Did I get in a fight with my weed dealer because I was high? Or did I get high because I was in a fight with my weed dealer? The answer is both. Shortly after the misunderstanding, I found myself passing around a splif at a dinner party and asking friends, “Was it all my fault?” Most of them didn’t respond – a sign that, yes, it was all my fault. But what about my dealers before this one, where did those relationships go wrong?
There were the ones I only had to meet once to know it would never work; like the guy who took hours to deliver, had a $100 minimum, and his weed was weak. I smoked his pot once prior to purchasing it and determined it to be bad, but called him out of desperation. I had just moved to Astoria and didn’t know anyone else who would deliver to that area, so I convinced myself that the strain I had previously smoked was a one-off. “This time will be different,” I thought. The relationship ended with me pissed off – pissed off that I spent $100 on dirt weed, and even more pissed off that I second-guessed myself. Okay, not really. I was definitely more upset about the money.
Then there was the one in Astoria who I stayed with for a year because I was settling. I wasn’t in love, but I got comfortable despite her charging $60 for a NYC “eighth,” as opposed to my preferred $50. Considering how much pot I smoke, I should be buying in bulk, but for me that’s in the same category as opening a 401k or getting health insurance: the “when I grow up” category. The quality of her weed wasn’t consistent and she eventually got needy; if she didn’t hear from me for a while, she would text to remind me that she was still around. Then she started sending me invites to her play productions, regardless of the fact that I couldn’t remember her name.
It’s easy to understand why those realtionships failed, but what about the ones I loved? Why did they end?
My first great New York City pot dealer was friends with my roommate, when I lived off the Graham L. He had a full-time job so his window for delivery was small, but every time I bought from him, he would throw in extra, just for good measure – once even giving me two pills of Ecstacy for free. He was really paranoid about what could be said in text messages, yet would go on the subway with a backpack full of drugs when cops were frequently conducting bag searches at our station.
One day, I received an Evite from him for an exclusive party taking place in the East Village, the address of which was disclosed only an hour before the event. My roommate assumed it was a sting operation set up by the cops. I had hoped it would be like something out of Eyes Wide Shut. Instead we were served marijuana-infused cocktails at a sports bar while unsuspecting patrons watched football – a close second to engaging in a masked orgy with a secret society.
Our relationship started to sour a few weeks after the party when I texted him from my job in downtown Manhattan. My plan was to meet him in the bathroom of a nearby Starbucks, but he remembered where I worked from a previous conversation, and sent the bartender from the party into my office. The guy made it obvious that he was there to sell me drugs — an offense which, if my boss hadn’t also been a huge pothead, could have gotten me fired. I was furious and knew that I had to end it. I needed someone who I didn’t have to text at weird hours. I needed someone who was more available.
A few months later, I was told he had gotten busted and would only continue dealing to a handful of selected people. I called him when I moved to Queens, but he wouldn’t take me back.
My second love affair occured when I was living in the East Village. This dealer came immediately when I called and the weed was dope (pun intended). Our relationship was flawless; we were practically in the honeymoon stage the entire time. Unfortunately, he only sold to people below 24th street, so I had to end it when I moved to Queens. I think about him from time to time. He was the one that got away.
Then there’s my most recent break-up. I was given the number of a delivery service last summer when I moved near the Bedford L. Their name is a Seinfeld reference, so I guess you could say it was love at first sight. But it’s over now. It all started when I texted the headquarters and was told it would be an hour and a half. In the meantime, I got ripped off the remainder of my pot and was dancing around my bedroom half naked to Janet Jackson when I heard pounding on the front door of my apartment.
Normally the delivery guy would text when he was downstairs, then buzz my intercom. I’ve been stoned and heard loud knocks like these before – they come from cops. I figured my dealer had been busted and I started panicking. Seeing as how I don’t have a peephole, I sat down on the floor to try and put things in perspective.
After only 30 seconds, he attempted to enter my apartment, but the door was locked. This led me to believe that he wasn’t a cop, but a rapist trying to break in. Ten minutes later, the headquarters started calling and texting me. I then realized that I’ve seen way too many Law and Order episodes (all of them) and that the person outside my door was in fact my normal delivery guy, but I left him outside far too long to ever let him in. I decided my best option was to sit five feet away from the door while he knocked obsessively.
An hour later, I sent them a text apologizing and saying I had fallen asleep. It was a cowardly move, I admit, but it seemed easier than explaining that I mistook their deliveryman for a cop and/or rapist. They never wrote back: the silent treatment. I moped around all day upset (and with “That’s the way love goes” stuck in my head).
I didn’t think I would be able to fall in love again. I mean, how many great weed dealers are there in the sea? Or Brooklyn, for that matter. But surprisingly, I rebounded immediately. I got the number of a service that came within the hour, their weed was $50 for an actual eighth, and it was strong. We’ve only had one date so far, but I’m ready to make a commitment. They made it into my top five New York City weed delivery services. Top five with a bullet.