Johnny and I used to drive to Lafayette Square to buy pot. His dealer lived in an incredibly rehabbed building close to the park. He was crazy. The girlfriend or wife was always in the living room while he ran his business out of the kitchen. She never came into the kitchen, only occasionally looking our direction while we were there. Their boy-child, however, ran wild through the house, and did so noisily, only stopping occasionally to ask daddy what he was doin’ in a manner that suggested he knew what daddy was doin.
The dealer’s demeanor suggested a heavy intake of coke or some other amphetamine derivative. He could not ever sit still. He loved amethyst and snub-nosed handguns, and he liked hearing how cool his toys were to others. He was always pointing his guns and jewelry at us. Anything was an excuse to show them off, accompanied by variations of the same stories for each possession, and of course, more pointing.
His skittish, longhaired Hoosier buddy was always there, too. It didn’t seem like they gave a shit about us being gay, which, given the way those two looked, dressed, and behaved, was surprising. I guess they felt our money spent as easily as the straight potheads did. But they were just too damn jumpy!
Buying weed from Johnny’s dealer became a little.. too much, after awhile. What with the psychic and/or legal heat (Which is not all that uncommon a sensation pertaining to the residences of drug dealers..) surrounding the apartment, the kid running around, the jewels, the guns, their mullet-cuts, the gun pointing, and general discomfort of being in their presence, the process became too…wrenching to even consider. Too, too much. Hey man, I just wanted to get some pot. I don’t know about this other stuff..
I never felt safe until returning home and re-locking the door, already anticipating that first bowl.
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