was more comfortable about conducting business with me in the room, speaking in hushed tones and he weighed and packaged the product. People trusted me. I never looked anyone in the eye until they spoke to me, and I smoked meth in great, huge hits that impressed even the most seasoned tweaker. Garnett and I knew a man who blew glass and would make beautiful, sturdy, long lasting pipes and innovative bongs for smoking. People were envious and looked forward to our visits. Most people who smoked did so using light bulbs or tiny glass tubes sold at the counter in convenience stores.
We were rock stars. He only took me to two places, and neither of them was too bad. I’d heard of places akin to meth dens that were filthy: families whose children went unattended and unfed, apartments and trailers with a rotating cast of seedy characters, covered in open sores, crouched in corners shooting up or nodding off on sofas and dirty mattresses. I heard about these places from Garnett and his friends, and from some of the people I sold to. I suspect some of them dwelled in places like those, but I never saw it, so it was easy to dismiss. They were the great unwashed. The addicts. The tweakers. They were the ones who couldn’t handle their drugs. Poor, poor pathetic creatures. As long as I never sank to those depths, I didn’t have a problem. I was different. I could handle my high. I told myself that for years, and it was the belief in that lie that played a huge part in not only the duration, but the depth of my addiction. Appearance is everything. I’d learned that growing up. As long as everything looks okay on the outside, what’s going on underneath doesn’t matter.
Garnett’s dealer, Kilo, was like some exotic myth to me. All I knew was that he was Asian, younger than we were and that he drove a Lexus. I also knew that Garnett was in awe of him. I would listen to him talking on the phone in the basement, arranging a meeting to which I was specifically excluded. Garnett would gather his things, eager to get to the rendezvous. He was usually in a good mood when he returned, and we’d sample the new batch: bright, shiny crystals of meth the size of a piece of Chiclets gum. We would test it using bleach, even though we knew the product was excellent. When you’ve seen the best, worst and everything in between hundreds of times, you know good product when you see it. Like an appraiser of diamonds, only you don’t need a monocle.
We always did the bleach test because it was fun. Fill a glass halfway with bleach and drop a little meth into it. It doesn’t have to be much, just a pinch. If it’s good, it will fizz. Pure stuff will “dance,” or spin around on the surface of the liquid. Anything that’s not meth will sink to the bottom of the glass.
So we’d do the bleach test and ooh and aah while we smoked bowl after bowl, and he would weigh the amount I was picking up from him and we would smoke some more. The nights he came back from seeing Kilo were always a celebration, like Christmas or your birthday. We’d talk and laugh and joke about the people we sold to who were spun – the ones who had gone over the edge. We joked about the losers who couldn’t handle the drug, and congratulated each other because we could. Then he’d whip out the porn. And I would sit there, getting high, watching the movie, while he watched me. And I would think to myself how good it was that I didn’t have a problem, and how lucky I was to have all the meth I wanted, and that it was a small thing - probably not a big deal - that the tradeoff was hanging out with this weird fetishist, who I was beginning to not like very much.
The other tradeoff was that I was spending less time with Andy. I was asking my parents to watch him for the night or have him spend the night with them, more often. I rationalized by telling myself that I had to take care of business, keep making money, and I didn’t want him anywhere near the drug or the
We were rock stars. He only took me to two places, and neither of them was too bad. I’d heard of places akin to meth dens that were filthy: families whose children went unattended and unfed, apartments and trailers with a rotating cast of seedy characters, covered in open sores, crouched in corners shooting up or nodding off on sofas and dirty mattresses. I heard about these places from Garnett and his friends, and from some of the people I sold to. I suspect some of them dwelled in places like those, but I never saw it, so it was easy to dismiss. They were the great unwashed. The addicts. The tweakers. They were the ones who couldn’t handle their drugs. Poor, poor pathetic creatures. As long as I never sank to those depths, I didn’t have a problem. I was different. I could handle my high. I told myself that for years, and it was the belief in that lie that played a huge part in not only the duration, but the depth of my addiction. Appearance is everything. I’d learned that growing up. As long as everything looks okay on the outside, what’s going on underneath doesn’t matter.
Garnett’s dealer, Kilo, was like some exotic myth to me. All I knew was that he was Asian, younger than we were and that he drove a Lexus. I also knew that Garnett was in awe of him. I would listen to him talking on the phone in the basement, arranging a meeting to which I was specifically excluded. Garnett would gather his things, eager to get to the rendezvous. He was usually in a good mood when he returned, and we’d sample the new batch: bright, shiny crystals of meth the size of a piece of Chiclets gum. We would test it using bleach, even though we knew the product was excellent. When you’ve seen the best, worst and everything in between hundreds of times, you know good product when you see it. Like an appraiser of diamonds, only you don’t need a monocle.
We always did the bleach test because it was fun. Fill a glass halfway with bleach and drop a little meth into it. It doesn’t have to be much, just a pinch. If it’s good, it will fizz. Pure stuff will “dance,” or spin around on the surface of the liquid. Anything that’s not meth will sink to the bottom of the glass.
So we’d do the bleach test and ooh and aah while we smoked bowl after bowl, and he would weigh the amount I was picking up from him and we would smoke some more. The nights he came back from seeing Kilo were always a celebration, like Christmas or your birthday. We’d talk and laugh and joke about the people we sold to who were spun – the ones who had gone over the edge. We joked about the losers who couldn’t handle the drug, and congratulated each other because we could. Then he’d whip out the porn. And I would sit there, getting high, watching the movie, while he watched me. And I would think to myself how good it was that I didn’t have a problem, and how lucky I was to have all the meth I wanted, and that it was a small thing - probably not a big deal - that the tradeoff was hanging out with this weird fetishist, who I was beginning to not like very much.
The other tradeoff was that I was spending less time with Andy. I was asking my parents to watch him for the night or have him spend the night with them, more often. I rationalized by telling myself that I had to take care of business, keep making money, and I didn’t want him anywhere near the drug or the
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