In New York City, anything can be delivered straight to your doorstep, from Chinese food to rare antique furniture – to the best weed on planet Earth. That’s right, instead of scoring a sh!tty dime bag from a dude in Washington Square Park, New Yorkers can just call a number and have a bud-toting bike messenger show up at their apartment with a buffet of different strains of weed – Purple Haze, Kush, Sour Diesel – they’ve got it all. We caught up with one of these drug delivery men who agreed to tell his tale here on COED. This is his story, from his perspective.
Motherf*ckers, I’m a bike rider, musician, writer and drug dealer in New York City.
In order to pay my rent, I bike like crazy all day and all night, and check out girls jogging, you know, love them for their strength, and try and figure out why their ponytails flip around like perfect infinity signs. In order to get that sh!t done and to talk to you, to write to you, I’ve got to sacrifice my ethics, and my good name. Feel funny every time a cop looks at me. Hide my identity and stink like sh!t.
I used to sell shoes and I couldn’t take it anymore. Making those beautiful girls laugh and selling them crazy sh!t to wear on their feet and then they leave and we wouldn’t even have sex in the stock room or get married or get drunk on my lunch break. I mean, I’ve got a backpack with a thousand dollars in weed in it and I’m biking in West Village on a Friday night and there’s parades of gay, black teenagers and I’m like, there’s everything in the world and I’m coming from my publicist’s house, I have a rock band and I’m just trying to make it, you know?
I’m coming from my fat, wretched publicist’s house and he wanted me to trade him weed for publicity and I was like, why don’t you buy the first bag? You know, to get us started. And all he could do was be fat and wretched and not give me money and not roll a joint.
I’m coming from the publicist’s house and this homeless guy with one leg and a piece of floss tied on one of his lips, holding his bloody, fucked up lip together like home surgery, he’s got one leg and he’s in a wheelchair going backwards in the bike lane and he wants to race me.
And I’m like, “Get the f*ck out of the way!”
And he’s like, “Come on motherf*cker, let’s race, you can’t beat me!”
And I try to just go around him and I got cabs on my left and this sad, deranged madman on my right and he’s going faster and faster so I start going faster and the motherf*cker hits a pothole and flies out of his wheelchair and smashes into my front wheel and I just manage to hold it together and not spill and not get hit by a car and not die and I look back and he’s laid out in the street, bathing in a cab’s headlights, and I got to make sure he’s okay – but I got a thousand dollars of high grade weed in my backpack and, are there any cops around? And I almost finished college and I was born smart, how the f*ck did I get myself doing this crazy shit?
Bike and stare at girls and almost die and sweat and sweat to bring high grade marijuana to people’s apartments. They let me in their house and I reek of B.O. and kind weed. I stare at the art or whatever kind of bullsh!t they have on the wall. I check out their furniture. I’m always trying to look at everything and I wonder what they have in their fridge and I think, this is pretty cool.
This is like a kind of anthropology, seeing the world, better than being a toll booth operator because there’s more exercise involved and there’s the possibility of beautiful sex in the afternoon with strangers. Isn’t there? I mean, it hasn’t happened yet but I don’t think there’s a delivery man in all the 5 Burroughs that doesn’t dream of some hot, rich bitch in a penthouse, you know, with nothing better to do all day than scratch the walls and drink champagne and lay around in lingerie and fuck the guy that brings her flowers, the guy that brings the pizza, the postman, the UPS guy, the want-to-be-Bukowski that gets her stoned and likes to talk about movies and beauty and lay around in lingerie waiting for me to take their money, get them high, and f*ck them while the skyscrapers rape the sky
More soon.
Don’t forget to check back each week for the next installment!
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thank you for wasting 2 minutes of my life
much appreciated
I’ve heard better drug accounts from middle schoolers.
this was the stupidest sh!t ever
…and then i found 20 bucks
No wonder he sells weed, he never learned to read.
Hold Up… This guy is an aspiring writer? Middle schoolers would tell better tales about selling dope because they could write much better…
I can empathize with the dude’s plight though, having supported myself in college and Hoboken, NJ by running my own service for a time (aka – I bought my supply, weighed the eights and placed them in neat little glass tubes myself – why? builds a brand and allows me to charge a higher mark-up), and he is right – you stink all day long, and no matter how much you smoke, you feel the stress of being locked up and then having to tell your parents or worse, lose your downtown manhattan job with a big financial firm.
Sometimes, it would take two weeks to break even (meaning you covered your cost and had enough for your next score) and then everything else you sold was pocket money – which was great. Other times, it would take over a month.
At the end of the day, it is not a glamorous job. If you deal for someone else, you will never make enough money for the risk you take and if you never ran a business before, you are guaranteed to make some mistakes that would make you second guess doing it anyways.
I know a ton of people still in the game, because a lot of people deal dope – hopefully you can find someone else to right a better column (i.e. – somebody who can function high) – because there is a lot of “glamor” out there, but it’s really a hard job, no matter how much bank you make.
I’d fuck you in the afternoon
This wasn’t too bad, but dude please please please let the writer read this because if there is one thing that you must know about women. We, like cleanliness. Now me, I’m madly in love with my guy that does construction work, so I like it when he’s been working hard and gets a little sweaty. But you must realise that 99.9 percent of beezies out there get gag reflex wretches, you know the kind where you’re trying not to hurl but your throat and stomach had a little conversation and are totally single minded in you expelling the contents of your stomach. Well that’s exactly how every chick feels when she is in the presence of someone rotting in their own b.o. fumes. It then flows logically in the mind that hey if this guy smells like he hasn’t showered in a month, then he probably hasn’t. And he probably has never clipped his happy patch, so it’s a dirty, tangled, dredlocked wasteland with flecks of dickcheese and patchouli oil surrounding his man-wand and balls o fun. So for god’s sake, don’t dress sloppy and dirty, don’t let that bullshit natural crystal deoderant be the only attention you give your armpits. Clean, clip, shower, scrub, wash your asshole, and balls, because women have a keen sense of smell and they will sniff around your trousers from chest level to sniff any horrid wafting evidence of funk. So in long, you are never evah evah goin to get you some high quality upper east west whatever the fuck it is poontangalangadingdong if you don’t clean yourself, dress cute, put on hot cologne, like hugo boss, polo sport, duc de vervins, shit like these specific ones, and ask women what cologne they like too. Then when you are dressed comfortably and cutely, cologned, cleaned, no need to be clean shaven but just don’t have an actual beard, when you look like you’re coming up in the world, are trying to come up, have the genes in your nuts that make for a go getter, then some of these go getter hot beezies may want to suck those genes out of you. But no way in hell are you going to get to push the poodle if you’re some sweaty, dirty, greasy, hairy, stoner that’s stoned and staring at my cleavage. Please man, put yourself in chicks place, ick!
Come on now.
stupid and poorly written.
You think new york has the best weed on planet earth…
Man thanks alot for blowing up the motherf**kin spot!!!! ASSH***!!! Its bad enough we have cops stoppin minorities over bs n now they have even more reason because of D**KS like u! This shit is stupid n now I hope the bust ur dumb ass for making it harder for every1 else tryin to do thier thing! U r not the only bike messenger out there on to this, but thanks for confirming that with law enforcement! JERK
Where can I place my order?
im calling bullshit on this guy. ridiculous
This was excellent. I love it. Can’t wait to read more.
Where was he coming from AGAIN?!?!?
Jesus, dude. I’m with the guy who berated you for posting this. As someone who enjoyed this service immensely in a nearby city, you’re an idiot for putting this out there like this.
Good people sell and buy, and exposure like this puts them risk. Describing for the police what to look for if they want to start busting these dudes was really brilliant.
And damn: you do not have the skills to write stoned, so please stick to your day job.
Dumb ass
suxx
Nice shit.
So what, specifically, is wrong with his writing? I thought it was an engaging piece, and was only bothered by the repetition of “and lay around in lingerie” and the missing final period.