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The Rise And Fall Of A College Drug Lord

Entrepreneurial Spirit

 

The Entrepreneurial Spirit

 

I got into dealing for the same reason everybody else did: money and free drugs. I got out of the game for the reason most people do: I got caught.

 

I was good kid up through high school. Varsity sports, good grades — the stereotypical
life of a middle-class white dude. Substance-wise I was strictly meat and
potatoes — weed and beer, no pills or powders. But my old man didn’t take any
shit and he still rode me pretty hard. Looking back I think the discipline he instilled
in me made me a better drug dealer.

 

I went off to college craving freedom. The campus was only 20 minutes away from home, but it felt like another country. No more tiptoeing into the house smelling like stale Philly Blunts, no more listening to the old man’s bitching. My roommate Bobby and I were placed in a dorm with sophomores and juniors. For some freshmen that can be intimidating, but we used it to our advantage. We fell in with an older crew and were soon  xtures at all the parties. At one of those shindigs, we met this dude named Colin. He was a smalltime shwag and X dealer who saw us as a way to break into the ripe freshman crop. Bobby and I started moving some shit for him. Living by the motto “if you can smoke for free, it’s ok with me,” we would give him the money and take a chunk of weed for ourselves. Because we were getting to know so many people, the supply started to move quickly……READ MORE

 

 

One day, after selling ¾’s of everything Colin picked up, we realized that this was stupid. That fucker always had money. He always had weed. And we didn’t have shit. We were smoking for free, but that benefit was getting old. So we pooled our money together and
picked up our own ¼ lb of shwag from a guy back home. We already had all the connections. Bobby had gone to an urban retreat for low income families the week before school started and met a ton of blunt smokers. If you are selling shwag, a blunt smoker is your best friend. They buy a lot and often.

 

Between the blunt regulars, the kids in our dorm and people at parties, we had no problem unloading everything. We’d bag up nicks, dimes and quarters — selling some, smoking some — and walk away with some extra cash. The money was enough to live on, but nothing compared to what lay ahead. We took it up a notch when we started peddling blow.

 

 

 

The Coke Dick Omen

 

Being a drug dealer, even a small-time one at this point, gets you in with a mix of crazy people. I remember one party I went to with about nine other dudes. We showed up at the house to  find twelve chicks — all of them seniors in high school. We start partying — blowing coke, smoking blunts and getting lit up. Out of the twelve girls, there were about six hotties. I was staring down one in particular but still hadn’t made a move when my buddy’s girlfriend came up to me and said, “My friends want to hook up with you.”

 

 

“Friends? As in plural?”

 

She said yes and pointed out the girl I was doing the old once-over on and another piece of ass. The three of us went upstairs. I closed the door and started banging out lines. Katy, the girl I’d been checking out, got naked and I ripped rails off her tits, stomach and ass. Then her friend Lauren pushed me back on the bed and started blowing me while I made out with Katy and sucked her tits. Then they switched places.

 

So I’ve got two 18-year-olds going back and forth on me and I’m thinking this is greatest thing in the world. I should’ve been blowing a load all over the room. But when I bent Katy over the side of the bed, I learned the soft way that coke just didn’t agree with my dick. I struggled to half-mast, nothing more. My  first shot at a threesome in my life and coke kept me from even getting it up. Two chicks and a limp dick. Should have seen that as a sign that blow was bad for me.

 

A Brush With The Law

 

 

Freshman year was also the first time I felt the steel of handcuffs. I was hanging out at my friend, Josh’s house taking bong rips, smoking blunts. We used to hit up his house because it was off-campus and smoking in the dorms was always a little shady. Five or six of us were sitting on the front porch burning one when a bike cop, of all fucking things, came riding down the street. I saw him coming from about 20 yards away and clipped the joint right before he reached the house. Of course he stopped, because we were a group of college kids sitting on a front porch and he wanted to break our balls. “Smells like a Grateful Dead concert up here,” he said, stepping onto the porch. Then he started in with the tough talk, the pat-downs.

 

I was sitting on the couch as far away from this blue boy as anybody in the
group. I discreetly rifled my pockets and ditched the three bags I was holding between
the couch and the side cushion. By the time he got around to me, all I had on me was a pack of rolling papers.

 

He stood me up. I gave him a cocky-ass grin because I thought I had outsmarted the fucker. Instead of searching me, he turned over the couch cushion I’d been sitting on. A satisfied smirk came over his face as he walked up to Josh, who had already confessed to living there. “Your property, your dope,” the officer said. He had the Dirty Harry tone, the Clint squint. He reached for his cuffs. I couldn’t let Josh go down, so I took the rap and got my first ride in the back of a cr

uiser.

 

Old Man, Look At My Life

 

Raves were just getting big around this time. I started doing and selling X at parties all over Massachusetts and Connecticut. Most nights I’d hop myself up on a combo of coke, X, Special K and clonopins, level it all out with some weed, and have a couple percs handy for the comedown. It was a miracle my heart didn’t stop dead in my chest. I’d go into clubs wearing baggy raver pants with bags cu ed in with a safety pin — K on my right leg, X and coke on my left.

 

One night I rolled into the Asylum, one of my regular profit centers. There were six floors to the place, all raging. The owners were real scumbags, though, so you had to watch out. They had their own dealers working the doors. When they weren’t selling, they were acting as undercover cops, busting people like me for doing the same shit they were. I only remember parts of this night because I was in a deep K-Hole. When you’re in a K-Hole, nothing makes sense. The world is just weight upon you. But it feels good. Anyway, I was selling this Puerto Rican kid a couple pills when this big motherfucker grabbed me and pulled me into a back room. I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. I was zoned out on K and being tossed like a rag doll into the bowels of this packed club. This dude threw me up against the wall, choked me for a few seconds and got me to give up my shit. He threatened to call the cops on me but I knew it was bullshit. His boss was the biggest dealer in the place and the last thing they wanted was more heat coming down on the joint.

 

Relieved of my supply, I got the heave-ho out the back door. It wasn’t a huge deal because I didn’t have that much product on me, but it was only 2am and those parties raged until around 6. I was standing in some dark alley wearing only a T-shirt in the dead of a New England winter. My buddy Chad drove and he had no idea I got the boot because the club was so huge. I spent three hours freezing my coins o on the hood of Chad’s car.

 

While I waited for Chad, I met this guy Charlie. I guess you’d call him a bum. We started talking. He asked me what happened. I gave him the broad strokes. He launched into his drug experiences second that I would become a drug addict. Never thought I would see my friends die the way this guy told it. Turns out he gave me a piece of my life story years before it unfolded. At the time, I didn’t take Charlie’s message as seriously as I should have. But at least I ditched the rave scene.

 

 

 

I Wasn’t Made To Push A Mower

 

Some buddies and I moved to Cape Cod the summer after my sophomore year. That was where I decided to make a serious run at this whole drug game. My buddy DJ and I started the summer on a landscaping crew for a golf course. We always got the shit assignments. One day we had to mow an uphill driveway that had patches of grass all over it. These mowers were heavy as shit and it was a 96-degree day. I don’t remember what we were doing more, sweating or bitching. I  walked up to DJ and said lets get some weed and just sell that instead. An easy solution. We both said fuck it, rolled the mowers down the hill and never looked back.

 

 

I made a call back home and two hours later we were heading out for a pick-up. When we got there, we met my boy Jason who fronted us 2lbs of dank kind bud. We loaded the weed into the trunk and headed back to the Cape. We rolled back in at around 4 am and woke everybody up, laid the 2lbs out on the table and just stared at it. Nobody had ever seen so much bud before. I still remember the look on my buddy Bryan’s face. It was like Christmas morning. We started rolling up blunts with just the hairs and crystals
and got blazed up. We laughed our asses off that night.

 

Our other roommates began talking up our supply to the people they worked with, getting the word out. Weed is hard to get on the Cape and people pay a premium for it. Once we got a decent base going we could charge more than we could back home and still have plenty left to get ripped all day. We spent that summer living it up. We would shoot home, pick up a couple pounds and come back. The rest of the time was spent on the beach, getting drunk and doing whatever.

 

That was when I realized I could really make some money doing this. In September, I’d be moving off campus and would have a lot more freedom. I stashed money away so I could pick up more weight when school started again. At that point we were getting weed on the sleeve, so our prices sucked. If I could go back with cash, prices would drop big time and I would make more money. There were 7 or 8 thousand kids at school and almost every one of them smoked pot. My life was about to change.

 

Big Time

 

 

Junior year I hit the jackpot. I bought a 100-pound safe and dealt only weight to other dealers. My roommate D and I took over the campus. We could make more money selling lbs and qps in an afternoon than I could moving 1/8ths and 1/4s in a week. So that’s what we did. First we picked up 5 lbs. Gone in a week. Then we grabbed 10lbs. Gone in less than a week. Eventually we were buying 15 or 20lbs a week and making it disappear. We ran it like a true business. If somebody called during class, I would get up and go. If the weed around school was dry, I would drive up to Vermont. Luckily I was able to pay people to do my papers and give me notes before tests so my grades stayed pretty steady and kept my parents at bay.

 

I never had so much money in my life. I had cash stocked away in my room, 3 or 4 bank accounts with about 8 or 9 grand in each. I showered my friends with pot, coke, whatever I had. I picked up tabs at the bar. All my friends were other college kids. Broke and looking to get fucked up. D and I made sure our crew was always taken care of. That was my favorite part of the whole thing. I felt like Santa Claus.

 

The OC

 

 

One day my friend Rob the Jew, from Eastern Mass, came over to my apartment and asked if I had any connections for oxycontin. He told me that his friends back home
would pay big for them because they were so hard to find. Being an astute businessman, I started asking around. Turned out a dude from back home knew somebody who wrote fake prescriptions and was looking to unload a bunch.

 

Mike, the dude from back home, was a kleptomaniac who I wouldn’t trust with a nickel, never mind any serious money. Eventually I would have to cut him out. The dealer himself wasn’t much better. Gary was an ex-con/pro-golfer/retard with about three teeth scattered throughout his mouth. Neither of these guys were the kind of person you’d encounter at a Mensa meeting. The difference was I could trust Gary. As shady and fucked up as he looked, he was a stand-up guy.

 

Now that I had a connect, I told Rob the Jew to set up a deal. I went and picked up 100 40mg pills for 11 bucks a pop. Rob had two of his boys come by the house and I unloaded them for 29 bucks a pop. 1800 dollars in two hours. No smelly bags in the car. No breaking down or bagging shit up. Just buy it and sell it a couple hours later at an incredible mark-up. What’s not to love about that? A few days later, I went to see Gary and bought 100 80mgs for 27 bucks a pop. Two hours later I sent them back to Eastern Mass for 58 bucks apiece. This time I made 3100 bucks in two hours. Five grand in a week. That’s about the same amount of pro t I would’ve made selling 40 or 50 lbs of weed.

 

I continued this for a few months. Along the way, Gary and I cut out hometown Mike. He wasn’t bringing anything to the table. Mike and his nutcase father didn’t agree. They called and threatened to turn me into the cops, kick my ass. They even lured me into a shady area of my hometown to jump me. I walked into a block where I used to buy coke and found Mike waiting in the stairwell. He told me to give him all my money. Then his girlfriend came out of nowhere and jumped on my back and started scratching my face.
They made off with a grand. I was pissed, but it ended up being a small price to pay.

 

Word on how much money I was making had spread through the oxy world. Two brothers I had bumped into a few times over Gary’s house used to always ask about how much cash I had on me. These two were as sketchy as any motherfuckers I had ever encountered. One afternoon I was walking into Gary’s apartment and I saw him standing in the window next to the door waving me away. I booked. When I called him a couple hours later, he told me that the brothers were inside with guns waiting to jack me.

 

I managed to escape getting robbed that day thanks to Gary, but I couldn’t escape the addictive grip of oxys. Every time I picked up a new batch, I’d take a few more out of the stash. It got to the point where I was buying 100, selling 60 and keeping 40 for myself. The dangerous thing about oxys is that you can function on them. I used to go class or the gym on them no problem. I would wake up and go to bed railing them. I lived such a busy life that it didn’t catch up to me until later. I was always on the move. Selling shit at school. Making deliveries back home. Picking up new batches locally or in Vermont. I would do all of that while fucked up on pills. The oxy high became my normal feeling. That’s when you know you’re fucked.

 

Raided

 

This was around the time I started getting a little sloppy. There was this kid Bryan O., the new king of the dorms. I used to sell him lbs of weed at a time. Bryan was a flashy motherfucker who got too big too quick. One day he came to my house looking to buy an 1/8th. He knew I didn’t sell anything that small so he got it from my roommate instead. Had I been thinking, I would have seen that as a sign. Why would this kid who usually buys serious weight come to me looking for an 1/8th? Turned out the rat motherfucker was trying to get me to take marked money. A week earlier, his dorm room had been raided by the cops and they convinced him to give up his dealer. Me. Because Bryan was able to buy weed in my apartment that day, the cops were able to get a warrant.

 

My world came crashing down on May 10, 2002. The Celtics were playing the Pistons in the Eastern Conference Finals. We were having a party at our apartment and so were our buddies across the street. Both houses were rocking when the Celtics ended up beating Detroit 66-64 in the lowest scoring playo game of all time. I was fucked up on everything from morphine, xanax, weed and of course my usual dose of oc.

 

Our house had emptied out a bit after the game, but it was still raging across the street. I stumbled into the kitchen to make myself a drink. As I took the vodka from the freezer, I saw my phone buzzing on the stove. I ignored it and kept on mixing my cocktail. Turned
out the call was from D, who was on a second- floor porch across the street. He was trying to warn me that five Suburbans had just pulled up to the house and the cops were about to kick the door in. Just as I closed the fridge door and began to take my first sip, the
back door  opened and ten cops stormed in. They threw everybody on the ground and kept screaming my name, demanding that I come forward. Finally, face down underneath a detective’s knee, I declared myself.

 

After slapping the warrant on the fridge, they started grilling me hard. Imploring me to give up my stash. They tore the place up. Searched everybody who was there. I just kept my head down. I was so fucked up and in complete shock that this was happening. After an hour of turning my house upside down, all they found was a couple grams of coke, a ¼ oz of weed and a tall stack of cash. Thank God they didn’t have a warrant for my car.

 

The police station was only a block from my house so they didn’t even bother putting me in a squad car. I was forced to take the walk of shame — frog-marched down the street in bracelets, right in front of the big party. I kept my head down, but felt the eyes of a hundred kids watching. That was a shitty feeling.

 

Aftermath

 

 

Word on a raid travels fast. Everybody at school and in my hometown was buzzing about it. I felt bad for my parents. They didn’t deserve the looks and whispers they got. I was thrown out of school and I increased my drug use to escape the depression. Before it had always been for fun. Now I was blowing OC to just make it through the day.

 

The trial took two years and about fifteen grand from my bank account. It looked like I was going away for at least two years. Luckily I had a hell of a lawyer. Worth every penny. They had to throw out the coke charge because the warrant was only for weed. Then they had me for distributing in a school district. Mandatory two years. We did our own measurements and found that I was actually six feet outside of the district. Out that went. Because I didn’t have the marked money, a lot of their case was considered circumstantial. I ended up getting a continuance without finding. Sentenced to five years probation and two years loss of license.

 

During the trial, my best buddy D died in a car crash. Losing him was the hardest thing I have ever gone through. It was also a sign that everything I once knew was over. The years that followed were filled with trips in and out of rehab clinics up and down the east coast. All the money I made went to lawyers and drugs. I had a joyride on the top of the world, but I also crashed down to the rock bottom all the junkies talk about. I made more money than I’ll probably ever make again, had more fun in a few years than a lot of people have in their whole lives. Sometimes, when I’m waiting tables at the chain restaurant I work at now, gunning for the 20-percent tip, I think about how easy it would be to score some shit and start peddling again. I go back and forth. Weigh the pros and cons. It’s like that country song — I’m always debating if the going up is worth the coming down. I guess I can’t really say.

 

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