We last left off in this tale having just received the second part of what we are calling the Blue Dream Dab Job. This job was pretty stressful the whole way through, as we never knew if we would have any more work after we finished. We were on thin ice with the people we were living with and were doing whatever we could to make this job happen so we could get out and move on. They'd already tried to get rid of us once, so we wanted to try and leave before they could do so again. At the time, we were living in our tent but the weather was getting cold as Oregon headed into winter.
Magic, the woman who owned the house, had a son from another marriage living with her. Naturally, R and this son, who I'll just call Jeff, clashed. Jeff was a pretty angry kid hell bent on going into the marines (he thought it was expected of him, didn't know what else to do). R intended to move Jeff outside into the shed in the back of the property, one formerly used for sheep. This was partially to get him out of the house, considering they really didn't like eachother. They just needed to build a wall and put in a wood stove and the rest would be up to Jeff to make things more comfortable.
Needless to say, Jeff really didn't give a fuck about his room. He did the bare minimum and spent all of his time inside the main house, because he actually didn't know how to chop wood, start a fire or use a wood stove. While all of this was going on, we lived in our tent and were doing our work in the car port tent, which was quickly filling with shit.
On that property with that family lived an old man who wasn't related to any of them. He was a sketchy old man that honestly gave you weird vibes. From what I can tell, he had a bit of money and food stamps that he offered the household, leeching off the family life from a family that wasn't his. He had no friends or family from his own life, suggesting he wasn't a very likeable man for most of his life. He had a crush on me and would come and stand in the kitchen whenever I was in there, staring at me while I cook or clean. It was this old man that was a huge part of the reason why I stopped cleaning and cooking for that family, although he definately wasn't all of it. He was more the straw that broke the camels back in that situation.
The tent we were working on got filled with his stuff, as the person who was holding onto it no longer wanted it around. I don't blame them, it was a lot of random shit that he was too old to use. He kept talking of plans to build a free energy motor, among other things, but none of it was ever going to come to fruition. He was barely able to navigate around the property; his rv was known for being straight up disgusting to the point where no one but him would go in it. As time progressed, it became much more difficult to work in that tent, so we started using Jeff's shack.
It had a power hookup, a good roof and it was relatively empty, all things we were looking for. The bad part was that there was a dirt floor, so you had to be really careful not to kick dust into the air during the dab making process. What ends up in the air has a potential to end up in the dabs, which is bad news. We did our shifts in there, using the wood stove when we weren't actually blowing.
Within a few days of us using the building, R came and talked to us and told us that we should move into the shed. We could stay there, with the wood stove and be more out of the weather than we were in that flimsy tent. It had to look funny, I was chopping firewood for the place and his son in law wasn't. Considering Jeff never spent any time in there and we were already working in there, we agreed and moved in. Within a day, John was using clear plastic to attempt to create a cleaner working environment.
Almost immediately after moving into the shed, we were kicked out of the kitchen. When we were told this, R said he had already talked to "everyone else" and that it was a blanket thing, the only exclusions being the people who lived in the house and his son, who lived in the other shed by that point. It turns out that we were the only ones kicked out of that kitchen. Quite hilarious considering I was the only one cleaning it for over a month. We had a wood stove, and our own cast iron pans we brought from home, so we agreed to their demands. Not only did our food taste better, but we didn't have to deal with the craziness of the house, or creepy stares from the old man.
At this point, most of my food was being provided by me or the local food banks. I took to only taking something from the kitchen if I had something to replace it with, and I generally only went for food bank items. I'd ask and try and barter for anything else, almost always getting funny looks. Despite this, there were still whispers that we were stealing food and eating everything in the house. Awful ironic, as those whispers were coming from the fattest man in the house, one with a ridiculous vendetta against us.
Not only we were having issues with our living situation, our heat gun was on the fritz during the second leg of the job. That heat gun is quite possibly the most important tool in John's method of making dabs, so if it were to break it'd be quite a big deal. Due to how much it had been used, the fan seemed to be having problems making it quarky at best. John did what he could with what he had and finished the second part of the job, although it became clear we were going to need a new heat gun soon.
Despite the shit living and working conditions, we continued to defy the odds and make things happen there. We were selling weed to our neighbors, which was covering our food costs. We intended to send the dabs to a friend back east, to have him sell and send us bitcoin. With this, we intended to finally get the hell out of Oregon and on the way to Acapulco, the freedom rich promised land.
All photos and content are mine and original. The story is true, to the best of my memory. It happened about a year ago, while we were stranded in Oregon trying to get out of the country, on the run.