Here’s two things you should know about doing drugs: 1) You must keep it a secret from most people you know, and 2) It’s the only binding agent/topic with the rest.
There’s other things, too. But everybody has a different list. The same things are on each list, they are just ordered to suit the user.
For instance, most potheads end up selling a little on the side. It can be fun. Selling pot to a buddy is like grabbing your jumper cables and helping him re-fire a dead car battery. Plus, he’s got to smoke that first joint from the bag with you. Right then and there.
Cocaine is a greasier exchange. Nobody really seems happy. It can be a lot of money to hand over, and you know it. But it’s coke and fucking nothing beats coke. Coke is why you keep driving that piece of shit car and don’t re-up with one of these new SUVs. Also, you don’t buy coke from a friend. Ever. It’s always the guy who knows a guy who, though he hates your friend like hell, knows your friend, and that’s how you got in touch.
Pills is something that usually happens by accident. Such as, an accident. You got this prescription because you’ve had this runny nose for years and your doctor trusts you because only a retard (albeit a nice-enough one, and also one with health insurance) is going to sit around his waiting room for two years and not realize this is what is giving him these constant runny noses. Doc thinks he’s got you in his pocket and boom! you bust a knee and get Vicodin coming out your ass. (You do enough Vicodin, though, and it’s the only thing will come out of your ass.)
So in the end you wind up getting dope in one of three places: work (rarely), through a physician (occasionally), or friends (mostly). But this is no secret to anybody, except maybe to people who all they know about life is from television or movies. Because you see it on TV or in movies how people drive through slums or trailer parks and buy all kinds of exotic drugs. From strangers no less.
Well, it ain’t like that anymore. Everybody has a guy. Everybody. The hush-hush part, the insider knowledge, if you will, is that you’ve got a guy. Right along with the others. And you’ve got to keep friends, him and her and so-and-so, on the dark side of the moon. Ignorance is bliss and all that.
“Did you know he was on drugs?” they’ll ask.
“Naw, never knew. He never told me. Like he kept it all secret and shit.”
It’s a lot of hard work goes into this deception. Like an actor on Broadway. Some kind of role that you have to learn which requires you become expert at being home when you’re really not and having all your bills paid when you sure as hell don’t. Not to mention the facial expressions and the voice inflections.
“You called and I didn’t answer? Sheesh, I was home so I don’t know why I didn’t hear the phone ring … but I didn’t.”
And the bad skin and wrinkled suit. Or maybe the wicked scratch on the car or the weird Code Red Mt. Dew bottle on your coffee table. Or the fact that you text now, all of a sudden. Very intensely.
“Hey, doc. My knee’s really bothering me again. Real bad this time.”
“Yeah, must be this weather.”
“Yeah *sniff.* Must be this weather, too, which is making my nose run again.”
Other things you should know about doing drugs include, but are not limited to: cops, courts, sex, pets, jobs, hand-jobs, handouts, passouts, fighting, guns, places people hide guns, wall safes, sock drawers, bathroom mirrors, freezers, weirdos, bozos, cutthroats, being light, heavy fingers, holidays (you’ll fucking hate the holidays), being too late, being too early, having withdrawals, overdoses, panic attacks, suicides, diatribes, and that a court-appointed defense lawyer can tell when you’re sober or lying better than anybody you’ll ever meet.
Also, you meet a considerable amount of people you would never have figured you’d meet. This seems to go without saying, but it doesn’t. I’m saying it, right here, right now. You. Will. Meet. The. Strangest. Fruit. On. Earth.
The most sinister, soulless pieces of shit. And you will hug them and kiss them. They will share your bed and have identical door keys. They will hunt you down. And you will, at times, hunt them. It will seem as if they reproduce, like those alphabet refrigerator magnets. Once you get rid of a few, there’s more just like ‘em.
Not to mention there will be a few times when you know you’re about to get murdered, and then it doesn’t happen. Likewise, you will lay in wait for a skeevy sonofabitch once or twice and this punk will never show.
You will have dreams of death. You may see skulls floating along behind shopping carts in the Safeway, and you may not. Blood dripping down walls? Check. Toilets filled with blood? Check. Wake up with a torn retina? Depends. But I guarantee you will look at people differently, not be so rash to condemn them the way you used to.
Another thing, lest I forget. You know how Reagan told Gorbachev, “Tear down this wall!”? Yeah, fuck all that, dude. Your ideals are shit now. Your inner instincts are wired like some fucking maniac got under the hood. That doctor, he doesn’t care about your goddamn runny nose anymore. He gets his nurse to call in your Vicodin so that you can get treated over the phone, but still have your insurance billed. So long as you keep your job, this is the way it is. And you’ve taken to cheating at work. It’s goddamn shameful.
These guys who peddle drugs, they are always changing the routine around, am I right? They go from home delivery to “meet me at my place,” to “catch me in front of the Chicken Shack,” to placing it behind the tire of your car right where you leave square-folded bills. Then he had you meet his guy. (Now he has a guy.) Then he let you come to his house again and it was an ugly scene. Somebody was shooting up inside her lip. A baby was sick.
All this shit happened to me, too. Every bit of it, in one fashion or a fucking ‘nother. But I tried to tell you, man. I goddamn tried to tell you, from jump, that it would turn on you. Like meat in the sun, my brother.
But would you listen?
“Did you know he was on drugs?” they’ll say.
“Me? Hell yeah I knew. Anyone who didn’t know is someone who didn’t want to know.”
“Preach it,” they’ll say, “like it’s the fucking gospel.”
Causes Sean Jackson Supports
PFLAG, Amnesty International, AA, Catholic Social Services