Hollywood has played its part in developing plenty of mythology around illicit drugs, and dealers are no exception — BMWs, automatic weapons, chest hair and gold chains. An Australian dealer talks of the trials and tribulations of his chosen profession...
“God you get annoyed with people asking for tic [credit] all the time. Why the fuck can’t they go out and earn a dollar or two? At least from my point of view it’s honest. I just provide a service. It’s a job, I work hard and think and plan ahead every day, I work Xmas and holidays. I get woken up at 3 am and I don’t whinge about it. I trudge down the street at 3 am, giving you what you want.
What do you think this costs me? I have to constantly look for new sources, make new deals and arrangements so that when you call me, it’s there. It’s a business, and I work to support my own habit and lifestyle.
You want smack but you can’t get up off your arse and earn a few dollars to pay for it. You want to take out your speed psychosis on me??? Fuck me dead, some days I think it’s not worth the effort.
Okay, my opinions certainly change rather rapidly. An hour ago, I was saying “No way, I’m giving this shit up”. Now, with the added bonus of hanging out, it becomes a definite maybe. In two hours time, I’ll be vomiting my little heart out and it becomes an urgent “Get the fuck out there and earn your money, boy”!
I don’t see it as either bad or good — it’s a job, I do it to live. It’s the only job I can do, that I’m qualified for, and I’m good for. Other wise I could do what? Collect the dole and sit home watching my miserable existence pass by daily, slowly, second by fucking second? The proletarian nightmare, sitting in front of a TV and limiting my life, waiting for channel Nine to justify my existence! Days of our Drearies indeed!!!
And when you do it for this long, you do it right. Its not a bad job. The fringe benefits — meeting all sorts of interesting and colourful exotic people — certainly makes up for some things. The downfalls are certainly apparent. Incarceration is always just a phone call away, but that’s not something I even consider. I haven’t been there yet and don’t intend to in the very near future, because I’m good at my job, and my job is a good job. Fuck, at least I have a job.
Today I got up and went to work. I get up every day and go to work. Its part of who I am, and I’m just like Mr and Mrs Joe average, at the end of the day I go home and wait for you to ring me with your requirements of my services.
Unlike a lot of people, I am fair, honest and conscientious and fucking reliable. That’s why you call me at 3 am, because I can always get on. Don’t you wish you had my number?????
I’m no saint, don’t get me wrong. I need this stuff I use everyday, just like you Mr Prole, sitting there shaking and wanting your beer after work, to steady your nerves. If I don’t have it, I get sick and it hurts like nothing you can ever imagine and nothing you’ve ever experienced. I know if I don’t go to work, I can’t take a sickie. I know that it really costs me, really costs me if I choose to take a day off work.
Yes my life is often criticised, I’m the big bad dealer, the one who allows those hopeless junkies to exist, who makes their lives worthwhile. I’ve never once sold drugs to someone who hasn’t used before. I don’t solicit business. I don’t stand outside your schools and entice children to try something new. I even dispose of properly. Fuck, druggies and junkies and whores and hookers and even us dealers have families. Fuck hurting the kids, our kids are as important to us as your kids are to you. So we shoot safe, we fuck clean and we look after our own!”
- Chaplin
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