I Was a High School Dealer

... until one day

Early in my short-lived career, 1977

I was a high school dealer, one of the biggest on campus. I sold Hawaiian sinsemilla, Thai stick, and hashish, and for a time, I was selling cocaine. I dropped out of school in 9th grade, but I was always at school. In my freshman yearbook, I put an X next to the photos of schoolmates I had sold product to, and not surprisingly, it was more than half of the student body.

I started dealing so that I could afford to smoke as much primo pot as I wanted–all day, every day. I wasn’t out to get rich; I was just doing it for fun, but I’d sometimes make up to $3,000 a week in sales. When business was booming, I had lines forming at the front and back doors of our house. There'd often be a group of dudes on bicycles gathered in my backyard, pressing in hard to my bedroom window like it was a drive-thru. It was hard to keep a low profile.

To ease the traffic jam at my house, I established half a dozen spots to meet up with customers, all just a short bike ride away, and would also deliver directly to their homes as long as their parents weren't going to be there. Our home phone was ringing around the clock, so I had to hook up a separate line in my bedroom. I still remember the number: 326-2661.

One day, I got into an argument with my biggest competitor, Darryl Mintz, about who could outsell the other–typical one-upmanship between teenagers. He challenged me to a contest and I accepted. I knew I'd win because I knew where he was scoring his shit. He got his at wholesale prices, half of retail, whereas I was getting mine higher up the food chain. My supplier was selling to the guy that was selling to the guy that Darryl was scoring from.

We had always talked about making enough money to buy up some houses and start legitimate businesses with our ill-gotten gains.

In a matter of days, Mintz tapped out, after I effectively put him out of business. I had completely flooded the market, selling green bud for far less than what he was able to buy it for. It felt good to be number one.

The day after my 18th birthday, I called Darryl and told him that I was getting out of the business and that I had signed up for trade school and some classes at the local junior college. It wasn't so much a professional courtesy as it was a chance to deliver a warning, a dire warning. I felt it was my duty.

I knew he'd ask me why I was quitting. I told him that my stepdad had succeeded in scaring me straight and that all of his warnings had finally sunk in. It had dawned on me that in order to survive out in the real world without a job, I'd have to step up my game and start moving larger and larger quantities. I didn't want to risk going to prison… not even by dealing on the side.

A briefcase full of primo Hawaiian marijuana

I then volunteered a little of my stepdad's history. A big part of his criminal career was spent robbing drug dealers at gunpoint. I had been lucky; I had never been robbed, and I wanted to keep it that way. I told Darryl, "I don't want a gun pointed in my face. I don't want to risk getting shot or killed."

"Man, you're just paranoid," he said. "I haven't heard of anything like that happening around here."

"Believe me. It's gonna happen,” I told him. “But it ain't gonna happen to me."

He thanked me for giving him a head’s up, but I knew he thought I was a real dumbshit. We had previous conversations about making enough money to buy up some houses and start legitimate businesses with our ill-gotten gains. And now, I was just making it that much easier for him.

Not more than a month later, two guys wearing motorcycle helmets burst into Darryl’s house, held him at gunpoint, and took his dope and cash. He called me and accused me of setting him up. I told him I didn't. I'm not sure he believed me.

I really wanted to say, “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” Or “I told you so.” But that would have just raised his suspicions all the more.

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