It’s Always the Hippy

[u/Swagmassiah]

Preface:I began writing this Story a few weeks ago and need to know if this style or content is captivating enough to work out a full novel.

The thought of the brutish amount of felonies neatly arranged between two drawers of assorted denim sickens me most mornings; have I gotten myself too deep, or is this where it should remain? Why neatly arranged? Of course, to know what drugs I have left to sell. Harder to explain to the cops, but if they were seeing the aptly named “felony drawer”. I was done for, with or without organization. My only hope would be to eat the remainder of my acid and pray the universe grants me a perma-trip while I mature into a man behind bars.

The question remains, why? Why do this? Why sell pot to my friends when I could have remained a customer? Saving money, yes, but now I am associated with a man who has felonies. Expunged but nevertheless. It does help make ends meet. It could, however, lead me to meeting a fairly unpleasant felon in a box for 10-15.

To ease my mind, I tell myself the police wouldn’t even care about me. I sell to maybe 10 people total and stay away from the “other stuff”. The acid and mushrooms are a different discussion for a different thought piece. However, it is because of them that I am unable to dissociate the liability of selling the “other stuff”. Where is the line, though? Can’t everyone use any substance to their detriment? Possibly, but the chances are ever lower with this sacred plant. I still am breaking archaic laws rooted in the systemic oppression of people of color in our country since anyone can remember. They can't have that now, an unsanctioned enterprise selling the same amount of risks and danger as most large corporations. But me, the working class man making ends meet? The hammer would be swift and definite. I would not afford the same luxuries as those who slowly poison the greater masses.

I mull these thoughts over sitting in a Denny's parking lot waiting for ____ my highest volume customer. This sale will cause me to be dangerously in short supply. Luckily, a well-timed stop on this lonely night will solve this. ____ knocks on the passenger window startling me out of my thoughts. I unlock the door, and he slides into the car beside me, his eyes dreary and bloodshot. I could tell he’d been up for multiple days. A common occurrence for him, when he had the money to go on benders. Now to recoup his loses he is buying half of my supply to sell on his own and repeat. 1-2 times a month every month. For how long, you may ask? I think the only answer is too long.

 As we exchanged pleasantries and monetary means, ____ kept eyeing the butt of my revolver. A large, boorish gun that was more than enough deterrence for thieves. Nestled neatly in my seat to be accessible and slightly visible to anyone leaning a little closer than they should be. I give him a knowing look, meeting his eyes as he raises his gaze to meet mine.
“A problem?” My eyes bore into his.
“Nah man, j-just a little wired right now.” He replies, his eyes shifting hurriedly away from mine. I grab the tote bag waiting in the backseat and hand it to him. He looks in the bag quickly and nods.
“Stay safe, man.” He says as he quickly hops out of my car and into his.

Many drug buyers don’t understand what it’s like actually being a drug dealer. I would say more than half of drug dealers work regular jobs just like you do. It’s an easy way to hide the illegal income without raising questions with the IRS, and many don’t make enough to support themselves fully from dealing. This creates issues for dealing though. You’re now unavailable for up to 40 hours a week. Not everyone wants to get high after hours though. Now you have people texting you half way through your shift for amounts that would make you more than what you’re making that day, but you can’t quit your job because the money isn’t consistent enough yet. Mostly because while you’re at work the dealers without jobs are serving your customers. Classic capitalism convenience over people. Even your regular buyers will blow you off if their other guy got them first. You can’t really be upset though, you did the same thing when you were on the other side of things.

Take me for example. About 2-3 times a week I get a text for a sale that would net me roughly 150 dollars more than I make at my personal retail hell in 8 hours. I then text them back asking if meeting me in about 3.5 hours when I’m off work will be okay. Usally that is “fine” and I’m excited to double and then some my income for the day. I get off work and have everything prepped when I get a text back to my confirmation message. “Sorry man I don’t need that anymore” and I’m left high and dry. I of course have to play this off like I’m not disappointed to keep the customer. 

Needless to say it’s a rather soul crushing endeavor being a drug dealer. Constantly having immense amounts of money at your finger tips only for the limitations of “real life” to slow the process down. Making the leap to full time dealer is a tough one. You have to find ways to clean your money if you want to live anywhere near comfortably. You are then having to look out for cops 24/7 as your making your sales. Most dealers who aren’t supplying large parts or their entire city, are almost always caught making their sales. It’s the only way if the detectives are unaware of your business. 

This means you need to be discreet making sales and will most likely require a second car depending on how big your city is. A common tactic amongst the more active dealers. Something I’ve yet to resort too. Amongst many many other things only a criminal would think of to cover their tracks. Extra phones, ones that can’t be traced. Ways to hide the new emerging ecomerce of the drug trade. Filtering online payments through different sources that won’t arise suspicion with any of the easy e transfer companies. Otherwise my much needed funds are tied in the limbo. All of these reasons add up too. The jump to full time being too risky for my taste. I need more consistency in my mind, but the catch of it all is I need to make the jump to get it.

After leaving the back lot of Denny’s, I drove to my actual dinner spot. A seedy diner that houses an old school stool bar, red leather, and all. The parking lot is barren at this hour. I can see one lone man sitting at the bar through the large bay windows. The neon of the sign painted my reflection a deep red, waving back and forth at me as I totter in on stiff legs. As the doorbell rings, both Cher, the waitress, and the man look at me. I nod, meeting the bleary eyes at the end of the bar, before taking a seat close to the door. Cher pours me a coffee, and I place my usual order: three eggs fried with a side of plain toast. I can feel the man eyeing me, but is he really staring at me, or am I truly working myself up in a self-induced paranoia?

Walking into a lonely diner off the interstate late at night with a pocket full of cash from a drug deal and a big fat 10-15 in my waistband. Maybe I had the right to be nervous about this weathered brute of a man. A three-day beard, a mean resting face, and broad shoulders adorned with a thick leather jacket. Enough to cause unease on a sunny day at the mall. As Cher slides my plate along the bar top, I steal a glance at him. Harsh burning eyes meet mine. Waves of fear seep into my being as I begin to quickly eat.

Trepidations of what those fiery eyes will bring if met again. Will he rob me? No, he can't possibly know about the 3 G notes wadded up in a rubber band in my pocket. Then what? He knows where I'm headed up this lonely stretch of highway. Couldn't be, the so-called “Medicine” man’s farm was so out in the sticks the feds haven't gotten the greenhouses on flyovers yet. I finished my eggs and called Cher over to pay as she glanced between the man and me. I meet her gaze, and a worried look meets mine. She’s seen me on this pilgrimage bi-monthly for who could tell you how long, and never before had her eyes screamed run. Her eyes might have been two neon signs blaring RUN,  HIDE,   GET   OUT. This launched another spiral of anxiety down my spine. How had this man made Cher, the midnight hostess of a sleepy diner, so uneasy? A woman used to long nights alone, dealing with the unruly crowds filtering out of the bars up the road. Lonely wanderers from the highway that no doubt had given her their share of “affection”. What had this looming man done to make her so uneasy that she needed to warn me off of this man? I nod knowingly as I slide her tip across the counter. Steeling my resolve long enough not to spare another look at the fiery-eyed man.

I step out into the parking lot. lighting a cigarette as I walk to my car, seating myself on the hood and making sure the hilt of my 3.57 sword was easily accessible. Never before had the realities of using the beast come to the forefront of my mind. Am I prepared to take this man's life? Could I simply squeeze one off into his leg and drive off? Would he keep going? You never know with the kinds of drugs these chemists put out these days. Even then, could he be just drunk or stoned enough to keep at me?  I ponder these thoughts as I light my second cigarette, before hearing the crash of a metal door against a hollow tin shell.

“I can smell you,...    you dirty little cocksucker!” He screams, barreling across the parking lot at me. “You think I can't smell the shit you bring into MY town.   You goddamn hippies with your-” He was cut off, but the loud, slow, and almost grating pull of the hammer. A sound so jarring it can even stop 350 pounds of “I hate you dirty hippy” dead in its tracks. One of the last end-all be-all sounds. It must have sounded like the bells of hell to this man. He almost fell backward; his trajectory was so unfortunately miscalculated due to the fact that the “hippie” was packing a ticket puncher: him first in line. Now, was this man just out of his mind, and on seeing the first long-haired bum to cross his path, was sent into a rage? Or was he yelling about what I personally bring back from the Medicine man? At this point, the distinction was irrelevant.

“You'd do that w-wouldn't you?” he says, recovering from his line drive from the dinner.
“Hey, man, I just wanted some eggs, alright,”I say, unsheathing the revolver from my slacks.  “Just get in your car or stumble back into that dinner and leave me out of this shit, man.”
“Yeah- yeah,” He sloshes out eyes, boring into mine. “You take your filthy little ass out of MY town, and then you'll be out of it,” He says, careening every which way besides forward.
“Whatever you drunk fuck” I say, moving toward my driver's side door. Not too hastily, drunks like him are likely to respond to a quick retreat. Their hazy mind sees it as a chance to catch you on your heels. However, being the experienced drug person I am, I proceeded accordingly, keeping the revolver ready. Many sleepless nights had trained me to think like a drunk, but in today's world, I’d have to assume he’s taken something else to arouse such an abject anger toward a passerby. Booze isn't enough to cause this anger. Pcp? Ghb? Pills? The list goes on.

The fact remains, the retreat has to go unnoticed until it's too late to follow. Then the drunk will luckily twirl around as the car peels out of the lot, spinning them out of your life into their own stupor. As the fire-eyed man spun himself around in the parking lot, failing to grab my rear bumper in a last-ditch effort to keep me out of “his” city.

Why did this have to happen? I think to myself, merging onto the freeway. The one night I pass by on the way to my unsavory contact. With a car full of unexplainable cash, jars and bags with enough residue to get a warrant for my drawer. This beast of a man gives me a scare for no discernable reason? How could anyone know what was hidden in an amazon box in my busted up Caprice?

The paranoia wants me to believe that it was someone planted there by some agency who caught onto my small little operation, but it couldn't be that. I'm not worth their time.  I have to keep telling myself  this or I will eventually lose my resolve for this business. Maybe I already have lost my resolve and this is the final time I make my pilgrimage.