Three Generations Deep In The Dope Game
(Fiction not conviction. This story is um, not based on any person, living or dead. Any similarities are completely
coincidental.)
My father was a natural hustler. It was in his blood. Growing up, it was a pleasure to watch him work. I never saw him take a loss on anything. He worked everybody; strong-arming fast food restaurants out of free meals, high drug finance, even arson-for-hire. It was embarrassing at times, but he was the kind of guy you were glad to have arguing on your behalf when necessary. He was also what the BATFE dubbed a “kitchen table” dealer,
selling machine guns out of our house. I remember him sipping scotch, playing chess, and reloading his own ammunition as he met with guests. Pops also fiercely battled bad drug addiction his whole life. Watching him struggle with his demons kept me clear of many pitfalls.
Like his father before him (and me after him,) he dismissed man-made laws as irrelevant. “If you don’t get caught, they don’t apply.” My father grew up in northeast Ohio . He began selling marijuana for my grandmother when he was in elementary school. He was regularly sent off to school with $5 and $10 bags of marijuana to sell to classmates. He reminisced about being good at it. He also used to tell the story about the one time he did get caught. His mother came to pick him up. When she arrived at school, he was released to her. When they got home, she beat him badly and locked him in a closet for several days. He was punished not for selling pot, but for losing his front. It was a hard lesson to be learned that early in life; DON’T COME SHORT.
When his heroin-dealing biological father was sent to prison for a string of bank robberies, his mother married a local police officer who was on the take. (Since then, she has tried unsuccessfully to sue the U.S. Attorney General’s Office, even naming Janet Reno in the lawsuit. The case was later dismissed. She has also stolen half a million dollars and a luxury car from a German businessman, and been linked to several suspicious deaths. My grandmother then used the media to expose the mother of a young kidnap/murder victim as a crack addict; who had pimped out her own daughter. The victim originally made national news when she was caught on tape being led away from a local business. She was later found sexually assaulted and murdered. Evidence suggested that the crime was retailiation for an unpaid drug debt; although it was suppressed until after the suspect was convicted.
Granny’s other son, my uncle, was later stabbed in the heart inside the mother’s crack-den home.) My father continued the drug use and sales. This practice carried over into his teen years. By the mid 1970′s, he was the guy to know. School ended without him actually finishing, and he married a classmate; my mother. He continued what he was doing with great success, for some time. As they began having children, they decided to move out of the slums of south Akron. Lake Street was no place to raise a child. They found a family-friendly neighborhood on Akron ’s east side; Goodyear Heights. This is where they would settle.
By the late 1980′s, my father was the American success story. He had an adoring wife, three young children, a home, and two cars. He even had a VCR and a camcorder; which was HUGE at that time. Pops never let his lack of a high school diploma slow him down. He worked regular jobs to pay the bills, and hustling bought everything else. We were still poor; living in AMHA housing, yet I wore nice shoes in gym class. We ate meals bought with
food stamps, but I got Reebok Pumps when they first hit the market. I saw my father bullshit his way into so many legit jobs (that he was dangerously underqualified for,) it would terrify the public. Those jobs always came and
went, and he always left them with a bang. He wouldn’t just quit or get fired though; employment was always dissolved with a lingering lawsuit, debt, or mortal enemy.
My father eventually smooth talked his way into an executive position at a large Ohio car-rental company. It was then that he put marijuana on the shelf for the most part, and began using cocaine with coworkers. It started out as staying late after work for drinks. It seemed like he had always done that anyways, so it didn’t bother me any. Christmas was always an event; so many gifts they couldn’t fit under the tree. My father would laugh about the holiday bribes he always got; expensive cheese and wine baskets containing cash-filled envelopes.
The job ended abruptly one night, when he “borrowed” a rental car from work. He got a half an ounce of powder and went joyriding in Cleveland . He made an eerie premonition during a phone call to my mother; almost as if he knew how the night would end. My father took a lethal dose of cocaine, blacked out, and crashed the car into a cement bridge pillar at a high rate of speed. He mystified paramedics when he walked away without a scratch; having consumed enough blow to kill a horse. The car was totaled, and my father was right back to unemployment and drug sales. My parents fought constantly after that. They never got physical; just a lot of public arguing. I began hearing the name “John” more and more frequently.
One night, my mother took me with her to a sports bar in Cleveland . On the way, she explained that she was going to confront my father, and his connect. I was probably 8 or 9 at the time, and I really didn’t know what to expect. When we arrived, the bar was packed. I met John. He was an average 80′s party guy. He had dark hair and a mustache. He sort of looked like ABC’s John Stossil…back then. I instantly realized that everyone in the bar
liked him. He was sending rounds of shots to the whole place. He ordered me a Diet Coke and some chips. Then, I noticed the thick roll of cash stuffed in his left shirt pocked. I instantly wanted to be like him. His jewelry, the love
people showed him; I wanted that. As a young boy in the 80′s, I never really understood how my family always got by, despite dad being out of work a lot.
Now I know why…and years later, I have BECOME why.
I believe in free will; but I am certain that these events, filling my formative years, dictated my current path. How can a person swear off a life of crime and drugs, when it seems to be the family business? I viewed angry dealers showing up at our home as normal. Perhaps to outsiders, it was unusual. It’s all I saw growing up. It was just something else that happened; another part of life. I remember a crack dealer named Roe showing up one morning while my dad was away. They worked at a nearby car dealership together, and Roe had apparently fronted some dope the night before. He explained to my mother (in front of us) that my father owed him money. He didn’t
want to do it, but he vowed to put a bullet in each of my father’s kneecaps if he didn’t get paid. This reinforced the lesson in my mind; DON’T COME SHORT. Ever.
After losing the love of my life after high school, I filled the void with marijuana. I decided to give up on trying to find
and please a significant other (she would probably just leave me eventually, anyways.) Instead I took random hook-ups as they came, and focused on what I saw as my patriotic duty; providing the highest quality marijuana to friends who wanted it, at a price we could both live with. It’s a gratifying feeling when everybody you know is smoking your shit. Cocaine and other hard drugs were where the REAL money was, but with them came longer potential jail sentences, grimier clientele, and higher risk for jackers. Plus, competition in that market is fierce. I didn’t know coke. Selling it means using and tasting it. I stuck to what I knew. With just a few exceptions, I steered clear of the white bitch. I had seen her take my dad’s soul over the years. He had taught me an important life lesson without even knowing it.
I’d fly below the radar serving good green to friends. The money kept my car on the road, and fresh Jordans on my feet. A legit job was always in the equation, too. It explained income and expanded my clientele. Once established, I ventured into the cocaine business on just two occasions. Both times, I put aside all personal feelings, and bought two 8-balls. Once for my father (after he hounded me for 2 weeks straight,) and one for a handful of friends seeking “the set-up” (a gram of weed and just enough powder to dirty up one blunt.) The purchase I made for my father ended up sparking a weekend binge for him. “Damn it dad, I told you…” I vowed to never get involved again.
Throughout the years, I pondered changing my ways many times. This life can be a burden. My phone rang all hours of the day and night. I could find no peace. At times, I felt as if I had 20 different employers, and I essentially did; each with their own set of quirks, requests, and habits. Quitting the drug business is much harder that getting into it. I would really like to have children one day, but what would make a woman want to have children with a man, if she thinks his door will be getting kicked in by a SWAT team at some point?
I made numerous attempts to stop selling, but with no success. Requests always kept coming. I faced the prospect of disappointing everyone who called me, I still didn’t have a woman in my life, and my extra pocket money had dried up. What else could I do but re-up and do it all over again? My eyes show sadness now; having witnessed a wasted lifetime of violence, drugs, and betrayal. I wanted more out of life, but I was never really taught how to get it. Instead, all I learned how to not get caught doing things I shouldn’t be. Friends from my childhood have kids now; as well as mortgages and college degrees. Sadly, my life is far simpler:
Don’t get pulled over between Point A and Point B, and I can go spend my reward at Point C.
In 2005, my legitimate job was managing a pharmacy. I found myself immersed in a world of drugs, junkies, violence, and fast money. I was an occasional pot smoker, but I generally kept my hands clean. However, temptation eventually triumphed. The money was just too good to continue sitting out. I shut down the pharmacy one night, clocked out, and locked up. It was time to go home (and essentially clock right back in.) I had arranged for an ounce of frosty mids to be dropped by my house after work. I had just gotten in the door when I got the phone call: my brother’s wife had gone into labor. I knew I had to get to the hospital fast. My weed man was running
way behind, and I had people waiting on it. I still had two drops to make that day. Some of these people were so hard up, they had prepaid me a week in advance (dumb-asses…good thing I’m ethical.) Eventually, I made the decision to just go.
I brokered a deal that would cost me a few extra dollars, but ensure prompt delivery to the hospital. The city was hot at the time. I acknowledged that I owed this guy big for risking the drive for me. I put my gun on, and headed out. On my way there, I rescheduled both drops for later that evening. When I arrived at the hospital, both families were already upstairs, milling around in the waiting room. Everybody else was socializing, but I was detached. Sure, I was happy about the impending birth of my nephew, but the timing was off. My mind kept working on price equations and timelines.
I was armed, had drugs on their way, and felt like everybody’s eyes were upon me. I was disappointed with myself. I kept disappearing from the room, saying I was going outside to smoke a Newport. My sister knew the play, and accompanied me on each trip, in an effort to minimize suspicion. On my third trip to the parking lot, my order finally arrived. I was glad to have it in hand, but nervous as hell about being detected with it and a 9mm. I kept it in my cargos for one trip upstairs. To this day, I still can’t believe nobody smelled it. These mids were so dank, I was able to price them at $70 a quarter. Every time I found myself in a conversation with someone, I caught a whiff of it. I cut the small talk short, and returned to the car. I buried the stinky onion and the burner under some clothes in the trunk. It was baby time.
After the main event, I agreed to leave my car for my sister to take home. I called my boy Q, and asked him to bring out the Chevy so I could make my two remaining drops. No sweat. My father offered me a ride to his house. I quickly went to my car and retrieved the things I needed. I hid the ounce under some papers in his glove box before he could make it outside. Before long, we were off. Between the hospital and the bridge, I was looking around a lot, unusually tense. Pops made small talk and listened to Johnny Cash.
As we pulled up to a toll plaza, I broke into an instant cold sweat. Cops were everywhere. I saw cars from Highway Patrol, the Sheriffs Department, two different city’s police departments, and a K-9. It was a roadblock. As if he had known what I was up to all along, my father mused, “I hope you don’t have anything with you that you don’t want to answer for.” I figured this was it; game over. My old man was a convicted felon, and had enough legally-prescribed oxycodone with him to string out an entire middle school. I had a loaded custom Glock and an ounce of green. A simple ID check of the driver would surely prompt them to check us out. I sat gazing out the window as we passed through, seemingly in slow motion.
Miraculously, the police had focused their attention on a black F-150 they had pulled over in the eastbound lanes. Our side (westbound) didn’t have a single officer. I exhaled with relief. It was as if the “Ganja Gods” wanted me to seal this deal, and had parted the blue roadblock for me to do so. Three blocks later, I was where I needed to be. I quickly weighed out, and Q and I made the two final drops. We came home that night and got blunted. Once the adrenaline rush had tapered off, the realization quickly set in; I had done it again. I literally just hustled right under law enforcement’s nose. It can’t be Divine protection…I must actually be good at this. I will do more of it.
Life was getting more interesting; and more lucrative. I found a solid supply line in a friend named PG. Then, I coordinated my middlemen and end-users. PG was one of the most interesting players in the game; my best connect ever. He put us on. He had pounds of the best hydro coming in from all over the state. High-end BC Bud, Northern Lights, Silver Haze (when it’s broken up, Silver Haze almost glows; like metallic pencil shavings.) I
quickly decided to adopt his philosophy; Smoke the best, sell the rest. But he SOLD the best, too. He typically
“settled” for good mids if someone wanted bulk without the price, but never bothered with dirt. His shit was FIRE.
Call it Miami Hurricane with a sparkle…large vibrant spring green buds, with long, elegant orange hairs. Crystals sparkled throughout it under the light. It had the scent of good dro; a chemically, leather and cologne smell. He was a role model to us. He had fresh Polos, hot women, the right car, and a grip that I wouldn’t see in a year’s time working. His young, “spoiled kid” face carried the stress lines of a middle-aged businessman (I realize now how much this profession aged him back then.) He would typically drop by my apartment after pickups. He’d roll up a few blunts for us and we’d catch up. He’d sit at the table and break up a pound as I bagged quarters and ounces. On most occasions, PG fielded about three calls during that time, from three different people. He would tell three different lies about where he was. Everything about him was the game.
One evening, he asked me to ride with him for a routine pickup. I agreed to. His ride was a limo-tinted Cadillac on 20”s. It was black with peanut butter leather. Screens in the headrests showed flossy Mike Jones videos; not exactly low profile. As we curved through side streets, I was observing every turn, curious where we’d end up. I was also silently pondering the “go-where-he-go” possibilities. We ended up suddenly turning into a Steak N Shake parking lot and backing into a space. I froze; Steak N Shake is one of the biggest cop hangouts in town. What? “And we’re here for…really?” HERE? Phone call: “Be there in 3 minutes.” There were also probably four or five Sheriff’s cruisers, marked and unmarked, parked on the lot. All were empty. It must have been their dinner time before shift change. The Solo-Barics in PG’s trunk never rested, and tonight was no different. Paying no mind to the sheriffs deputiesinside, he continued to vibrate the mirrors for several minutes.
Within that time frame quoted, the other half of the transaction had arrived. It was Main Man! He had brought out the royal-blue Yukon tonight. He backed in slowly, stopping alongside the driver’s window, smoking a blunt. His chrome 24″s reflected the Cadillac back at us. He and PG decided it was a good idea to initiate a bass competition before the exchange. I sat stunned at the lack of professionalism displayed. I mentally predicted my gun empty; laid out on the hood of the car. With it would be several large bags of marijuana and PG and I handcuffed on the curb. With both vehicles’ stereos eventually bumped up to max, all anybody could do was sit and grin at each other. Main Man muted his suddenly. When all was quiet again, disparaging comments about each other’s mothers were jokingly exchanged. Main Man then threw a bag out his window, into PG’s lap. He said, “Get me on that,” and then threw another. He grinned, hit his blunt twice for emphasis, and pulled out fast.
We headed back to my place to process over two pounds of the best weed in town. As we crept off the lot, the dining deputies were just exiting the restaurant; clearly still focused on the good meal they’d just enjoyed. Despite how I thought it should have gone, it had worked. Again, I asked myself, “Is crime really this easy?” This was probably the most flagrant drug deal in the city’s history! Even with the police literally RIGHT there, we had skated without so much as a second look. I had not smoked for very long when I met PG, and I was starting to really enjoy it. I was lucky to have such a good supplier early on, but it spoiled me. Like a dog that had been raised on steak,
I vowed to never ‘eat hamburger’ again. I locked in a good price for ounces, and set up a franchise of my own. My price scale has always been set on a variety of factors. It’s a formula:
Initial investment + time spent + rarity of product + quantity ordered + quality vs. going rate for said quality product + delivery, divided by 28= YOUR PRICE.
(I should print that up on t-shirts; I’d probably sell a million.)
Grams were $20, 1/8 went for $60, and a quarter was $100 (as much as $120 if I didn’t know you.) This shit sold itself. I even had Haitians in the neighborhood that would buy my burnt-up roaches. Unable to pay $20 for a gram, they would give me whatever dollar bills they could put together, and I would make sure they got high that day. PG and I soon found that we were good friends, working a good racket. Things got even better when I started to branch out into two worlds he had no lead on: guns and pills. Business was booming now, and PG realized that he needed protection of his own. I was there to help him find the right gun. He procured his first handgun: a new-in-box Glock 19. He got comfortable with carrying it fast, and quickly added a pistol-gripped Mossberg Persuader to his trunk. Eventually, he sold the 9mm and bought a Glock 21C.
With guns came the desire to use them. The whole crew was embracing the notion of robbing other drug dealers. Knowing how I would feel of some lowlife robbed my stash (plus the threat of a murder charge if something were to go wrong,) I decided against it. One night, PG arrived with a crew of four in an unfamiliar SUV. It was late at night, and they had showed up unannounced. They had a plan and wanted back up. They had discovered some young
punk over at the college who was pushing good weight. He was flossing, and they just had to get him. They had two guys in the bushes around his home, sharing his every move on a cell phone. When the kid finally hopped in his truck and left, they had the green light. All that was missing was a gun, just in case. PG had left his home, opting to ride clean in the borrowed truck. I told them I was sorry to flag, but that was not my style. Plus, I had just smoked a blunt; I was way too fucked up to be running around in the dark, especially on a sensitive mission like that. My roommate decided he wanted in. After acquiring my roommate and his gun, they were off. I waited.
The whole crew returned roughly 30 minutes later. In came bags, rifle cases, a Playstation 2…they had done it. It was like the Grinch had just stolen someone’s Christmas. When they knocked and got no answer, they had pried his door. They ransacked the place, even smoking the remainder of what the kid had left in his bong, while there. They saw no resistance and no trigger time. They had, however, stolen a rifle, a shotgun, video games, and a
bag containing just over 13 ounces of the most perfectly manicured buds imaginable. This was promptly weighed and split up. Just for being me, I was handed two free ounces. The next day, I sold them both to PG for $350 apiece. (My roommate also found $2000 cash when he first entered the bedroom alone. He never told PG or the others about it. It paid our house bills for a while and afforded us each a few nice things.)
But with a score like that, once is never enough. “Guys, you came out ahead…let it go.” Two months later, they caught wind of a grow house in town, and were right back in business. They used a bigger crew this time, with crazier recruits. They were successful; managing to lick 45 pounds from the house. God knows who the growers were connected with. Robbing some college kid for his stash was one thing, but somebody WILL have you killed
over that kind of weight. All of the guys involved partied away their take within a week. The robbers kept running into each other at the mall, blowing their shares. It became a big public joke.
PG also began spending a lot of his profits. Parties at the spot got more crowded. He was drinking a lot, even while eating Xanax bars and driving. Ecstasy became a biweekly event. His downfall came when he learned about cocaine. Even with the great profit margin he had with the hydro, PG wanted more. When he realized what guys were selling powder for, it became his new thing. Suddenly, the best weed in town was boring without a little coke on it. Everyone in the crew started camming out their blunts. They were called whammers, yams, or yodas. To me, the shit smelled like concrete dust burning. Some even began crushing up ecstasy pills in their blunts, rolling “Heavy Chevies.” PG knew that I had a dislike for coke, based on my father’s history with it. He was always very accommodating. When they rolled one up, he would always break me off some crip to roll a clean blunt beside it. They warned me when a blunt going around was dirty. Sometimes, I’d smoke some of my shit and sell his gram the next day.
I began to distance myself. To me, this weed was a great product. The payoff was good, I smoked when I felt like it, and it didn’t bring around the shiftless clientele the hard drugs did. I continued what I was doing, but I started aligning myself with other suppliers around town. None quite had PG’s quality, but the price was right, and it wasn’t bad. I also saved myself a world of grief by walking away. As the partying continued, PG got sloppy. He was buying and eating any pill he could get his hands on. I even sold him Viagras I had managed to get my hands on; for $10 a pop. He picked up a charge; possession of marijuana over 20 grams, and eventually a probation violation. He followed that up with another trafficking charge and minor stuff for paraphernalia. The final curtain seemed to be when he finally got his last traffic stop. PG, a friend of his, and an underage blond were pulled over for speeding in town. All three were rang up on separate charges including open container, DUI, underage drinking, possession of controlled substance without a prescription and possession of drug paraphernalia. A search of the car uncovered a digital scale, the pistol-gripped shotgun, a .45-caliber Glock, assorted pills, and surprisingly, no marijuana. During the search, deputies also found a small, empty cocaine bag (crack sack.)
To this day PG swears that it was a plant. I know the guy. I’m sure if it were his, he’d admit it; at least to us. However, it could have just been another case of drug-induced sloppiness; misplaced goods. All of his toys were confiscated. He fought it and lost, racking up major legal bills in the process. He was forced to give up his beautiful townhouse in the gated community, for a spot in a drug-filled trailer park. But PG was still not done. Not long after, he traded in the Cadillac for an Audi. He showed up at my house one evening, a few weeks later. He joked as he showed me a gym bag containing 7 pounds of dro. Not in the trunk, not on stash, just sitting on the passenger seat. It seemed to me like he wanted to get caught. I moved away, but heard rumors that they were now doing flat-out armed robberies at convenience stores locally. Crazy fuckers; goodbye and best of luck. (Note: PG, Main Man, or one of their people is still in business locally. When I got back in town, the first thing I did was pick up a sack. The product I got was PG’s shit…I’m certain. Good to know; I’ve missed the quality.)
This debate over marijuana prohibition is slowly dividing the nation into two classes: the rich and the poor. Rich people as a whole, tend to view weed as a “hood” drug. The poor are the hard-working, pot-smoking people of America who are being imprisoned for having a joint after work instead of a beer. How did we end up in this sad state? Police have the right to essentially ruin our lives on a whim, over a single weed-filled cigar. Law enforcement can and will stop you if you if your appearance isn’t up to their expectations, but somehow, it isn’t profiling. Illegal searches are routinely employed, usually called “checkpoints.” Under the guise of keeping roads drunk-free, the Bill of Rights is once again circumvented.
The Fourth Amendment, which guarantees freedom from unlawful search and seizure, was the first to go. The moment you stop and roll down the window, the officer is looking for any of a thousand tell-tale violations. Any smell, behavior, or personal items visible in the car can result in further probing. Forget about turning around to avoid the stop, too. Law enforcement typically posts waiting units to stop suspicious drivers who do an about face when they see the police. The law states that cops legally need a reason to pull you over. Checkpoints seem to be the exception. The mentality that “driving on tax-funded roads make you fair game,” is all too prevalent. Cameras now line public roads and neighborhoods, and are usually pointed at the driver’s seat. K-9 officers only have to get a police dog to bark or scratch, and you catch a drug charge. At that point, you are tainted for life; even if the charges are later dismissed. The arrest will still appear on your record. With a drug conviction on your record, you can kiss your financial aid for college goodbye; along with the ability to find a job. In this age of Internet, criminal records are easily accessible to potential employers with just a PC and a search engine. Also, you better believe the police will be conducting a follow-up shakedown a week or a month later.
As of this writing, I am 30 years old. I have never been to jail, in cuffs, or charged with any crime. I have been patted down three times over the years, mostly in my teens. In this life, I am the rare exception. Arrests are a common occupational hazard in this business. Unable to admit that its drug policy is a complete failure, America ’s government still prefers to lock up hundreds of thousands of pot smokers annually. People like me; generations deep in drug use. Attacking marijuana means waging a war of sorts, on the very fiber of our families. The issue is far more complex than just “legal or illegal.” It becomes a matter of false-propped authority attacking the people’s very character and upbringing. Marijuana is now rooted so deeply in our culture, it is impossible to eradicate. Celebrities, working people, and even some politicians use it. California calls it medicine. Our movies and music incorporate and celebrate it. Spending billions in tax dollars in efforts to curb it just doesn’t make sense.
Our economy is in shambles now, our troops are still dying in the Middle East , and there is a drug war happening on the Mexican border. Washington D.C. must realize that now is the time to re-prioritize. Legalize it. Tax it if you feel you have to. Remove the criminal element. Learn to live with marijuana (just like alcohol,) even if you don’t use
it personally. Change seems inevitable. The election of President Obama is a glimmer of hope in the marijuana arena. Hints at legalization (or at least decriminalization) have surfaced. Mr. Obama seems both level-headed and radical. He faces the daunting task of “fixing” both America ’s financial woes and crime problems. Marijuana law reform seems like a reasonable place to start on both issues. Perhaps common-sense is not dead after all. Good luck, Mr. President.
-KZ
(Fiction not conviction. This story is um, not based on any person, living or dead. Any similarities are completely
coincidental.)
My father was a natural hustler. It was in his blood. Growing up, it was a pleasure to watch him work. I never saw him take a loss on anything. He worked everybody; strong-arming fast food restaurants out of free meals, high drug finance, even arson-for-hire. It was embarrassing at times, but he was the kind of guy you were glad to have arguing on your behalf when necessary. He was also what the BATFE dubbed a “kitchen table” dealer,
selling machine guns out of our house. I remember him sipping scotch, playing chess, and reloading his own ammunition as he met with guests. Pops also fiercely battled bad drug addiction his whole life. Watching him struggle with his demons kept me clear of many pitfalls.
Like his father before him (and me after him,) he dismissed man-made laws as irrelevant. “If you don’t get caught, they don’t apply.” My father grew up in northeast Ohio . He began selling marijuana for my grandmother when he was in elementary school. He was regularly sent off to school with $5 and $10 bags of marijuana to sell to classmates. He reminisced about being good at it. He also used to tell the story about the one time he did get caught. His mother came to pick him up. When she arrived at school, he was released to her. When they got home, she beat him badly and locked him in a closet for several days. He was punished not for selling pot, but for losing his front. It was a hard lesson to be learned that early in life; DON’T COME SHORT.
When his heroin-dealing biological father was sent to prison for a string of bank robberies, his mother married a local police officer who was on the take. (Since then, she has tried unsuccessfully to sue the U.S. Attorney General’s Office, even naming Janet Reno in the lawsuit. The case was later dismissed. She has also stolen half a million dollars and a luxury car from a German businessman, and been linked to several suspicious deaths. My grandmother then used the media to expose the mother of a young kidnap/murder victim as a crack addict; who had pimped out her own daughter. The victim originally made national news when she was caught on tape being led away from a local business. She was later found sexually assaulted and murdered. Evidence suggested that the crime was retailiation for an unpaid drug debt; although it was suppressed until after the suspect was convicted.
Granny’s other son, my uncle, was later stabbed in the heart inside the mother’s crack-den home.) My father continued the drug use and sales. This practice carried over into his teen years. By the mid 1970′s, he was the guy to know. School ended without him actually finishing, and he married a classmate; my mother. He continued what he was doing with great success, for some time. As they began having children, they decided to move out of the slums of south Akron. Lake Street was no place to raise a child. They found a family-friendly neighborhood on Akron ’s east side; Goodyear Heights. This is where they would settle.
By the late 1980′s, my father was the American success story. He had an adoring wife, three young children, a home, and two cars. He even had a VCR and a camcorder; which was HUGE at that time. Pops never let his lack of a high school diploma slow him down. He worked regular jobs to pay the bills, and hustling bought everything else. We were still poor; living in AMHA housing, yet I wore nice shoes in gym class. We ate meals bought with
food stamps, but I got Reebok Pumps when they first hit the market. I saw my father bullshit his way into so many legit jobs (that he was dangerously underqualified for,) it would terrify the public. Those jobs always came and
went, and he always left them with a bang. He wouldn’t just quit or get fired though; employment was always dissolved with a lingering lawsuit, debt, or mortal enemy.
My father eventually smooth talked his way into an executive position at a large Ohio car-rental company. It was then that he put marijuana on the shelf for the most part, and began using cocaine with coworkers. It started out as staying late after work for drinks. It seemed like he had always done that anyways, so it didn’t bother me any. Christmas was always an event; so many gifts they couldn’t fit under the tree. My father would laugh about the holiday bribes he always got; expensive cheese and wine baskets containing cash-filled envelopes.
The job ended abruptly one night, when he “borrowed” a rental car from work. He got a half an ounce of powder and went joyriding in Cleveland . He made an eerie premonition during a phone call to my mother; almost as if he knew how the night would end. My father took a lethal dose of cocaine, blacked out, and crashed the car into a cement bridge pillar at a high rate of speed. He mystified paramedics when he walked away without a scratch; having consumed enough blow to kill a horse. The car was totaled, and my father was right back to unemployment and drug sales. My parents fought constantly after that. They never got physical; just a lot of public arguing. I began hearing the name “John” more and more frequently.
One night, my mother took me with her to a sports bar in Cleveland . On the way, she explained that she was going to confront my father, and his connect. I was probably 8 or 9 at the time, and I really didn’t know what to expect. When we arrived, the bar was packed. I met John. He was an average 80′s party guy. He had dark hair and a mustache. He sort of looked like ABC’s John Stossil…back then. I instantly realized that everyone in the bar
liked him. He was sending rounds of shots to the whole place. He ordered me a Diet Coke and some chips. Then, I noticed the thick roll of cash stuffed in his left shirt pocked. I instantly wanted to be like him. His jewelry, the love
people showed him; I wanted that. As a young boy in the 80′s, I never really understood how my family always got by, despite dad being out of work a lot.
Now I know why…and years later, I have BECOME why.
I believe in free will; but I am certain that these events, filling my formative years, dictated my current path. How can a person swear off a life of crime and drugs, when it seems to be the family business? I viewed angry dealers showing up at our home as normal. Perhaps to outsiders, it was unusual. It’s all I saw growing up. It was just something else that happened; another part of life. I remember a crack dealer named Roe showing up one morning while my dad was away. They worked at a nearby car dealership together, and Roe had apparently fronted some dope the night before. He explained to my mother (in front of us) that my father owed him money. He didn’t
want to do it, but he vowed to put a bullet in each of my father’s kneecaps if he didn’t get paid. This reinforced the lesson in my mind; DON’T COME SHORT. Ever.
After losing the love of my life after high school, I filled the void with marijuana. I decided to give up on trying to find
and please a significant other (she would probably just leave me eventually, anyways.) Instead I took random hook-ups as they came, and focused on what I saw as my patriotic duty; providing the highest quality marijuana to friends who wanted it, at a price we could both live with. It’s a gratifying feeling when everybody you know is smoking your shit. Cocaine and other hard drugs were where the REAL money was, but with them came longer potential jail sentences, grimier clientele, and higher risk for jackers. Plus, competition in that market is fierce. I didn’t know coke. Selling it means using and tasting it. I stuck to what I knew. With just a few exceptions, I steered clear of the white bitch. I had seen her take my dad’s soul over the years. He had taught me an important life lesson without even knowing it.
I’d fly below the radar serving good green to friends. The money kept my car on the road, and fresh Jordans on my feet. A legit job was always in the equation, too. It explained income and expanded my clientele. Once established, I ventured into the cocaine business on just two occasions. Both times, I put aside all personal feelings, and bought two 8-balls. Once for my father (after he hounded me for 2 weeks straight,) and one for a handful of friends seeking “the set-up” (a gram of weed and just enough powder to dirty up one blunt.) The purchase I made for my father ended up sparking a weekend binge for him. “Damn it dad, I told you…” I vowed to never get involved again.
Throughout the years, I pondered changing my ways many times. This life can be a burden. My phone rang all hours of the day and night. I could find no peace. At times, I felt as if I had 20 different employers, and I essentially did; each with their own set of quirks, requests, and habits. Quitting the drug business is much harder that getting into it. I would really like to have children one day, but what would make a woman want to have children with a man, if she thinks his door will be getting kicked in by a SWAT team at some point?
I made numerous attempts to stop selling, but with no success. Requests always kept coming. I faced the prospect of disappointing everyone who called me, I still didn’t have a woman in my life, and my extra pocket money had dried up. What else could I do but re-up and do it all over again? My eyes show sadness now; having witnessed a wasted lifetime of violence, drugs, and betrayal. I wanted more out of life, but I was never really taught how to get it. Instead, all I learned how to not get caught doing things I shouldn’t be. Friends from my childhood have kids now; as well as mortgages and college degrees. Sadly, my life is far simpler:
Don’t get pulled over between Point A and Point B, and I can go spend my reward at Point C.
In 2005, my legitimate job was managing a pharmacy. I found myself immersed in a world of drugs, junkies, violence, and fast money. I was an occasional pot smoker, but I generally kept my hands clean. However, temptation eventually triumphed. The money was just too good to continue sitting out. I shut down the pharmacy one night, clocked out, and locked up. It was time to go home (and essentially clock right back in.) I had arranged for an ounce of frosty mids to be dropped by my house after work. I had just gotten in the door when I got the phone call: my brother’s wife had gone into labor. I knew I had to get to the hospital fast. My weed man was running
way behind, and I had people waiting on it. I still had two drops to make that day. Some of these people were so hard up, they had prepaid me a week in advance (dumb-asses…good thing I’m ethical.) Eventually, I made the decision to just go.
I brokered a deal that would cost me a few extra dollars, but ensure prompt delivery to the hospital. The city was hot at the time. I acknowledged that I owed this guy big for risking the drive for me. I put my gun on, and headed out. On my way there, I rescheduled both drops for later that evening. When I arrived at the hospital, both families were already upstairs, milling around in the waiting room. Everybody else was socializing, but I was detached. Sure, I was happy about the impending birth of my nephew, but the timing was off. My mind kept working on price equations and timelines.
I was armed, had drugs on their way, and felt like everybody’s eyes were upon me. I was disappointed with myself. I kept disappearing from the room, saying I was going outside to smoke a Newport. My sister knew the play, and accompanied me on each trip, in an effort to minimize suspicion. On my third trip to the parking lot, my order finally arrived. I was glad to have it in hand, but nervous as hell about being detected with it and a 9mm. I kept it in my cargos for one trip upstairs. To this day, I still can’t believe nobody smelled it. These mids were so dank, I was able to price them at $70 a quarter. Every time I found myself in a conversation with someone, I caught a whiff of it. I cut the small talk short, and returned to the car. I buried the stinky onion and the burner under some clothes in the trunk. It was baby time.
After the main event, I agreed to leave my car for my sister to take home. I called my boy Q, and asked him to bring out the Chevy so I could make my two remaining drops. No sweat. My father offered me a ride to his house. I quickly went to my car and retrieved the things I needed. I hid the ounce under some papers in his glove box before he could make it outside. Before long, we were off. Between the hospital and the bridge, I was looking around a lot, unusually tense. Pops made small talk and listened to Johnny Cash.
As we pulled up to a toll plaza, I broke into an instant cold sweat. Cops were everywhere. I saw cars from Highway Patrol, the Sheriffs Department, two different city’s police departments, and a K-9. It was a roadblock. As if he had known what I was up to all along, my father mused, “I hope you don’t have anything with you that you don’t want to answer for.” I figured this was it; game over. My old man was a convicted felon, and had enough legally-prescribed oxycodone with him to string out an entire middle school. I had a loaded custom Glock and an ounce of green. A simple ID check of the driver would surely prompt them to check us out. I sat gazing out the window as we passed through, seemingly in slow motion.
Miraculously, the police had focused their attention on a black F-150 they had pulled over in the eastbound lanes. Our side (westbound) didn’t have a single officer. I exhaled with relief. It was as if the “Ganja Gods” wanted me to seal this deal, and had parted the blue roadblock for me to do so. Three blocks later, I was where I needed to be. I quickly weighed out, and Q and I made the two final drops. We came home that night and got blunted. Once the adrenaline rush had tapered off, the realization quickly set in; I had done it again. I literally just hustled right under law enforcement’s nose. It can’t be Divine protection…I must actually be good at this. I will do more of it.
Life was getting more interesting; and more lucrative. I found a solid supply line in a friend named PG. Then, I coordinated my middlemen and end-users. PG was one of the most interesting players in the game; my best connect ever. He put us on. He had pounds of the best hydro coming in from all over the state. High-end BC Bud, Northern Lights, Silver Haze (when it’s broken up, Silver Haze almost glows; like metallic pencil shavings.) I
quickly decided to adopt his philosophy; Smoke the best, sell the rest. But he SOLD the best, too. He typically
“settled” for good mids if someone wanted bulk without the price, but never bothered with dirt. His shit was FIRE.
Call it Miami Hurricane with a sparkle…large vibrant spring green buds, with long, elegant orange hairs. Crystals sparkled throughout it under the light. It had the scent of good dro; a chemically, leather and cologne smell. He was a role model to us. He had fresh Polos, hot women, the right car, and a grip that I wouldn’t see in a year’s time working. His young, “spoiled kid” face carried the stress lines of a middle-aged businessman (I realize now how much this profession aged him back then.) He would typically drop by my apartment after pickups. He’d roll up a few blunts for us and we’d catch up. He’d sit at the table and break up a pound as I bagged quarters and ounces. On most occasions, PG fielded about three calls during that time, from three different people. He would tell three different lies about where he was. Everything about him was the game.
One evening, he asked me to ride with him for a routine pickup. I agreed to. His ride was a limo-tinted Cadillac on 20”s. It was black with peanut butter leather. Screens in the headrests showed flossy Mike Jones videos; not exactly low profile. As we curved through side streets, I was observing every turn, curious where we’d end up. I was also silently pondering the “go-where-he-go” possibilities. We ended up suddenly turning into a Steak N Shake parking lot and backing into a space. I froze; Steak N Shake is one of the biggest cop hangouts in town. What? “And we’re here for…really?” HERE? Phone call: “Be there in 3 minutes.” There were also probably four or five Sheriff’s cruisers, marked and unmarked, parked on the lot. All were empty. It must have been their dinner time before shift change. The Solo-Barics in PG’s trunk never rested, and tonight was no different. Paying no mind to the sheriffs deputiesinside, he continued to vibrate the mirrors for several minutes.
Within that time frame quoted, the other half of the transaction had arrived. It was Main Man! He had brought out the royal-blue Yukon tonight. He backed in slowly, stopping alongside the driver’s window, smoking a blunt. His chrome 24″s reflected the Cadillac back at us. He and PG decided it was a good idea to initiate a bass competition before the exchange. I sat stunned at the lack of professionalism displayed. I mentally predicted my gun empty; laid out on the hood of the car. With it would be several large bags of marijuana and PG and I handcuffed on the curb. With both vehicles’ stereos eventually bumped up to max, all anybody could do was sit and grin at each other. Main Man muted his suddenly. When all was quiet again, disparaging comments about each other’s mothers were jokingly exchanged. Main Man then threw a bag out his window, into PG’s lap. He said, “Get me on that,” and then threw another. He grinned, hit his blunt twice for emphasis, and pulled out fast.
We headed back to my place to process over two pounds of the best weed in town. As we crept off the lot, the dining deputies were just exiting the restaurant; clearly still focused on the good meal they’d just enjoyed. Despite how I thought it should have gone, it had worked. Again, I asked myself, “Is crime really this easy?” This was probably the most flagrant drug deal in the city’s history! Even with the police literally RIGHT there, we had skated without so much as a second look. I had not smoked for very long when I met PG, and I was starting to really enjoy it. I was lucky to have such a good supplier early on, but it spoiled me. Like a dog that had been raised on steak,
I vowed to never ‘eat hamburger’ again. I locked in a good price for ounces, and set up a franchise of my own. My price scale has always been set on a variety of factors. It’s a formula:
Initial investment + time spent + rarity of product + quantity ordered + quality vs. going rate for said quality product + delivery, divided by 28= YOUR PRICE.
(I should print that up on t-shirts; I’d probably sell a million.)
Grams were $20, 1/8 went for $60, and a quarter was $100 (as much as $120 if I didn’t know you.) This shit sold itself. I even had Haitians in the neighborhood that would buy my burnt-up roaches. Unable to pay $20 for a gram, they would give me whatever dollar bills they could put together, and I would make sure they got high that day. PG and I soon found that we were good friends, working a good racket. Things got even better when I started to branch out into two worlds he had no lead on: guns and pills. Business was booming now, and PG realized that he needed protection of his own. I was there to help him find the right gun. He procured his first handgun: a new-in-box Glock 19. He got comfortable with carrying it fast, and quickly added a pistol-gripped Mossberg Persuader to his trunk. Eventually, he sold the 9mm and bought a Glock 21C.
With guns came the desire to use them. The whole crew was embracing the notion of robbing other drug dealers. Knowing how I would feel of some lowlife robbed my stash (plus the threat of a murder charge if something were to go wrong,) I decided against it. One night, PG arrived with a crew of four in an unfamiliar SUV. It was late at night, and they had showed up unannounced. They had a plan and wanted back up. They had discovered some young
punk over at the college who was pushing good weight. He was flossing, and they just had to get him. They had two guys in the bushes around his home, sharing his every move on a cell phone. When the kid finally hopped in his truck and left, they had the green light. All that was missing was a gun, just in case. PG had left his home, opting to ride clean in the borrowed truck. I told them I was sorry to flag, but that was not my style. Plus, I had just smoked a blunt; I was way too fucked up to be running around in the dark, especially on a sensitive mission like that. My roommate decided he wanted in. After acquiring my roommate and his gun, they were off. I waited.
The whole crew returned roughly 30 minutes later. In came bags, rifle cases, a Playstation 2…they had done it. It was like the Grinch had just stolen someone’s Christmas. When they knocked and got no answer, they had pried his door. They ransacked the place, even smoking the remainder of what the kid had left in his bong, while there. They saw no resistance and no trigger time. They had, however, stolen a rifle, a shotgun, video games, and a
bag containing just over 13 ounces of the most perfectly manicured buds imaginable. This was promptly weighed and split up. Just for being me, I was handed two free ounces. The next day, I sold them both to PG for $350 apiece. (My roommate also found $2000 cash when he first entered the bedroom alone. He never told PG or the others about it. It paid our house bills for a while and afforded us each a few nice things.)
But with a score like that, once is never enough. “Guys, you came out ahead…let it go.” Two months later, they caught wind of a grow house in town, and were right back in business. They used a bigger crew this time, with crazier recruits. They were successful; managing to lick 45 pounds from the house. God knows who the growers were connected with. Robbing some college kid for his stash was one thing, but somebody WILL have you killed
over that kind of weight. All of the guys involved partied away their take within a week. The robbers kept running into each other at the mall, blowing their shares. It became a big public joke.
PG also began spending a lot of his profits. Parties at the spot got more crowded. He was drinking a lot, even while eating Xanax bars and driving. Ecstasy became a biweekly event. His downfall came when he learned about cocaine. Even with the great profit margin he had with the hydro, PG wanted more. When he realized what guys were selling powder for, it became his new thing. Suddenly, the best weed in town was boring without a little coke on it. Everyone in the crew started camming out their blunts. They were called whammers, yams, or yodas. To me, the shit smelled like concrete dust burning. Some even began crushing up ecstasy pills in their blunts, rolling “Heavy Chevies.” PG knew that I had a dislike for coke, based on my father’s history with it. He was always very accommodating. When they rolled one up, he would always break me off some crip to roll a clean blunt beside it. They warned me when a blunt going around was dirty. Sometimes, I’d smoke some of my shit and sell his gram the next day.
I began to distance myself. To me, this weed was a great product. The payoff was good, I smoked when I felt like it, and it didn’t bring around the shiftless clientele the hard drugs did. I continued what I was doing, but I started aligning myself with other suppliers around town. None quite had PG’s quality, but the price was right, and it wasn’t bad. I also saved myself a world of grief by walking away. As the partying continued, PG got sloppy. He was buying and eating any pill he could get his hands on. I even sold him Viagras I had managed to get my hands on; for $10 a pop. He picked up a charge; possession of marijuana over 20 grams, and eventually a probation violation. He followed that up with another trafficking charge and minor stuff for paraphernalia. The final curtain seemed to be when he finally got his last traffic stop. PG, a friend of his, and an underage blond were pulled over for speeding in town. All three were rang up on separate charges including open container, DUI, underage drinking, possession of controlled substance without a prescription and possession of drug paraphernalia. A search of the car uncovered a digital scale, the pistol-gripped shotgun, a .45-caliber Glock, assorted pills, and surprisingly, no marijuana. During the search, deputies also found a small, empty cocaine bag (crack sack.)
To this day PG swears that it was a plant. I know the guy. I’m sure if it were his, he’d admit it; at least to us. However, it could have just been another case of drug-induced sloppiness; misplaced goods. All of his toys were confiscated. He fought it and lost, racking up major legal bills in the process. He was forced to give up his beautiful townhouse in the gated community, for a spot in a drug-filled trailer park. But PG was still not done. Not long after, he traded in the Cadillac for an Audi. He showed up at my house one evening, a few weeks later. He joked as he showed me a gym bag containing 7 pounds of dro. Not in the trunk, not on stash, just sitting on the passenger seat. It seemed to me like he wanted to get caught. I moved away, but heard rumors that they were now doing flat-out armed robberies at convenience stores locally. Crazy fuckers; goodbye and best of luck. (Note: PG, Main Man, or one of their people is still in business locally. When I got back in town, the first thing I did was pick up a sack. The product I got was PG’s shit…I’m certain. Good to know; I’ve missed the quality.)
This debate over marijuana prohibition is slowly dividing the nation into two classes: the rich and the poor. Rich people as a whole, tend to view weed as a “hood” drug. The poor are the hard-working, pot-smoking people of America who are being imprisoned for having a joint after work instead of a beer. How did we end up in this sad state? Police have the right to essentially ruin our lives on a whim, over a single weed-filled cigar. Law enforcement can and will stop you if you if your appearance isn’t up to their expectations, but somehow, it isn’t profiling. Illegal searches are routinely employed, usually called “checkpoints.” Under the guise of keeping roads drunk-free, the Bill of Rights is once again circumvented.
The Fourth Amendment, which guarantees freedom from unlawful search and seizure, was the first to go. The moment you stop and roll down the window, the officer is looking for any of a thousand tell-tale violations. Any smell, behavior, or personal items visible in the car can result in further probing. Forget about turning around to avoid the stop, too. Law enforcement typically posts waiting units to stop suspicious drivers who do an about face when they see the police. The law states that cops legally need a reason to pull you over. Checkpoints seem to be the exception. The mentality that “driving on tax-funded roads make you fair game,” is all too prevalent. Cameras now line public roads and neighborhoods, and are usually pointed at the driver’s seat. K-9 officers only have to get a police dog to bark or scratch, and you catch a drug charge. At that point, you are tainted for life; even if the charges are later dismissed. The arrest will still appear on your record. With a drug conviction on your record, you can kiss your financial aid for college goodbye; along with the ability to find a job. In this age of Internet, criminal records are easily accessible to potential employers with just a PC and a search engine. Also, you better believe the police will be conducting a follow-up shakedown a week or a month later.
As of this writing, I am 30 years old. I have never been to jail, in cuffs, or charged with any crime. I have been patted down three times over the years, mostly in my teens. In this life, I am the rare exception. Arrests are a common occupational hazard in this business. Unable to admit that its drug policy is a complete failure, America ’s government still prefers to lock up hundreds of thousands of pot smokers annually. People like me; generations deep in drug use. Attacking marijuana means waging a war of sorts, on the very fiber of our families. The issue is far more complex than just “legal or illegal.” It becomes a matter of false-propped authority attacking the people’s very character and upbringing. Marijuana is now rooted so deeply in our culture, it is impossible to eradicate. Celebrities, working people, and even some politicians use it. California calls it medicine. Our movies and music incorporate and celebrate it. Spending billions in tax dollars in efforts to curb it just doesn’t make sense.
Our economy is in shambles now, our troops are still dying in the Middle East , and there is a drug war happening on the Mexican border. Washington D.C. must realize that now is the time to re-prioritize. Legalize it. Tax it if you feel you have to. Remove the criminal element. Learn to live with marijuana (just like alcohol,) even if you don’t use
it personally. Change seems inevitable. The election of President Obama is a glimmer of hope in the marijuana arena. Hints at legalization (or at least decriminalization) have surfaced. Mr. Obama seems both level-headed and radical. He faces the daunting task of “fixing” both America ’s financial woes and crime problems. Marijuana law reform seems like a reasonable place to start on both issues. Perhaps common-sense is not dead after all. Good luck, Mr. President.
-KZ
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