Inside Was The Fear || Short Story

The first time I ever sold crack was to this crackhead named Johnny Blaze. I think his first name actually was John, but nobody knew what his real last name was. The nickname came about because he would always ask everyone he met if they wanted to "get blazed." He'd meet you in the streets, or see you at the gas station, first he'd ask you for money, then next he'd say something like, "He man, you wanna get blazed?," or, "Hey let's get blazed," or, "You like to get blazed man?" He did it so predictably that people would see him walking down the street and yell, "Hey! Johnny Blaze!," out of their car at him as they passed. He became a sort of local celebrity. I didn't know any of this at the time. All I knew is that I was selling crack, and he was buying.

Selling drugs is not something I ever thought I'd be doing in my life. It just kind of happened. I had a respectable nine-to-five job at an accounting firm for about seven years. Everything about it was great except the actual job itself. It was absolutely soul crushing. I could not take it anymore, and I didn't feel that switching to a different occupation in the accounting field was going to be any better. I didn't want to work for anyone else anymore, I wanted to work for myself. I wanted to be an entrepreneur, and that's what I set out to do.

Becoming a drug dealer was not my first option. The first thing I tried to do was start up my own home cleaning service. I quit my job, and spent two months and all my remaining money and savings setting up the new business. I printed up a hundred flyers with all my prices and contact information on them and attached them to one hundred doors in a local upperclass neighborhood. I even proactively went to Walmart and bought a bunch of cleaning supplies. But then my phone service got cut off because I hadn't paid the bill.

For all I knew I could have had one hundred waiting customers who couldn't get ahold of me, and my goddamn phone company wouldn't turn my services back on. I had already quit my job and all of my eggs were in the one basket now, so I needed to find some way to make just enough money to turn my phone back on long enough to let my customers call me. So I went up to the library to use the internet and started searching for quick and easy ways of making money.

I remember I typed in something like, "self employment for somebody with good business skills," and I came upon this article titled, Drug Dealing and Legitimate Self-Employment written by an economist at the University of California. I was reading it and after a while I realized that this paper was all about me. It was describing me perfectly:

The nature of drug dealing makes it likely to be attractive to individuals who are less risk-averse, have more entrepreneurial ability, and have a preference for autonomy, all else equal. A review of past ethnographic studies provides evidence that drug dealers process especially high levels of these characteristics.

My interest peaked, I did a bit more searching and typed in, "how much do drug dealers make?," and found this article titled, Drug Dealing: It's All About The Money! and my jaw must've dropped to the floor in that library. I do believe I shouted out load, "Are you kidding me!?"

It said:

A drug dealer can make over $800,000 a year, selling to individual users. The best customer to have is a wealthy professional who is a hard-core addict, because they always pay. Other dealers only sell in bulk to dealers lower on the totem pole, and they make a little less. No matter the level of dealer, it is obvious the money is good!

I was absolutely sold on the idea, so I searched, "how to start being a drug dealer," and came up with some good information that I really took to heart, and then I headed out into the world with my plan just as my two hours of free internet access at the library was about to expire.

I took the bus down to the worst part of town I knew of: Cement City. It's a place right near downtown full of run-down abandoned buildings, everything's all cracked and boarded up, there's trash scattered all over the sidewalks and in the streets, weeds and grass grow out of the cracks, and the only businesses open are liquor stores and porn shops, but there are plenty of drug dealers.

I was a little scared, but not really. I've been around the block a few times in my day, and when things get hairy I know how to defend myself. I am a yellow-belt in karate and have taken a few aikido classes. More than anything I was concerned with finding someone who could supply me with some drugs to sell as fast as possible.

Only about a block from where the bus let me off I spotted a guy on the corner just standing around with big baggy clothes on and lots of tattoos. So I approached him with my offer.

He looked at me like I was crazy as I approached him.

"Good day to you sir!," I said cheerfully, "I hope sincerely I am not a bother to you. Could I by chance have a moment of your time?"

"What the fuck you want bruh?," He said, rather aggressively I must say, as he backed away slowly and reached into his pants pocket.

"Indubitably my good man! Indubitably! I require only a moment of your time. You see, I have a matter of inquiry with which I believe you may be of assistance to me!"

"Nah man, fuck all that shit, get the fuck outta here homie, we don't want none of that bitch ass cop shit around here fool. You ain't foolin' nobody dog. I know what's up, and I ain't done shit. I ain't done shit. You ain't got shit on me. Fuck up outta here with that shit!" He said, still backing away from me, looking nervously in all directions.

"No no no, my dear sir," I chuckled, "you misunderstand entirely! Tis' a matter of the utmost, for indeed, my inquiry may prove to be lucrative for you and I both! If only you'd allow me a moment of your time, kind sir, I do believe you'd find it worthwhile to indulge me! Please!"

"Nah, fuck all that B, I'm out!" He said, and he full-on sprinted down the street, leaving me standing alone on the street corner.

I wandered around in search of another potential contact for what seemed like hours. The streets were surprisingly barren after that first encounter, as if I was the only person there. Of course there were your normal mothers with strollers walking around and old homeless men sleeping on the sidewalk, but no young men that looked to be selling drugs.

It was almost dark and I was just about to give up when I finally spotted someone who looked to have potential. He had a black hoodie on over a flat-billed hat, and he had an aggressive cut to his beard. So I tottled over to him as casually as I could muster and disposed to ask him my question.

"What you need brotha?" He said, eyeing me skeptically through the smoke that billowed from his mouth after taking a drag off of a rather thin and wrinkly cigar. The smell was an intense leafy smell, almost like fresh-cut grass.

"Ah yes, good day to you sir, indeed, you perceive rightly I am in the market for a bit of information. You see I-"

"Cut the bullshit my dude, I ain't got no all day. What you need?" He said harshly.

"Ah yes, right, well then. You see I'm looking for a bit of an employment opportunity that would involve what you might colloquially refer to as drugs. Specially those of which I might sell in return for a profit." I said.

"Yeah I got that Kaliqual." He said.

"What?"

"Yeah I got that shit. How much you want? Dime sack? Nickel? What you need homie? I got it all."

"Well, yes well that's wonderful. I would require... well, let me ask you this: you see, I haven't any funds at the moment but I was hoping-"

"No funds? You think I'm out here slangin' for free? What, you think this is some kind of charity for junkies? Hell nah fool, you got me fucked up."

"No no no, you see I've done my research. I know that there is an agreement often made in which a dealer might 'front' a supply to his distributor and I was hoping for such an arrangement. You see, as you may have noticed, I do have rather high level communications skills and a business acumen of just the sort required to succeed in selling to individual users. If you could supply me now, I could return to you with a profit. This should be a win-win for us both!"

He looked at me skeptically for a long moment, saying nothing.

"You want to be a dealer?" He asked in a subdued tone.

"Why yes, quite precisely." I said. And then he erupted into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. He flailed his arms and jumped up and down and ran around in circles, howling like a wolf. Tears streamed down his face and I stood motionless and confused as he did this for a long and extended period of time.

"Okay look," he said, catching his breath finally, wiping tears from his eyes, and putting a hand on my shoulder, "I'ma let you push some weight. Aight? Here is a quarter, you take this, you go down that way two blocks, you stand on that corner next to that abandoned gas station. Aight? That's my spot so you won't get shot slangin' from there aight? Any body says anything about it you tell them to come see Big Tucci."

He handed me a clear plastic bag with several white rocks of drugs in them. I took it in my hand and thanked him profusely for the opportunity. I let him know that I wouldn't let him down.

"And look here," he said, "I need that shit sold tonight, and I need the money by tomorrow. I'll be right here."

"Absolutely! No problem sir, you can count on me!" I said.

"And if you try to screw me," he said, pulling a black pistol out from his waistline to show to me, "I'll fucking kill you. Aight?"

"Y- y- y- yes sir. You got it." I said, and then shambled down the dirty streets towards the corner he pointed out for me.

There I stood in the darkness. Waiting for my first customer. That's when the fear started to creep in a little more. There were police sirens in the distance, I could hear lots of shouting and swearing in the distance. I wondered if someone was being robbed or assaulted. There was also a baby crying somewhere around, and it was starting to get cold, but I stood and waited patiently, not wanting to disappoint Big Tucci.

After a long wait, a young man in baggy clothes came wandering around the corner and down the street towards me. I cleared my throat, patted the dirt from my clothing, slicked back my hair, and awaited his approach while playing it cool. I whistled a soft tune as he walked up to me, pretending not to notice him.

"Hey!" He said. His voice was very high and snippy. He had a gold chain hanging loosely from his neck and he was wearing a flat-billed hat that said LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR.

"Yes? How can I help you?," I said casually.

"What you doin' here man? You a cop?"

"No of course not!" I said, genuinely offended, "Why, I'm here selling drugs, I'm the furthest thing from a cop."

"Say it then. Say, 'I ain't no cop'."

"I just did!"

"No, say 'I ain't no cop so help me god,' I watch them shows, I know if you's a undercover cop you can't say you aint a cop because that's a lie, false advertisement, and then I'll when in court after, so say it!"

"I'm not a cop sir. There, now please I find this incredibly distasteful. Do you wish to transact with me or not."

"Yah man, word, let me get teener," he said, pulling out a wad of bills from his pocket.

"Uh, yes, a teener you say, of course," I pulled out my tiny clear bag with the little white rocks in it, and fingered them in my hand, hoping the secret would reveal itself to me eventually as I did so.

"Come on man, let's go, I aint' got no all day," he said.

"Well, of course, my good man, if you wouldn't mind, how many of these is a teener? If you don't mind my asking?" I said.

"Man, you innocent. Look at you youngsta. Out here slangin' dope and you don't even know what a teener is? You sure you ain't no cop?"

"No no no, absolutely not. You see, this is my first time, eh, slanging..."

"Uh huh..." He said, putting the wad of cash back into his pocket and looking around in all directions, "give it here I'll show you how to weigh it."

"Thank you," I said, and handed him the baggy, "I truly am grateful for your assistance in this matter. It is a great help."

"Aight now look," he said, holding up the baggy so I could see, "each one of these rocks is a g, aight?"

"Okay."

"And a teener, is slang for one sixteenth of an ounce, each one of these rocks is roughly about one and half grams, there are twenty eight grams in an ounce, so a teener should be, roughly, give or take, this whole bag here."

"Oh, I see, but wait, it seems your math might be off, if there are twenty eight grams in an ounce then -"

"Nah my math good. I been slangin' nineteen years homie. Trust me. Trust me."

"Well I can sell you the whole bag. That won't be a problem at all."

"Hold up. Last I checked game ain't free." He said, putting the baggy in his pocket.

"Well now hold on now, what are you trying to tell me?"

"People pay to go to college right?"

"Correct."

"People pay for books right?"

"Yes of course."

"So knowledge ain't free then, last I checked."

"Well, not in some cases but-"

"Well then that knowledge I just dropped for you ain't free neither. So we even. Peace." He said, and then began walking down the street without paying me anything. All I could think about was Big Tucci's pistol, so, against my best judgement, I chased after him.

"Come back here you!" I shouted, running after him.

He ran away from me, but I quickly caught up to him as I used to run track in college. I tackled him to the concrete right in the middle of the street and I pinned him to the ground shouting, "Gimme back my drugs!"

"Okay okay, I'll pay, I'll pay!" He shouted.

"Fine!" I yelled, with him still pinned to the ground.

He pulled out the wad of money and peeled off three one-hundred dollar bills and pushed them into my hand.

"Three hundred dollars?" I said, surprised at how much he had given me.

"Yah man, you gave me three rocks, a hunned each right?"

"Erm, right. Yes, that's right." I said. And then I let him up. He brushed himself off as I marveled at the money in my palm. I couldn't believe how much it was.

"So," he said, "you wanna go get blazed man?"

"Indubitably." I said.

• KG

P.S. And remember, there's a moral to this story kids: Don't do drugs.

In the order they appear:

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