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“We kind of formed a little partnership,” D says, “and that just opened the floodgates.” Yeah, so now Mr. His new friend had gone to another middle school, so when the stream of kids got dumped into Albemarle, well, between the two of them they had a lot of acquaintances eager to become customers. Wealthier kids had access to better weed, buying and selling kind bud to those who could afford it.
D and his buddy were selling schwag and they sold it mostly to middle- or lower-class kids who just didn’t know where else to go. “Hey,” the cousin said, “next time you can just take a pound.
Defense: He has voluntarily entered drug treatment, your Honor. He wore a pager openly and did crazy shit like packing dime bags in the middle of class, hidden in the Kangaroo pocket on the front of his jacket. So there’s D, a white kid dressed like a dealer—baggy clothes, pager—walking through the house with his black friend, and he’s introduced to his friend’s mom and she rolls her eyes as they walk through the living room. And then I’m not going to have a reason to have to do this anymore.” Richmond seems flooded with weed.
It doesn’t take long for D to find someone in his dorm, this hippy kid, who’s selling better shit than D ever did, shit that D’s old customers can’t get back in Charlottesville, and it doesn’t take long before Mr. There might be, every once in a while, a shipment brought cross-country from California or Oregon, five or even 10 pounds maybe, but the risk involved was too great.
He was in eighth grade, at a county middle school, driven by life situations he needed to escape. You usually got your weed from somebody’s older brother, maybe the wealthier kids living out in Forest Lakes or Farmington. So did the hippie-spawn who pinched it from their parents’ stash. Dealer says, “and he figured out where their stash was and when his parents would leave we’d run up to their closet.” It was mostly weekend smoking, and strictly scrounging—“no one was peddling at school or like, you know, selling dimes in class or anything like that.” Just the same, someone wrote a letter to the assistant principal naming names, and Young D was called with 10 or 12 others into the office and grilled. A week later his mom and her boyfriend have every door in the car open, and the contents spread out on the ground and they’re searching through it like mad. But you know a month or two after that it was kind of like, ‘Well I don’t have $10 to spend on this shit.’” Both lived with single mothers and weren’t exactly rich: “We were the kids at the bottom of the barrel in terms of, you know, the brand-name clothes.” Somewhere along the way the realization came that if they were to buy a little bit more, they could sell some and pretty much smoke for free.
When it comes to drugs, how well does anybody know anybody? Dealer, (friends call him “D”), started smoking weed when he was 13. In the ’80s, when I was going through the local schools, it was rare to find kids smoking weed, but by the ’9 0s there were definitely stoners amongst the “Saved by the Bell” set. “Initially we’d just buy worth, just enough to roll up and smoke that afternoon.
He was a student, going to classes and doing his work. But he was also a professional drug dealer and his dealing was a much larger part of his life than his education. “I wonder,” he thought, sitting in his cubicle, “if it’s obvious that up to this point, I’ve only sold drugs to support myself.” He was still dealing, but was trying to operate at a lower level. it allowed me to kind of pick and choose who I wanted to be accessible to. It’s not worth four years of my life.” Will he ever sell pot again?
More people knew him, however, than he would have wanted. By it’s very nature, it’s uncertain, unknowable in its entirety. Dealer, D, had been smoking weed every day, multiple times a day, since he was 16. Fighting the charges would have cost, like, over two grand. …I think during that time in my life, there was a lot of things going on in my personal life, in my family life, that I didn’t have any control over and [dealing] gave me this definite sense of something that was all mine, that I was in complete control of.” After that real bad Saturday night, Mr. All those kind of clichés like, ‘You’ll see who your friends are.’ It’s all true.” “There’s a certain relationship, a certain ceremonial aspect of smoking weed,” D says, “a level of bonding with someone…seeing eye to eye on art and music and kind of opening up that sort of lateral thought process that isn’t really as awake when you’re not high.” The light, dim now that it’s evening, insinuates itself through the venetian blinds as we sit in Mr. His girlfriend, young and pretty, hovers protectively behind us. “I’d like to say no, but once I’m in the clear, and I don’t have this sort of storm cloud looming over my head all the time, I may feel differently about it.
But he’s not going to hurt her, if that’s what you’re thinking! The threat of random testing looming, he manages to stay clean for a while.