style='font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman"'>Dealing

I made my first deal back in 1960. A few of us bought an ounce and cut it up into five nickel bags, so that we could have our own bag for free. I did that kind of minuscule dealing on and off for years. In those days, dope was hard to come by, and when there was none around, I wouldn't smoke. Once I went two years without any.
    But I've been a serious dealer for only a year and a half. Before that, I was involved as a financial investor for a business run by a friend, and gradually I took it over.
    It's hard work, but I love it. It was the one business I could do at home and make enough money without spending forty hours someplace. I used to make $850 a month as a therapist, working up to fifty hours a week. I'm now making twice that much with the dope business, and I spend less time and energy than I did with my patients.
    I plan to leave the business in four or five months. All the dealers I know, in fact, are planning to make a certain amount of money and get out, or else they are supporting their real love—art, writing, filmmaking, social work, or something else they really want to do. Or else they're accumulating capital for an antique store, or some other small business. The happy dealers I know are those who have a project, a dream. Those who don't are desperately casting around for something to do with their money, and they'll continue to cast around until they find it. For the people I know—and this may not be typical—living well is not the goal.
    But leaving the business is easier said than done. There's a temptation to keep going, to make a little more money, enough to buy some clothes, have some savings, perhaps get a new car. These are real temptations. Dope businesses are routinely sold, but nobody has yet figured out how to determine a fair price. The only thing you have to go on is how much income it produces each month.
    Part of the process of building a business is to watch it on paper, and I do this very carefully, and learn a lot from doing it. I have developed a good accounting system, measuring inventory, assets, and so forth. The more I learn about how the business works, the better decisions I can make for it.
    For me, and the people I know, the price of an ounce is usually 10 percent of the price at which we sell a pound; that's the general rule of thumb.
    It's a cash only business; checks are discouraged, and anything else that will leave a trace. But credit is a large part of the business; it's called fronting. I have to make an estimate on the credit worthiness of every customer who wants credit. I keep my accounts in a special book like any other businessperson.
    Lots of people have to wait until their monthly paycheck comes in. And I have welfare recipients who wait for their checks before they can pay me. Also, I supply other dealers, usually on a fronting basis; when you sell it, you pay. The pound might go for $500. Well, can you pay me $100 now? And when do you think you'll have the rest for me? By the end of the week?
    A dealer plays a lot of roles. I supply a lot of information, and I'm also a conduit for news because customers tell me things that I then pass on to other customers. Sometimes it's information about dope, but it could also be about an apartment for rent, or an honest car mechanic. I'm a known figure, which is both good and bad. The dope dealer is a personality in the community, and she can also be, at various times, a servant, a bartender, a teacher, a guide, a therapist, and a friend.
    Most people will find a dealer by accident, somebody who lives in their building, perhaps, or somebody their friend buys from. Referrals are everything. There's also stiff competition; I do my best to have lower prices and better dope, when that's possible, and especially a nicer buying atmosphere.
    A few of us dealers have a loose coalition. We call it a family, because we're all part of the same affinity group, the same community. Sometimes we all get together, a bunch of us women dealers from the area, but people get tired of talking about business all the time.
    Everybody in our family has a sense of honor about the business. We do things in an honest way. We don't gyp people. We're not fly-by-night operations. We do things with a certain style: a dealing room, a display case, fixed prices and a price list. We don't associate with dealers who are strung out on any drug, especially coke, because those people are rude and undependable. They're shaky and flaky, and they say one thing today and another thing tomorrow.
    Most dealers are in favor of legalization. They figure that when it's legalized, they will be the only people running around who have any experience in the business. And they'll get fat jobs with the cigarette companies. The dealer will walk in with a resume a mile long and say, "Here I am, I'm an expert, I've been dealing for ten years." And where else are they going to get the experts?
    I've undergone some changes in my own smoking. When I started in the business, I used to smoke a great deal, because customers would come in and they'd take advantage of the opportunity to sample anything they wanted. And every few minutes somebody would be passing me a joint, usually of the best stuff, stuff they sample even if they have no intention of buying it. But it started to interfere with my business dealings. It was difficult to weigh and measure and add up figures, so I decided not to smoke until after dark. At night, when people are gone, is when I enjoy my pot.
    People are always rolling up joints, taking three or four puffs, and leaving the rest in the ashtray. So I have a huge pile of roaches. In my personal opinion, it's just an old myth that roaches are more potent. People talk about third- and fourth-generation weed, because they take all those roaches and roll them into new joints, and all that. All I know is that it tastes lousy, it tastes like ashes, and it doesn't interest me at all.
    I don't know any dealer who abstains completely. Many dealers are stoned all the time, but most heavy smokers will occasionally go without smoking for a week or two, to clean out their systems, and so they can enjoy getting high again.
    One of the side gains of all this for me was to open up my social life to many more kinds of people; currently, there are about two hundred, all in a relationship of trust with me. Some of my clients have asked to see me as patients, but I don't think it's a good idea to mix the two worlds. Dealing is very pleasurable, but it's also very intense. I get worn out at the end of the day, and I prefer to spend most of my evenings alone.
    No matter what business you're in, you want your customers to come back, you want to satisfy them. I do what I can, within the limits of security. I know I've done everything I can to make the business safe. There's nothing more I can do. Now I have to stop worrying; I can't go around being paranoid all the time. When I began, I had to decide whether I was willing to risk going to jail. I had to think about what jail was like, and whether I could survive it, and what the repercussions would be. Was I willing to take the consequences? But I knew I could survive it, and could go on to do something else, even if it were not the profession I'm trained for. I've had other changes in my life, and I could survive this one too.