Where Do I Find A Good Drug Dealer (Preferably Named Ricky)?
This post is going to expose a certain amount of naivete on my part, but I have often wondered where drug users get their drugs. How does one go about finding a drug dealer? There are obviously drug dealers around, because lots of people use drugs, but I have often been bedeviled with the question: how do these people find each other?
Maybe it’s because I don’t do drugs and so am at a safe remove from the scary underworld of pot smokers, but I have never understood how one goes about finding a supplier of illicit narcotics. Is it just “friend of a friend” stuff? Because throughout the years I have often asked friends who I am confident get high where they get their drugs and I am usually met with, at best, uncomfortable chuckles. Do they think I am a narc? Trust me when I say: there are no comedian narcs. (Except Mike Birbiglia, but that’s obvious)
I have often thought it would be great to have a regular and reliable drug dealer. Somebody courteous, friendly and responsible, who would be willing and able to supply me with whatever drugs I needed whenever the fancy struck. Say it’s five o’clock in the afternoon and I have a hankering for some ‘meth. It would be so great to pick up the phone and call Ricky.
(My hypothetical drug dealer’s name is Ricky because it sounds like the kind of name that is both friendly but also scummy, which is how I want my drug dealer to be. There should be an adjective to describe people who are friendly and scummy at the same time: “Deadhead?”)
I would call him up and say, “Hey Ricky, can you bring over some ‘candy?’” Candy would be our codeword for drugs. When he asks what kind of candy, I would say “meth.”
“Sure friend,” Ricky would respond because even though our relationship is professional, on some level we are also friends or at least friendly. Like the bagel guy I purchase my breakfast from every morning.
Half an hour later Ricky would arrive at my doorstep with my candy. I would invite him in for pizza because it’s pizza night. He would politely decline, and then slip me a couple Vicodin “on the house,” in case the ‘meth got a little too much to handle.
“Thanks Ricky,” I would say. “See you soon.”
“Bye Mike,” he would say, and then jump on his moped and putter away to wherever drug dealers go on their mopeds.
Doesn’t that seem like a civil way to conduct illegal business?
But I don’t have a Ricky in my life. The closest I have is a doctor who gave me pain killers once when I broke my wrist. Those pain killers are long gone, but my wrist still hurts when it rains or when I think about snowboarding.
I used to think that once I got famous people would start offering me drugs left and right as a way to curry favor. No dice. Maybe I’m not famous enough. But shouldn’t even people who are a little bit famous get offered drugs: even crappy drugs? Isn’t that one of the main reasons people get famous? Nobody’s even offering me chewable vitamins. I got a pair of free Saucony sneakers once, but no matter how hard I huffed on that new shoe smell, I didn’t even get a buzz. So I threw them out.
A big part of my career master plan is to get hooked on drugs so I can get the resultant press when I decide to clean up. Then I could hit the college lecture circuit like Jody Sweeten from “Full House.” You wouldn’t even know the name Jody Sweeten if she hadn’t been a tweaker.
As it is, I’m such a ninny that I will probably never have a proper drug habit even if I do find my Ricky. But that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to try. Because drugs may have a bad rap, but it’s not like they ever killed anyone.
Alright, it’s late. I’m gonna take my usual six Ambien and call it a night.