. He wasn’t a businessman by any means, didn’t
always have a bag (70 percent of the time I was walking
away with a handful of weed), and he certainly ran on weed
dealer time.
One day I hit him up and he tells me he’ll be at
McDonald’s all day—he makes sure to specify he’ll be there
all day. I tell him I’ll be there in a few hours, figuring he’s
working and can pop out real fast to make the deal.
I get to McDonald’s and call him:
“I’m here, dude.”
“Yeah, I’m in the side parking lot, white Civic.”
At this point I figure he’s taking his smoke break and
needed to run to his car to get it. I find this man in a wife-
beater, boxer shorts popping out the top of his pants,
perma-leaned all the way back in the driver’s seat of this
dirty-sink-white Honda Civic with too-dark-to-be-legal
tint—slingin’ dime sacks from 8-5 at McDonald’s. He had
spent the day trappin’ out the drive-thru.
Luckily, a mere days before taking the close to $300
I had in orders, I found out that these pills were not the
THC that I hoped they were. My sister, with tears in her
eyes, informed me that the euphoria I felt and ability to
stay up all night were effects of none other than ecstasy.
I immediately canceled all of the orders I had and
thanked my lucky stars that I didn’t become the most
infamous accidental designer drug trafficker in my high
school’s history.
Weedgate
A Dab’ll Do Ya
Once, my weed guy was super
into dabs. I’d go over and he’d
set them up, the same way that
you offer a guest water. And I
wanted to be cool. But I’d be
stuck at his house for over an
hour, because I’d immediately
be too stoned.
Pills and Thrills
I was introduced to a supplier of
THC pills at the age of 15.1 was an
avid stoner at the time and found the
idea of being able to ingest my high as attractive
as smoking, because I would be able to get high at school.
My sister’s boyfriend was living with this lady at the
time, so I decided to spend a Saturday night there trying
her product out with the supplier, my sister and my sister’s
boyfriend. About an hour after taking the pill, I began to
feel good. Like, really, really good. I’m talking, “I’ve never
felt this good in my life, what kind of weed pill could this
possibly be?” kind of good.
The next day, I proceeded to take down orders from an
ungodly number of other 15-year-olds for a shipment of
what I promised to be “the best shiznit you’ve ever had.” My
tiny private Catholic high school was about to be the single
stoned-est student body in Los Angeles County.
I was 16, and it was the first time I ever smoked weed.
I was at a friend’s birthday gathering where we were all
thrown in a pool to clean off the pistachio pudding we had
drenched each other in and had to change into a friend’s
boxers and sleep shirts.
My friends took me into a bedroom, turned on 97.1 The
River, where “Take on Me” was playing, and lit a bowl. I had
my friend light it for me because it was amateur hour some
where. We soon depleted our resources, so a weed
run had to be made, but first, we had to call
the guy. No one wanted to speak to him,
so they gave the phone to me.
He lived in one of the more
bougie neighborhoods with a gate
code he had previously provided
us. The driver refused to put in
the gate code, so I had to get out
of the car and do it myself while
I was wearing a giant T-shirt
and boxers. I tried the code a
number of times to no avail. It
took way longer than it should
have, and I held up close to
10 cars that spilled out onto the
main road, one of which belonged to my
DAVID MACK math teacher (who later called me out on this).
Embarrassed, I had to call the dealer again explaining
what was happening, and he said he could see it from his
window.
We finally got in, got to his house,
got the weed stuffed within the
pages of The Perks of Being a
Wallflower and left. It was only a
gram. I never went back to him.
a plate. And he wrapped my dub in a McDonald’s receipt. It
ruined my cover, because mom knows that I don’t eat Big
Macs.
Sack of Grime
Wanna Hang?
I got stuck watching the drug
dealer’s wedding videos that he had
filmed for a couple while he kept say
ing how “dope” they were. Don’t buy
from a talkative or social drug
dealer.
Don’t Chance It
I once knew a guy who tried to buy an ounce of pot from
this redneck dude in Newnan. After giving him the money,
and after 24 hours had passed, the drug boy openly admit
ted that he had ripped my friend off. My friend decided to
tell him that he would come to his house with a few guys
and convince him to return the money, and the dealer was
like, “Bring it on, motherfucker, I’ll be here waiting to sic
my dogs on you, and you can taste the barrel of my shot
gun.” Honestly, I think the dude was bluffing, but nothing
happened after that.
No McD’s for Me
My dealer once met us at a dollar-store parking lot. We
got in his car. There was pizza on the floor. Like a slice, on
In the first half of 2015,1 lived in a run-down rental
house and managed to sell enough weed to pay for my rent
and still have a significant amount of leftover profit every
month. A large factor in my ability to pull it off was my ludi
crously cheap rent and absence of a lease. I lived with three
other young guys, all also in their early 20s.
On the day of one of my roommates’ birthday, we got
pretty drunk by 2 p.m., and while sitting outside drinking
on the porch, we heard some distant gunshots, but thought
nothing of it because it wasn’t all that uncommon in our
neighborhood. We went inside and continued drinking
until sundown. Shortly thereafter, I decided to clean my
room, and in the process, I temporarily moved all of the
illegal things in my possession to the living room. As I sat
on the couch sorting all this stuff to move it back, the living
room was quickly bathed in a wash of blue light, and there
was a loud, I’m-a-cop knock at the door.
In my drunken, stoned and now terrified stupor, I threw
a felonious amount of weed with various scales and
paraphernalia into a backpack and
retreated to the back door with
one roommate as another stepped
out to speak with the police. We
slipped out the back door and
around the corner, and just as
we snuck past the side of our
house one officer came around
shining his flashlight at us.
He asked us if we lived at the
house, and my roommate said yes. This
officer then turned to another who was
just getting out of a CSI van, spoke qui
etly and turned his light back to my friend and
me with our backpacks and young faces. He saw two
bewildered college students, despite the fact that neither of
us were actually in college. He told us to have a safe night,
and we hastily darted down the street.
Along the way, my sack of crime still on my back, we saw
nine squad cars parked in driveways. The police, interrogat
ing a number of my mostly elderly, mostly black neighbors,
would occasionally shine their lights at us or remind us to
get home safely. We eventually reached another friend’s
house a few streets down, and I spent the night.
In the morning I learned that the police had been look
ing for and eventually found a man who was firing what
turned out to be a stolen gun, and were in no way after my
small-time weed venture. That day was as much of a lesson
in what not to do when the police show up as a rather dis
gusting exercise in white privilege. O
10 FLAGP0LE.COM-APRIL 20, 2016