Don't You Have Any Balls?

A while back, my friend R and I talked about the old times at the One Way drug store that was operating in Slater Park. We still can't believe that that parking lot where all the kids hung out managed to get away with what they did then for over nine months before the cops decided to shut it down. A week later, the same crew showed up at Pascale's trucking and used their dirt lot as a newer pharmacy for all of the teens to drive by and pick up what they wanted.

R and I thought, why didn't we get into it too? The selling and the rivers of money that came from doing that? We both were close enough to the whole thing to nearly be “part” of it except we didn't sell , we just hang out. We both agreed that neither of us had the balls to do it. We were two of a kind, worry worts who would see pitfalls first and not the sunny positive side. But even so, people far dumber than we, far 'tupiter ( 'tupiter is a local Pawtucket term for stupid), managed to succeed wildly with it. We then thought, with our common sense and the fact we could read and write, we might have done better than they.

No, we two didn't possess what those others had which was a street smart sense that enabled them to smell trouble, cops or detectives when it was in the air. We didn't have the childhood learned skill which taught one how to be a petty thief and liar. These other kids had a particular childhood that taught them well and prepped them for a career in teen dope selling. R and I may have been “friends” of these guys, but we'd never let them watch our wallet for four minutes either. They were that kind of people. It was sort of like palling around low level mafia, but you didn't want one of them dating your daughter.

Had we created our own part time jobs at Slater Park, we both figured that by the time we were eighteen, we'd amass, each, probably $20,000 for our own. Not a bad figure to have in your bank account when your a senior in highschool in 1982. We picked the age of eighteen because being busted with half a pound of pot when your a minor was no real problem then. Imagine that if you can? Being a minor, before the draconian laws against drug dealing were created, a minor would've been sent home to his parents with a good “talking too” from the judge. Things were so different then. We weren't greedy enough I guess to over come our hesitation at trying this lucrative trade.

There were guys we did know who did it didn't stop at eighteen. They kept at it and finally amassed enough cash to create a start up businesses. By amass I'm talking easily over $100,000. All of them I knew who built a “legit” business have managed to keep them going or expand them. Why get a business loan from a bank when you can use shoe boxes full of $100s?

Today, these guys in are in their mid forties, married with teen kids. At BBQ's, they compare the tuition at Bay View Academy and Mount St Charles. They now see retirement on the horizon and IRA's are spoken of. On the lighter side, the best material for decks by the pool is discussed. The American Dream captured! These guys finally gained respectability. To look at them today, they are balding, some with bellies and others with crow's feet and you'd never guess in a million years what they were doing at 16.

Another reason why we never did it was due to the fact R and I never really smoked pot on a regular basis. Those who did, got their start in dealing because if they sold enough, small amounts, they'd managed to have an ounce or two leftover for their personal use. Some of them stopped right there.

And then there were the kids at Slater Park who realized that doing this was easy money, really easy money. How many 16 year olds did you know who drove that year's latest sports car? We knew kids who bought new four-wheelers, snow mobiles and other toys like that. What did their parents think? You'd be surprised. Alot of them were selling or probably giving their Mom's and Dads free pot. And in one instance, I knew of one Dad who was actually sort of proud his teen son was pulling in $600 a week from his little operation.

But R and I, never really smoked enough to be motivated to sell so we'd have our own little baggie. Nor did we need to ply our parents with dope to continue living at home once we graduated high school. Add to that that all the other little skills needed to be a street level dealer. Damn our parents for raising kids who played by the rules (most of the time).

And the crowd that was pushing cocaine? That crew was very dangerous and their mentality was certainly different than your laid back pot dealer. A pound of ditch weed might have gone for $500 in 1982. A kilo of coke was $10,000 out of Central Falls. By the time it hit Boston, it was $23,000. That's serious money and when it gets that large, people tend to arm themselves, with Mac-10's. You can make your purchase in CF, drive up 95 to Southie or Somerville and come home with $13,000 profit. Jesus H Christ.

R and I made our money the old fashioned way, we worked for it. What idiots we were! Well, that's what we told ourselves when we looked back on it. R could've started his business without the intrusion of Bank of America and I, being the cheap son of a bitch that I was then, would've just banked it. Ah well, neither of us had the guts, skill or mentality for it.