It was a perfect day to be dopesick.

The cool October wind is rushing past my window, howling at the trees who make spitfire shadows on my cigarette burned laptop. Its been a nice day except for the fact that I have no cash, and I have to go for credit with the dickhead down the street. I dont want Strict dead, or even jailed, just realized.

My drug dealers future.

Id like to see my dealers, the ones who tell me they got my back, the dealers who tell me they'll be back in 20, the dealers who smile through their teeth, the dealers who sell me bullshit for my money, the dealers who think that selling poison is acceptable, the dealers with gold teeth, the dealers in jail, the dealers in prison, the dealers who smile when you tell them your quittin. Id like the dealers put out of business,  for a minute, and take stock of what their doing, take stock of what they earned and take stock of what misery gave them what they have.

Dealers wont go away with Barr Pharm. Par Pharm, Danbury, Endo, Watson Laboratories and Teva Pharmaceuticals, Sandoz is my favorite makers of methadone.

If I had a $100 Id buy any of their scripts.

Cops at the door

I had brought back a nice little amount of Burmese powder from Northern Thailand and was surfing a friends couch at EMU. We had known eachother for some years and he initally turned me on to a few drugs Id never tried back in high school. He was my idol, he knew the trade and had connections but he was in his Christian phase at this point and wasnt using anything really, until that day. "let me toot a dot of that stuff you brought back" I was surprised but knew he was the type that knew the dangers of starting in on this type of stuff., I knew he could handle it. I laid out a dot and he sniffed it up and went off to jam in the basement with some other friends we knew from high school. Mudflap as I sometimes call him called me the next day in a panic, "dude, I was jamin with friends in the basement and Ding Dong (as I call him) was askin why I was fallin asleep in the middle of my solos" Well yeah I said, so what,  thats normal, what did you tell him?  "I told them I did a little bit of your stuff, no big deal I thought, but Ding Ding got all crazy and said hes going to call the cops unless you flush all you got down the toilet" I couldnt believe it, Id known Ding Dong for years, I may have set his locker on fire in high school but it was an accident. DD really thought he could do his part as a good Christian by threatning me with the law.  Mudflap says "Dude you got to get that shit outta the house" I hung up the phone and borrowed a car and drove to the woods and buried my shit near a big ghetto palm.
For the next two days Mudflap apoplogized profusely, I of course understood, no one saw that coming but sure enough the door bell rang and three Ypsilanti cops were at the door asking me about drugs in the house. The house was clean so I wasnt worried much. The cops wanted to look around and I promptly told them no and that this drug war was a load of crap. They left and I moved to Detroit for the first time the next day, I figured it would be business as usuall down here.

My first trip to Jamaica and its marijuana bonanza.

I had just turned 16 and my parents took us on a trip to Ocho Rios Jamaica. It was a fifteen story hotel in one of the bigger tourist cities on the island. We took a bus from the airport to our hotel which included a stop at a small jerk chicken stand along the ocean. All the white, or "fresh" american tourists piled out of the bus with their fanny packs and water bottles to start ordering whatever was offered on the hand painted plywood menu. The cleaver wielding Rasta behind the table violently chopping up chicken parts and serving up some of the dishes had singled me out and started asking me questions in his best English but I couldn't understand a word he was saying through his thick accent. I kept asking him, over and over "What, Im sorry, what do you want?" "Hey Mon, we git da erbs, wacha wan Mon, its all Irie?" After about five exchanges of me asking him what the hell he was saying I finally understood, he was offering to put some herbs on my jerk chicken plate. Ohhh! Yeah, put some herbs on my chicken I said, what the hell, I love some Jamaican herbs on my jerk chicken. Rasta curled his long bony finger to point me around the corner to a more secluded part of his ramshackle operation and then pulled out from under the counter about two ounces of fairly nice green Jamaican herb and asked for four American dollars, thats $4 for about two ounces of decent Jamaican. I was no stoner at that time but I knew that that amount would bring hundreds back in the states My parents were standing ten feet from me so I was amazed by his brazen offer and soon realized that marijuana was a part of the culture here and not a dangerous drug that Nancy Regan was trying to tell kids back in the states to "just say no" to but I politely declined his offer. It was at that moment though that I realized that a cheap, naturally grown product could be bought in a third world country and possibly resold in America at a huge profit. About four years later I would return to Jamaica on my own with business in mind.

Almost busted.

So the summer before last Ive got a lousy $7 in my pocket and I go to the spot. This spot is an old dilapidated two story thats fallin apart  near McDougall and Warren where an old couple I know sells their shit for the main guy. Ive been buying this same product for years and I trust it, but I do feel sorry for the old couple doin the sellin but their old heads and they know the deal. I ride up on my bike, walk around the side of the house and put my money in the cup on a string and yell up "yo, one blow" I hear something resembling a "yeah, okay" and I wait. "Hey man, I need one blow" and I wait, and I wait. I keep hearing them up there but their not haulin the cup up to the second floor with my money in it. Ive got to get to work but this is the best blow around so as I decide to keep waiting I hear screeching rubber up front of the house. I see a big black van and a bunch of brothers in black, and one sister all jumpin out of the van. My body was movin toward the backyard because I knew who they were. I crept slowly with the intention of sneakin around the abandoned house next doors back yard and maybe get to the alley where I could make it to McDougall. "Get the fuck up to the front of the street white boy" screams a pudgy little sister in regular police uniform. I got the impression she was somehow the caretaker of this narco crew because everyone else was in black para-military garb with the bloused pant cuffs in the combat boots and heavy belts loaded down with maglights pepper spray, handcuffs, and other toys. I automatically had my hands half up way and walked toward the front of the house where I was cuffed and told to sit on the curb. About five of the narcos had taken the door with a huge crowbar type tool and were now upstairs searching the place. I just had to wait, as I wasnt in the house and I hadn't even gotten my drugs yet, shit, my money was still in the cup. I was thinking I was free and clear when I started to think more clearly, FUCK, I had eight 1/8 ounce bags of weed all bagged up in my backpack. If it were even an ounce of weed in one bag it would not be a problem but eight seperate bags meant intent. I didnt have any underwear on beneath my shorts, that meant I had to go through seven days in D-Block downtown without any underwear, and my socks werent washed yesterday either. Everyone in the jailhouse would be givin me shit for the next week but it didnt compare to the hell Id be going through without my dope. At least when I got out my tolerance would be low.
  The brothers started searchin me and found my shit right away, I told them it was medicinal just tryin to get a laugh out of them, trying to lighten the mood as I knew some weed was no big deal. I didnt tell them about my $7 in the cup on the side of the house hoping they wouldnt find it and of course take it. They kept me cuffed for another 20 minutes, wrote down all the info they could out of me in a big black handwritten ledger meant to categorize all the so-called street thugs then unhooked me.of I rubbed the blood back into my hands and grabbed my bike An obvious elder of the cops motioned me to the back of the black van, out of sight. He seemed like someone I might know, he had medium length dreads, obviously a longtime undercover. He looked me up and down and asked me what I did for work, I said I was a carpenter of sorts. Dread didnt feel like a cop to me but he was, he felt like one of my hipster acquaintance from the Cass Corridor. Dread asked if Id like to make some money, I swear to god when he asked me that question he seemed ashamed, as if he knew I wasnt of this street stock, that I was something more, something on the level of himself and he was asking me to be a snitch for money. I said no and he motioned for me to go. of I rubbed the blood back into my hands and grabbed my bike. As I got on my bike I looked at the cop who had hooked me up "Can I get my weed back now?" "Oh man we got a joker" he said with a thin smile. "Its medicinal man, Ive got pain" I didnt wait for his response, I just rode off while the head female threatened me with the cuffs again, she didnt like jokes, for her it seemed this drug war was actually real, as if she was really making a difference. I rode away with a smile.

$20 in my wind.

Before scrap metal prices went through the roof in the mid 00s and every scrapper was considered scum I had a truck and made my way cutting steel out of burned out and un-salvageable buildings. I took a big blind fall in one down a hole in the floor. I broke my femur, wrist and jaw. A titanium rod was put in my leg and I spent about three months in a wheelchair. I was out of work and I had my habit, and I was sick. I could feel the bile in my stomach churning around and my legs wouldn't hold still, my nose and eyes were running and I was sneezing eight times in a row.  I wheeled myself down the street on that frigid December day while carrying my aluminum extension ladder resting on the arm of my chair. I headed down to a spot I knew where the man would sometimes trade tools for dope. I sat outside and waited for him but when he showed up he didnt want the ladder. I was at wits end sitting on wheels on McDougall street in the blowing cold praying for my father to send me something from above. My eyes were running so bad I couldnt see and my body arched with my sneezes as I looked in the street to see a bill tumbling with the wind right toward me. I franticly pushed myself toward vector with the tumbling green blur and caught it under my wheel. Reaching down I pulled up a twenty dollar bill so  I looked up and thanked my Pop. I blew it all on one fat blow and worried about my next need when it came. Somehow it always works out.  

My first time.

I was buying coke off a new friend named Reyn and turning it around. I wasn't making shit doing this but it felt good dealing in drugs, as if this is what I was supposed to do. As many dealers as there are out there I could not find steady suppliers with decent prices and was always getting ripped off. I loved dealing in drugs though.
 I went over to check on my friend with the coke connection and when he opened the door I saw his eyes were black and blue. "Dude, what happened to you, who beat your ass" I said. Reyn was just waking up at 3 pm and said "Oh man, I'm okay, I just did a little heroin" I was half pissed half intrigued. "What the hell is wrong with you doin heroin? I can understand doing some coke, even shootin it like you do but heroin?" A few days later I was asking how much it was, what it felt like, what a speedball felt like, and a few days later I snorted my first and last dot of heroin. A week later I had him boot me up and it was all downhill from there.
 .

 

My heroin Jesus.

My use is something of a religion. Its my god, as long as I have it I'm okay. Ive dedicated my life to it it seems. I get up and know exactly what I will be striving for, to commune with my god. It actually makes my life fairly simple and thats something I don't like in theory. I know I'm trapped by my god and am its slave, so many Christians I know don't.

.

I once.

I once was doing such a large amount of a very pure heroin  I had brought back from Thailand that I constipated myself so bad I did not shit for an entire 7 days. In the end it still wouldn't come out on its own. In Asia if you have the runs the locals will often give you a small ball of opium to swallow, works great.