Four

Chaddie Bistro
Jul 24, 2017 · 10 min read

Entered the backyard which led to my front door, descended the moss and mold coated stairs towards my entrance, opened the steel gate that I never locked, then unlocked the window-paneled door which I always locked. Upon entering my place I was sucker punched by the pungent redolence of fresh cone dank. I realized that I’d have to grab some sort of airtight container to keep my herb in. A good problem, but a problem nonetheless.

After placing my groceries in their proper places I looked through my CDs, deciding upon Villain Accelerate’s Maid of Gold. I fed the CD player then ended up on the throne with the pound to my left. Hell, I might as well roll up another blunt. Whilst twisting up I realized I was becoming my own best customer. Guilt got the best of me, so I pulled my Rhodia pad from my right rear pocket and flipped through my list of potential customers. One of these people I already knew. This dude was actually the acquaintance of my predecessor’s predecessor, so approaching him would probably be the best bet for first draft pick.

Let me call this dude. Fuck. I was supposed to get a prepaid phone. My immediate dilemma became either head back out and buy the phone now or stay sedentary with it, call this dude on my private line, and get the phone later. I went the lazy route and continued dialing.

After about three rings this dude picked up. I stated my name and this dude got ecstatic.

“Yo!!! Chad! What’s up bro? I’ve been waiting for you to hit me up. They told me you took over. Everything good?”

“Yeah man. Everything is real good, actually.”

“That’s awesome bro. You called at the perfect time. One of my bros is having a moving-out party tonight in Georgetown. Roll through and bring everything.”

“Haha! “Everything?””

“Can’t get specific but there will be plenty of people. It’s a four-kegger. The bros will be howling at the fucking moon tonight, bro.”

“Cool man. That’s what’s up. Can you text me the address?”

“Yeah, bro. I got you. Come a little early. About 10:00 or so.”

“Will do. Catch you later.”

“Later bro.”

Fuck yeah. To alleviate the laziness associated with using my actual phone, I promised myself to buy that prepaid at some point tonight. As a reward of sorts, I lit that blunt I had rolled prior to the business call. I flipped open my RAZR, pulled up the calculator, and typed “3900.”

$3900

Actually, $3800 with a $100 surcharge attached because I got fronted the pound. In the interests of not having to do this math again, I’ll just call it $3800.

$3800 / 16 = $237.50

The price that I paid per ounce.

$237.50 / 8 = $29.69

My price per eighth.

The going rate for an eighth, the lowest denomination I planned to sell, was $50. I also knew that most other distributors sold quarter-ounces for $90. I had an idea that if I sold my eighths for $45, I could undercut the competition, hijack some customers, and eventually make the same profit I would accrue had I sold a quarter-ounce.

$45 - $29.69 = $15.31

The profit I would get from each sale of an eighth.

$45 x 8 = $360

What I would earn from selling eight eighths. With this said, I was willing to sell whole ounces at a rate of $350 to $320, depending on who the customer was and how steady their business was. Hence, the profit on the sale of an ounce would look as such:

$350 - $237.50 = $112.50 (maximum)

$320 - $237.50 = $82.50 (minimum)

So, in the best case scenario, also the least likely scenario – while accounting for my personal allotment of a half-ounce – I could sell 124 eighths:

124 x $45 = $5580

There would certainly be some larger quantities being sold, so this entire pound would not be sold eighth by eighth. The lowest price I was planning to go per ounce would be $320. So, if the remaining 15.5 ounces were sold individually, the gross profits would look like this:

15.5 x $320 = $4960

Some people would need more weight. In the event of this demand, I could offer another discount per ounce. $300 per ounce is probably the lowest wholesale price I could offer:

$300 x 15.5 = $4650

So, from this $3900 loan I was looking to earn $1680 at best and $750 at worst. It would take three to six more re-ups until I had enough money to cease being fronted. I kept smoking, wondering how long it would take to get rid of this particular load of contraband.

A text came through from this dude detailing the precise address of the evening’s party. I pondered what would be the optimal amount to bring along. I thought it best to take no more than I needed, but how much was necessary? To arrive understocked would be unprofessional, but to leave the party with a dirty trunk would not be the wisest choice. I figured that a quarter-pound bagged in eighths should be far more than enough. It was most likely too much, but I went ahead and prepared the 32 eighths on my new scale. Each eighth was tied tight with an overhand knot; the 3.5 grams of herb packed tight into one corner of the sandwich bag.

The 32 eighths got tossed into a beige faux-moleskin satchel I had acquired along with some shoes I once ordered from NikeID. I threw in some dryer sheets as well. I grabbed this airtight container full of spaghetti, tossed the spaghetti, then jammed the Nike bag inside of it. After sealing the container I threw it into a CVS bag, rolled it up and put this bundle into yet another CVS bag.

The scale got unplugged and placed into an old shoebox. The shoebox was placed inconspicuously amongst a pile of newspapers, books, and worthless records. I grabbed the largest Tupperware my furnished apartment could provide and placed the remains of the pound in it. Then I placed the Tupperware container into a black garbage bag. The bag fit perfectly into an overnight bag I never used. The overnight bag was placed in the back of my closet. Note: get this shit out of my house as soon as possible.

After a quick powernap I headed towards Georgetown with the goods in the trunk. The Camry was always parked in an eastward direction on Webster. The contraband got thrown into the trunk via the backrest of the driver side rear seat. After plopping my entity into the front street, I perused my CD case, deciding upon TV On The Radio’s Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes to get me over to Georgetown.

I navigated my usual well-researched method of getting to that side of town. An immediate right on 17th Street NW. A couple of blocks down to Varnum Street NW, where I bust a right. Take that left on Argyle Terrace NW then follow that up at the crossroads with a hard right onto Mathewson Drive NW. Coasting down this hill I always took the opportunity to admire these opulent houses that were hidden from the general populace of DC. The modern architectural beauty continued with the left on Blagden Avenue NW, which led me to the best kept secret of the DC metro area, Rock Creek Park. I took a left on Beach Drive NW after waiting about 52 seconds for an opening in the opposing traffic on the two-lane road.

Now, I could have taken the Rock Creek Park all the way down to P Street NW, but since I was riding dirty, I thought it best to not navigate the roads populated with federal park police. If the police that roamed Rock Creek Park happened to pull me over, they had the jurisdiction to search my entire vehicle. For this reason, I took a right on Tilden Street NW and a left on Connecticut Avenue NW. I drove south on Connecticut for a bit, past the chain stores and condos under construction, then busted a right onto Macomb Street NW. Macomb led me to Wisconsin Avenue NW, just north of where I needed to be. I then drove to the house party that was about to happen somewhere in the Georgetown neighborhood.

When I arrived at the residence, this dude and a friend of his were smoking cigarettes on the porch of the rowhouse. This dude tells me to pull around to the alley behind the house, so I do just that. After parking in the alley and getting the contraband out of the trunk, I’m greeted by this dude and his friend emerging from the rear of the rowhouse.

“Yo! Chad. Been a minute. This is my bro, Chris.”

“What up Chris? What’s good with y’all?” I dap the two up. This dude gets it, but the handshake with his bro is a bit awkward, possibly due to a lack of miscegenation in the bro’s life.

“Come on man. Let’s head inside.” This dude leads us into the basement of the rowhouse. I follow the two bros in.

The basement looked as if it had housed a few generations of negligent students. Structurally, the house was sound and had been remodelled fairly nicely, but years of half-assed cleaning had given the place a drab aura. I thought they should show a bit more love to such a nice English basement. As we entered the living room of the basement, I noticed a magnificent fish tank that ran the entire length of the wall–about 15 feet or so. The thing was, there were no fish in it. To be fair, the water in the tank was so murky and opaque I couldn’t see what lie within the water. About eleven Bud Light cans floated motionless atop the abyss, an epitaph to parties past.

Chris’ voice brought me back to the moment. “So, I hear you’ve got what I need.”

“I think I do. Check it out.” I reached into my CVS bag, pulled out another CVS bag, pulled out the airtight container, opened it and pulled out the beige satchel, reached in, pulled out one eighth and handed it to Chris. With the actual eighth came the stench of some good-ass herb.

“Whoa, bro! I smell it already.” Chris struggled with the tight overhand knot I tied the herb up in. “Is it cool to give it a test?”

“Of course.”

Chris grabbed a bong from a nearby table, packed the bowl, and took a rip. He didn’t react at first, then he attempted to keep himself from coughing, to which he failed. After regaining control over his breathing he tells me, “Fuck dude. These are some righteous nugs, bro. How much for the eighth?”

“I can let you get that for $45.”

“Really? It’s worth $50, but whatever dude. You’re the salesman. How much for an ounce?”

“I can do that for $350.”

“Ok. That’s fair. How much do you have on you right now?”

“Uh… I’ve got a quarter pound right now.”

“Ok,” Chris takes a minute to grab his wallet and check exactly how much he has on him. He pulls out a stack of hundreds and shuffles silently through them. Although I could have, I decided not to pay attention to how much money he was holding.

“Ok. I’ll take it all. What do you want for it?”

Since I said $350, let’s multiply that by 4. $1400, right? I figured it best to call it $1300, both as an incentive to Chris to buy again in bulk and to set a precedent for any future transactions.

“$1300?”

“That’s cool, dude. I’ll make a killing off of this over at the University of Maryland. Those guys are paying $20 a gram, straight-up with no bulk discount. You got a number?”

“Well, not yet but I will. Let me get yours and I’ll call you when I get a prepaid.”

I pulled out my Rhodia pad and a matte black Fisher Space pen and Chris wrote down his contact information inside. I was feeling myself. I just made $1300 in a matter of minutes and I wouldn’t have to drive home with a dirty trunk. Honestly, not too bad for a first drug transaction in the DC area.

During the duration of the transaction, this dude had been patiently waiting on the arm of a couch. He reaches over and clears the bong while Chris and myself are concluding business. Upon exhaling, this dude starts coughing. Once the coughing ceases he tells us, “Cool dudes. Business is finished. Let’s go upstairs and party!”

Chris takes the eighth that they took bong rips from and raises it to eye level, holding each upper corner of the bag with two hands. He then evenly distributes the remaining herb evenly along the horizontal bottom of the bag and rolls the sandwich bag in a manner similar to a joint, licks and seals the bag, then sticks the plastic doobie in his pants pocket. I thought it odd that he preferred this method over my knot. He stuffed the CVS bag under his belt in the front of his pants. Then we headed up.

The party was populated. I always found it odd that these young, white American college students chose to party with classic rock as the soundtrack. A beer pong tournament was underway; evidently the competition was of an elite echelon at tonight’s soirée. The beer was housed in some kegerators with taps atop. A bunch of cute white chicks, all basically dressed the same, were introducing themselves to me. I had to have met about three Amandas and four Katies. Nonetheless, the people were cool. I got a red cup, filled it with some Bud Light and mingled a bit.

After about an hour of chilling at a fraternity kegger, I decided to call it quits and head home. I found this dude and Chris then they went with me back down to the basement and out to the rear of the rowhouse.

I remotely unlocked my Camry with my left as this dude dapped me up. “Real good to see you, Chad. I’ll be hitting you up later in the week.”

“Yeah. Let me hit you first from this prepaid I’m about to buy. We’ll get up on that number.” I turned to Chris and gave him a white man handshake.

“Yeah, bro. I’ll be calling you really soon too. I can meet you in out here in DC. No need for you to come all the way to Maryland.”

“I appreciate that Chris. Well, y’all be good. I’ll hit y’all tomorrow on the prepaid.”

Fired up my trusty Camry and headed to the CVS on Wisconsin avenue NW where I bought a prepaid, an AT&T Go Phone to be precise — a dark blue Nokia 3360. It’ll serve its purpose. I took an aimless drive around DC, listening to Diane Rehm on NPR and admiring how poorly timed the traffic lights in the city are. It’s as if you can’t drive more than three blocks in DC without lounging at a red. While sitting at one of those reds, I realized that I was 33% towards repaying my debt and the next re-up. It felt good. This whole thing felt natural. The light blinked and a green eye stared at me. I accelerated past it, still not knowing where I was headed, more so glad that I was in motion.

    Written by

    Writer and photographer. Originally from Cleveland. Currently living in Amsterdam. It's a bit more complex than space allows.

    DMV x 420 x $$$

    Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
    Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
    Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade