Note From the Editor: In New York City, anything can be delivered straight to your doorstep, from Chinese food to rare antique furniture – to the best weed on planet Earth. That’s right, instead of scoring a sh!tty dime bag from a dude in Washington Square Park, New Yorkers can just call a number and have a bud-toting bike messenger show up at their apartment with a buffet of different strains of weed – Purple Haze, Kush, Sour Diesel – they’ve got it all. We caught up with one of these drug delivery men who agreed to tell his tale here on COED. This is his story, from his perspective.
Believe it or not, riding your bike around New York City all the time is kind of dreamy.
Especially when it’s finally nice out. I don’t know if you live in the Northeast, but here in NYC we were punished by what seemed like month after month after month of greyness and cold and all-the-time wet with snow and ice and rain.
But now the sun is shining, and it’s nice – even though riding is like, maniacs of every race, creed and color coming at you from every direction; nearly every moment is like, what the f*ck, how am I not dead?
Even though it’s like that, the sun shining and I’m stoned and trying to take back streets as much as possible, and hurry and hustle but still get a good cruise on. It can feel like you’re flying over the concrete and looking around and sometimes New York is really beautiful and it destroys you in the best way.
I’m riding like that through Chinatown, dodging teenagers on Rollerblades, who are doing a kind of super foolish – and not in a good way – dance of youth and stupidity through the intersection of Broadway and Canal, and the address I’m going to, it’s nagging me, the name of the street and the number is busting up my beatific peace and tranquility.
I turn on to the street and I know it right away. And I swear this is a true story. You are going to hear – if I can keep this post up and you keep reading it – you are going to hear wild exaggerations and down right lies, but you’ll know it. If I start talking about the mob and like sneaking a raven into some guy’s house, then it’s definitely bullsh*t.
But this is for real. I roll up on the building I’m supposed to go to and look at the list of the tenants and their buzzer numbers and confirm it – it’s the office and recording studio of a record label I turned down six months ago because I didn’t think they were passionate enough and crazy enough and didn’t love my band enough.
We haven’t gotten any other offers, and there’s a lot of time these days when I get deep in regret about not signing with them. And now here I am back as a servant. A slave.
And then, riding up in the elevator with my bike, I get a call from our bass player, who’s by far the weakest member of the band, and he’s telling me he can’t come to practice because his back hurts and I’m like, “I’m out here f*cking suffering, man. I’ve got no pride left. And you’re a grown man, you pussy, telling me you can’t play music because your back hurts? You couldn’t hardly play on your best f*cking day.”
So I’m up in the office, walking around, and sure enough, the weed’s got to go to the recording studio. I knock on the door and there’s some punkass band of twerps in there and dude says to me all cocky, “What do I get for 200 hundred bucks?”
And I’m like, “You get 200 dollars worth.”
And he’s about to launch into some straight corny crap about how he haggled with the pizza guy and I’m like, “Dude, I’m a cog in the wheel, man. I just bring this sh*t here. I can’t be haggled with. In the future, this work will be done by robots with little beady, red eyes and Austrian accents. You going to try some corny, haggling, bullsh*t with them?”
And by this point, the dudes that work at the label, who I know from back in the day when we were almost doing business together comes into the room, and they’re super shocked that I’m there to bring the grass and the whole time I’m thinking, this is all a bunch of bullsh*t.
I’m not full of myself. This is not ego. I’m a for-real beautiful, angel, moth dying in the flame, you know, getting all crazy and emotional and mixed up inside, singing like a drunken nightingale. Except I have no money and I live in a run-down house and I want to go to Paris and twist some French girl’s armpit hair like a bowl of spaghetti. You know, using my tongue and like, teaching her about Italian-Americans.
I take their money. I sell them my shit. I leave, and leave them behind in there, in that f*cking recording studio that I should be in, right now. That I could have been in. And I ride away and I’m like, really? How many weed delivery services are there in this city? How many guys work for the same one that I do? (I don’t even know the answer to that.)
How could it have been me, of all the people in the world?
Sh!t, it could have been you.
Irony of ironies.
Check out “Diary of an NYC Drug Dealer: Week 1″ here!