by Ezekiel King
I had their full attention. Three sets of eyes and ears fixated on my every syllable. “But in order for me to do that, I need help from all of you!” I said.
“What do you need us to do?” Tom said eager to know what his role would entail. “Every time I sell 120 ten-pound bags, I’ll pay everyone. To begin with, I’ll give each of you one ten-pound bag; then when we’ve sold half, I’ll give you all another ten-pound bag. I’ll give John and Tom £60 each and Daniel £100.” They all looked at me a little confused. “So, here’s what I want everyone to do. I’ve got 70 ten-pound bags in this carrier bag, which I want to leave here in deals for you to sell. John and Tom, you serve people I send here and anyone that you can get to buy weed from us. Friends from school, people from the local area, family, just anyone and everyone you can.”
I studied their facial expressions to see if they were on-board. I had explained it as if to say ‘this is what’s going to happen’, not ‘is it all right with you if this happens?’ That’s how a mug conducts business. I was no mug, and this was my first day of my new job, and I was the boss.
I sat at the head of the table, and I was calling the shots. The three of them sat nodding their heads, like puppies, waiting to be patted on the head and given a treat. I was in business.
“You’re a nutter,” said Daniel, “you didn’t say what you wanted me to do,” smiling at me with a face that told me that he was impressed.
“Dan, I want you to help me by giving John and Tom more weed when they need it and by picking up the money from their sales. I also need you to get 100 people minimum from the local area to come and buy weed from here, starting as soon as we finish bagging up the weed.” I placed the scales on the table and all three sandwich bags of weed with the clear packet containing the little empty deal bags. I weighed the individual bags to make sure they were the correct weight. I then emptied all the weed out on the table, made sure my digital scales were set to grams and started weighing gram, gram, gram, gram, gram, gram, gram, gram, gram… all the way to the 70th gram. I got pretty fast at it. Towards the end, I would estimate the amount needed by filling the bags by eye; then I would put the bag on the scales, and it would be dead on a gram.
My brother, Daniel, John and Tom struggled to keep up the pace, ramming the stinking herb into the little bags. When we had finished, I told the three of them to each pick a ten-pound bag of weed for themselves, leaving 67 bags which would bring me £670. This was the exact amount I needed to pay Jason. The two ounces hidden in Trish’s cupboard would be all for profit. I didn’t even think about them. For now, my only concern was paying Jason, and I didn’t want to let him down. I told John and Tom to half the 70 bags, putting 35 in a pot to be sold and 32 upstairs. When all 67 were sold, I told them to call me so I could tell my brother to bring the rest and pick the money up. Everyone agreed to do as I said, which made me over the moon inside. I didn’t show them I was happy by being excited or smiling; instead, I kept an emotionless facial expression to let them all know if they messed up, I would go absolutely ballistic.
My brother, John and Tom all picked the biggest juiciest bags of ganja they could, out of the 70 there were. They collectively decided to build a joint each to celebrate our new venture.
When the three of them realised I weren’t building one for myself, they said they’d give me a piece of theirs so I could roll myself one. I made a deal with myself not to smoke in the day. A deal I would adhere to. For me, it was business before pleasure. In fact, until I had enough money, it was all business—pleasure could wait.
I sat at the dining table while my brother got high with our two friends. They told me how great the weed was and about how it stunk more than any weed they had smoked, also how it tasted beautifully sweet to inhale. They were right, all this was true. But I didn’t give a fuck; I wanted £670 to pay Jason as soon as humanly possible. Nine times out of ten, I would get what I wanted. Sometimes, I’d use my cheeky smile or my great sense of humour, or if that didn’t work, I’d get angry. Failing that, I’d swiftly result to violence. I sat deep in thought in the smoke filled room, at the big, shiny, brown dining table, twiddling my thumbs while the three of them smoked. Now I had a shop, but it was about as busy as a horse with no legs. I needed to market my product and do it quickly. I got my phone out, called and texted every contact that wasn’t my mum or dad or going to tell my mum or dad. When I had finished, I’d gotten some good feedback. I’d given out Tom’s number to people that scored cannabis at least 20 times. People had also told me they would pass on the number to their friends to score as well. When I had finished that, I was filled with optimism. I sat back in my chair with a slight sense of achievement, without even a minute’s rest, “Daniel, call every person in your phone book and tell them to take John and Tom’s number to come and buy some of the most potent weed in England. It’s been imported from Amsterdam,” I said. It was a lie, but it sounded good. I hadn’t graduated from school yet, but I had a PhD in bullshitting, and I intended to earn more from my experience in bullshitting rather than any dickhead with a PhD in astrophysics or chemical engineering.
The feeling I had watching the three of them making call after call to promote my weed-selling business was strange. I had never felt it before. I felt fully in control. I felt in charge as I sat there sober as a judge, listening to them tell everyone they know to come and buy my drugs, that my drugs were the best. I felt powerful, there and then. I knew I wanted that feeling more than anything in the world.
I let the three of them finish making their calls and chasing people up, then checked their progress in turn. Tom, who was the youngest and the same age as me, told me that most people were at school, so he had sent about 30 text messages to people that would definitely want to buy weed later.
John told me that most of his friends were at work, he’d said they would ‘pop around’ when they finished to get two ten bags each if it’s good. Which we all knew it was. Best of all though, one of John’s friends worked on a building site where about 20 men would go out on lunch together, and John’s friend would collect everyone’s money and buy weed for them, usually on a Monday or Thursday. He had planned to do so today.
After John had told him how good the weed was, he’d said he’ll be down at 12:30 on his lunch and would want maybe £200 worth. “John, call him at 12:15 to make sure he comes, mate; we need that sale,” I told John to try and cement the transaction.
Daniel told me a few lads want to see the stuff, so he said he would take the ten-pound bag I had given him for free to show some people; anyone that wants some, he’d send to the McBrides to score. “Okay, good, we all know what we’re doing then. And Dan, are you going to show people now?” I said enthusiastically in an attempt to get everyone as motivated as I was.
I had never understood people saying things like ‘I’ve got to go to work’. Yes, I understood that people have to pay bills and life costs money, for me it was the point of ‘having’ decisions being made for you that ate away at me. ‘Got to, have to’, these small but powerful phrases meant fuck all to me. I ain’t ‘got to’ do anything, and the days of people telling me I ‘have to’ are long gone. It wasn’t that I was lazy; I was prepared to walk to the end of the earth to make my drug-dealing business a success. If it meant making proper money, then I’d work 24 hours a day, seven days a week, including Christmas and birthdays. What made the difference between accepting and refusing something in my eyes was all down to this: is it ‘my’ choice? Or am ‘I’ benefitting? Or is it for ‘me’? If the answer to any of these phrases is no, then there’s almost no chance of me playing ball… well, not without kicking or screaming. From now on, if I don’t want to do it, then in order to get me to do it, they’ll have to drag my rotting corpse to make me do something I don’t want to.
My brother had left John and Tom’s after saying goodbye to go and get some customers. I was meant to go to school, but I didn’t want to go, so I wasn’t going to. Instead, I planned to go near to the school w
ith three ten-pound bags of weed to show people and give John and Tom’s number out. The best time to do this was lunchtime. All the kids who were lucky enough to be spoiled by getting enough money to go to the local chip shop instead of the school cafeteria would be outside the chippy. “John, call your mate from the building site,” I said at 12:14 exactly. John rang his builder friend that he had known from school. Some ugly guy called Paul that I hadn’t met before. Paul confirmed he’d be leaving in 15 minutes and needs £220 worth if it’s good, and the emphasis was on ‘if’. He had said if it’s shit, he won’t want it.
At this, I told the McBride brothers I’m going to go out to try and sell three bags and get customers before leaving their house.
I spent the lunch break shoving an open bag of weed under more kids’ noses than I’d dare to remember. “Smell this, lad, it’s potent,” I said followed by, “take these numbers, my mates selling this 24/7 around the corner in the new estate.” Sales pitch over.
It was successful as well. I sold two ten-pound bags to a guy that lived near the chip shop ten minutes after getting there. I sold the last ten-pound bag to two school kids that went ‘halves’, paying £5 each. The chip shop was a five-minute walk from the McBrides’ house, and a two-minute walk from one secondary school and a five-minute walk from another secondary school. Prime hunting ground to secure cannabis deals, I thought as I walked back towards John and Tom’s house. There was a butcher’s, a hair salon, three corner shops and a chippy there. People would stand outside the shops after school, or sometimes older lads and girls would hang about there from time to time; but at lunchtime on a school day, there would always be 60 to 100 kids there. I planned to take full advantage of this every day. If I could, I’d get someone standing there wearing an A-Board with the McBride’s number to buy drugs. I’d be arrested in a day or two though, so that was fully out of the question. My brain was working overtime as I paced back to John and Tom’s house. I was walking faster than usual that it hadn’t even occurred to me how quickly I was walking. I’d always walked slow, just like my dad. I hated being rushed, I preferred to do things in my own time. I guess walking slow was my subconscious rebelling against having to be anywhere quickly. Walking slow and comfortably at ease was my way of saying I don’t rush for nobody. I walked quickly because I was walking for my own gain. I was rushing because I wanted to get somewhere quickly. I was walking quickly for me.
Chapter 5
I knocked John and Tom’s front door full of excitement. I had sold three ten-pound bags, but more importantly, I had spread the word really well considering my shop had only been open a few hours. John’s little brother, Tom, let me in—his eyes still red and glazed. The house still had a sweet smell of weed in the air. I plumped down on the sofa next to John, the coolness of the leather on the big black three-piece sofa felt soothing against my warm body. “My mate’s been and gone,” John said. He wasn’t smiling, so I expected bad news. Maybe he wasn’t happy with the size of the deals; maybe the stuff he could get elsewhere was better?
“Did he buy any?” I asked feeling deflated. “Cyrus, he bought 30 bags, mate,” John said as his poker face changed to a bright smile. I nearly jumped off my seat in excitement.
I dived at John and gave him a big hug. This was the best news of the day. I put my hand in my pocket to take out the £30 I had got from the deals I had sold at the chip shop. “So, we’ve got £330 so far. When we’ve sold another 34, my brother will bring the last 56, and we can all get paid.”
“Yes, that’s great, Cyrus. I think we’ll need the other half either tonight or tomorrow; this stuff is the best I’ve ever seen. My mate said if you keep it as good as this, he’ll buy 50 a week at least,” John said filled with optimism.
“I hope so, mate. I’ll call Daniel and see how he’s getting on. Did your builder mate’s work friends like it then?” I took my phone out and started to call my brother.
“Yes, they loved it,” John replied as Daniel’s phone rang in my ear.
“Yes, Cyrus, are you at John and Tom’s,” Daniel asked.
“Yes why? What’s up?” I replied.
“I need to come and pick up seven ten bags; my mates are giving me a lift to the McBride’s. I’ll drop them off to people and bring the money back to the McBride’s.”
“Yes, that’s cool with me,” I said. I didn’t care how they were getting sold or who to, as long as they were getting sold.
I sat in the McBride’s house for the rest of the day. I planned to go home just before 6:00 in the afternoon before my dad would get home. By 4:30, my brother had come and left three times and had just left to drop off another two bags. More of John’s friends had been to buy the odd ten bag, and there was now £490 in the pot. People had told my brother they would come after work. Some of John’s mates said they’d come after work to score as well. It had been a good day, but I know that a bunch of builders weren’t going to buy 30 bags every day, so I was not going to start counting chickens just yet. The three of us sat playing on the computer in the smaller living room which was what we would usually do at the McBride’s, but I had lost all interest in futile indulgence. My days of being stimulated by computer games were over.
I felt restless, like I should be doing something constantly. My instincts were telling me I could be doing something to improve business, but what? I was eager and ambitious.
At 5:30 in the afternoon, it was time for me to leave the McBride’s to go home. My brother had been back for the last hour, so I gave the three of them one last team talk and told them to call every person they had already called in the morning before I go home, which they did. It paid dividends as well, because a few people said they would be on the way soon. I wanted to wait to see the deals take place and make sure things went smoothly, but I couldn’t. It was time to go home.
As I walked back home with my brother, the journey felt different. The feelings I had in the morning of anxiety and anticipation had completely gone from my body. They had been replaced with a sense of achievement. It felt good. I still felt powerful, I felt like somebody. We took the turn for our estate and walked towards the bottom of the road to take the right turn towards our house—the last house on the right. As we did, I looked down the first and only right turn towards Trish’s house. Her battered old car was parked outside her house. I didn’t say anything out loud but told myself, my stuff is safe and sound. Walking into the house with my brother would take a bit of attention off of me. Skipping school was easy, getting away with skipping school was the hard part. My mum wasn’t too bad though; even if she found out, she’d most likely have a little nag at me but not tell my dad. If someone puts him in a mood, we’d all feel the brunt of it, so she didn’t want an unhappy house no more than I did. Plus, I only had three days left of school before I would be leaving school for good. Six weeks of school left, I couldn’t wait. I worked out that on Thursday when my school breaks up, I’d still have six days to pay Jason; so if I needed to, I could work flat out to make sure his money was all there. Obviously, I hoped it wouldn’t come down to that, but I was thinking of the worst-case scenario. Life had taught me to always plan and anticipate for the worst—anything else was a bonus.
Daniel let us in the house using his house key. “Mummm?” he shouted to check where she was to help me sneak to my room. No answer; she wasn’t in.
I ran to my room.
I sat on my bed imagining that this is how someone must feel after a long hard day at work. I kicked my trainers off to lie down for five minutes. Shit! I thought. I hadn’t called Olivia back. I told her I’d meet her to spend some time with her. I hadn’t even remembered I had a girlfriend; my brain had been so focussed on selling weed that I’d forgot she existed. I didn’t care though; she was of no use to me now. I had got with her because she was a conquest, but I had slept with her now, so the excitement had passed. I had stayed with her to pass the time when I was bored—basically just female company. I knew I wasn’t going to be bored anymore now I wa
s a drug-dealer. Plus, I had a new conquest, so I didn’t need her anymore. I didn’t feel like calling Olivia or spending time with her. As I lay on my bed, eyes closed in my shithole of a room, my thoughts raced. I wanted to be out doing stuff, but I knew it would be better to stay at home. At least when my dad came home, I’d be there. That would make him happy, giving him no excuse to nag me or try to put restrictions on my movements whenever I had to be out.
John and Tom knew exactly what they had to do, and my brother was helping them, so there wasn’t much I could do right this minute anyway.
I convinced myself to relax eventually, only with the knowledge that the McBrides were doing my bidding as I did. The rest of my evening consisted of my dad coming home, me having dinner, then pottering around the house. Instead of leaving the house, I decided to call the McBrides to see how things were getting on. As I sat on the thin mattress on my bed, the little digital clock on my bedside table read 9:15 at night; it was starting to get dark. I was eager to know if my brother, John or Tom had gotten any more sales. John’s phone rang in my ear as I sat in my room, with the TV providing some background noise to muffle the sound of my voice, so my dad couldn’t hear me on the phone. “Yes, Cyrus,” John answered.
“You all right, mate? How you getting on?” I asked.
“Well, mate, there’s about six people here chilling at the minute. Everyone is loving the bud, we’ve sold a bit more.”
“Oh yes, that’s good. How much money have we got in the pot now?” I asked to know where we stood in terms of paying Jason.
“We’ve got £590 in the pot; we’ll need the other half tomorrow, I reckon.” John sounded a little disappointed. I, however, was over the moon. It was our first day selling, and we were only £80 short of paying Jason. I was contented with that. “Oh, yes, Cyrus, why don’t you come down? Chris is here. Chris, he wants to talk to you.”