Risky Business

In 1998, when my boyfriend Jay* showed me how to smoke marijuana for the first time, I hadn't thought about who had sold it to him.

For the next five years of our relationship, I mostly relied on him to get our pot. If it wasn't him, it was a coworker who knew “a guy” and could get it for me. I never dealt directly with the dealer one on one; I never even met one.

In 2011, when I moved to California, where medicinal marijuana was legal, I cut out the middleman. In Berkeley on College Ave, I made an appointment at Doctor 420. Yes, Doctor 420. After filling out some forms and waiting briefly in the lobby, the doctor called me into his office. Sitting behind his desk, he asks me, “Have you used marijuana before?”

“Yes”.

“Why do you want a medical marijuana card?”

“I have neck and shoulder pain from my job.”

“That works,” he says.

He walks over and stands in front of me, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Lift your arm,” he instructs. I do as he asks, and we repeat the process on the other shoulder. He returns to his desk and scribbles on some papers. Then he hands me the papers and sends me back to the lobby. I pay a cashier who takes my picture and hands me a medical marijuana card. 

I walk outside Dr. 420's office and go right next door to a dispensary. This place makes sense to me. There are descriptions of various types of marijuana, several options. There are scales and prices, charts, signs, and information. Displays of products to look at and smell. They offer edibles and tinctures. The staff is helpful and friendly, and there is even Yelp where you can leave a review. For thirteen years, I had been buying marijuana through someone, and the only thing I could request was the amount I wanted to buy. There was no choice in type, no options, and no guarantee. The price was never really clear, and the amount received wasn't verified and usually seemed less than the amount requested. The quality was a matter of chance. No refunds, no place to leave a review. 

When I moved back to Washington after four years in California, marijuana was legal in both Washington and Oregon, and there are as many dispensaries as there are coffee roasters and microbreweries. The following year, I was introduced to an actual drug dealer in Portland, OR. He goes by 'B,' as in the letter 'B,' or perhaps 'Bee,' as in Bumble Bee. I never found out. He's a white guy and honestly, he's kind of nerdy. He's wearing wireframe glasses with tape in the middle. He drives a four-door sedan, like a Corolla. It's not what I had imagined a dealer would drive. The vibe is certainly not illicit. My friend Tammy introduces us. We get into his car, and he starts driving around. He asks us what we want. I want ecstasy. I love ecstasy. Who doesn't love ecstasy? It's in the name. Since attending Burning Man last year, I've been to several EDM shows and a couple of festivals, and I have plans to attend more. I also want cocaine. I've never been into cocaine. In fact, over a decade ago, I had a horrible experience with some bad cocaine, and I hadn't wanted to try it again until recently when I had some good cocaine. So here I am in B’s car, and I say, 'I'll take two eight balls.' An eight ball is three and a half grams of cocaine. I figure I don't know when I'll see B again, so I'll stock up. I’ll stock up on drugs because that’s the smart way to buy drugs, is the way my brain thinks. I like having it for events, late nights out, or three-day festivals. I will continue using B as my dealer for the next four years until I get sober. I have seen him maybe eight times. He always pulls up in his car, and I get in. His car is usually different each time. It's never flashy or cool. He's always pleasant, and we chit-chat; he always seems harmless. He drives and asks what I want. I pay him, he gives me the drugs, and then he drops me off. Sometimes I'll text him and never hear back. Sometimes he's really late. He doesn't always have what I'm looking for. The quality is not consistent. The prices are, and I don't know another dealer, so I keep buying from B.

One night, I'm with my friend Mandy. We're in Portland to see a show. We had texted B earlier in the day and never heard back. We've taken LSD, and it's getting close to showtime. B texts us, and we decide to meet him. I tell Mandy that I'm tripping and won't be able to communicate, handle the negotiations, or the money. She's confident she can do that for us. We get into his car, with Mandy riding shotgun and me in the backseat. They start talking about our plans for the night and what we're interested in buying. I'm in the back struggling to put my seatbelt on. Like I said, I was tripping. B takes a right turn, and a huge SUV heading towards us lays on the horn and flashes its bright lights at our car. The driver leans out his window and screams at us, “You're going the wrong way! Turn on your lights!” B had been driving around the city without his lights on at night, and he had taken a wrong turn onto a one-way street. It hadn't occurred to me that a drug dealer could also be a drug addict. It hadn't occurred to me that it was a mistake to get into this person's car and drive around, that it was dangerous. We buy our drugs and get out of the car. That wasn't even the last time I met up with him.

At the beginning of the pandemic, during shelter-in-place, at the height of my drug and alcohol use, I took another big risk with a drug dealer. The final time I buy cocaine, it's from a new drug dealer, through a friend of Mandy's named Tex. Tex is having car trouble, and since Mandy and I are going to Portland, could we meet up with his dealer? Mandy and I think this is great because we want the price that Tex gets, not the price that we pay Tex. Now that Mandy has the direct line to the dealer, she asks if we can add to the order. We decided to split an ounce of cocaine. That’s twenty eight grams, the most we've ever bought, and it's enough to get us both into a lot of legal trouble. On top of our ounce, we're picking up an ounce for Tex.

We get the address and instructions to park around the corner from the house. It's a nice enough area of NE Portland. It's a sunny, blue-sky day in May. In fact, the neighborhood is near where a shaman I know works and where I had a session called a Cord Cutting Ceremony with her the year before. Clearly I had some more healing to do. After a few minutes, a woman carrying a wadded-up flat sheet in her arms walks up to our car. She's white, and she has long hot pink nails that need to be redone. Her blond hair is greasy and stringy, and her roots also need to be redone. She's wearing short denim cut-offs, flip flops I'd wear in a public shower, and no bra with a spaghetti strap tank. She looks like a mug shot on the five o'clock news.

She knocks on Mandy's window. Mandy opens the door, and the dealer tosses two white balls in plastic knotted baggies into the car at Mandy's feet. She reaches into the car with the wadded-up sheet, and Mandy hands her the money under the sheet. It's several thousand dollars. It was not a slick transaction. It was rather bizarre, and it was over.

Thank you for reading this. I hope you'll come back. I'll be over here.

* Names in this post have been changed.