Stealing Your Neighbor’s MDMA: Part 1

Illustration by Chad Mitchell

 

 

Isabelle is a 25yrold non-profit worker who lives in San Francisco. She’s clever tongued and speaks in a fast smoke-tinged voice. She is respected at the office and dedicated to her work with kids, “I’m sure it will be pleasant for people to know I’m looking after their children.” After work she’s been known to cut loose with the best of them. She was twenty-three when this story happened.
(The following is derived from a recorded interview and the names have been changed for obvious reasons.)

At the time, I was living in SOMA, on 11th and Mission, with my sister. We were really close with all our neighbors in the building, which is why I loved living there. We’d been there eight months, when this gentleman named Jason moved in next door.

Jason was a drug dealer. He sold everything: weed, cocaine, mushrooms, acid, molly and ecstasy. Turned out, he was more of a drug user than a dealer. Once, he showed me a poem he’d written while on crack, about using crack, but he never tried to sell me any.

Physically, I’d describe Jason as a noodley guy. He was small with a scrawny build and scraggly, grease-laden hair. He was a skater. If I was much shorter and he hadn’t been a crackhead, I might have found him attractive.

I was close with all his roommates, so I started hanging out with him too. At first, I didn’t realize the extent of his insanity. One morning I ran into him on the front stoop, he had just returned home after being out all night. He started crying and was coming down from a bunch of drugs.

I felt bad for him. He was really upset about the state of his life. I invited him into my apartment, cooked him breakfast and we talked about his problems. That was the first time I let him in our apartment; mistake number one.

A few of weeks later, I ran into him outside the apartment building again. He said he’d lost a sheet of acid in his bedroom and asked if I’d help him find it. I said yea.

We went up to his apartment. He’d turned this room into a fucking crack den.

His mattress was on the floor. There was a television with a hole punched in the middle of the screen. It was still turned on and glowed blue. All the walls were covered in graffiti. I stepped on the carpet and water squished beneath my feet. I said, dude your room is flooded. He said he’d been drinking the other night and let a whole bag of ice melt. The floor was a carpet-puddle blanketed in trash.

I said, “We’re not going to find your acid in here. If it’s on the ground it’s going to soak through my shoes and I’m going to get really fucked up.”

He said I’d be okay if I sat on the bed. I sat down and he pulled out a massive bag of cocaine, a bag of molly (pure MDMA), and a bag of mushrooms. He asked me if I wanted to do some lines and drink.

I said yea, fine, whatever.

He mixed a gross jungle juice concoction of tequila, rum and various fruit juices. I started getting really wasted. Then he started laying out lines from the hefty bag of cocaine (it could’ve been more than an eight ball).

We sniffed a bunch of coke. Somehow it devolved into him asking if I wanted to do a line of cocaine off his penis.

I was like, well, I’ve never really done that before, it’s one of those rites of passage if you will, so I figured what the hell, fuck it.

I did a fat line of coke off his penis. Basically, it was a semi-flaccid penis with cocaine spewed over it and I put my nose on it. He was on so many drugs I don’t think he could have gotten a full boner. I got really fucked up, so I’m assuming it served its purpose. We didn’t have sex, just sniffed cocaine off of weird body parts.

That was the second mistake.

About a week later, my sister went out of town and I invited my friends Kate and Sarah over for drinks.

On this particular night, another friend named Mike was staying in the city and asked if he could crash at our house sometime late that night. I told him I’d leave the front door open and he could just come in and crash in my sister’s bed.

So that night, my girlfriends Kate and Sarah came over. Sarah lived next door. Then Jason stopped by with his girlfriend who was also super crazy. She was a young, blonde Asian girl with hipster glasses who was always on an unheard of amount of pharmaceuticals. They wanted to hang out. So the five of us went into the bottom room of our apartment and started partying hard, getting really fucked up, drinking and snorting cocaine. They had other drugs on them, which I respectfully and responsibly declined. At about 4am, I called it quits and told everyone I had to wake up for work tomorrow morning.

Kate and Sarah went upstairs to my bedroom while I walked Jason and his girlfriend to the door. After seeing them out, I found my friends in the bathroom giggling hysterically.  Sarah said, “Jason dropped this massive zip-lock bag of molly and I took it.”

She held up a sandwich bag filled with 3 inches of white powder. Molly is pure MDMA, basically ecstasy that isn’t cut with speed or meth. It was an ounce of molly, maybe two, probably worth a couple thousand dollars.

I said, “Dude, I’m gonna sell it! We’re gonna make so much money!”

For a second I actually believed he wouldn’t notice its absence. A minute later, Jason was knocking on the front door. Sarah panicked and threw the bag out of the bathroom window, which overlooked a small, enclosed alleyway that ran between our apartments. She planned to crawl through her first-floor bedroom window and retrieve it once he was gone.

I answered the door and Jason started freaking out. He said, “You stole my fuckin bag of molly. What the fuck did you do with my molly?”

“I don’t have your drugs. I’m sure they’re lost in your bedroom cause it’s a fucking disaster,” I said.

“No. I know you fucking have them,” he said.

“You can come inside and look around the house.”

The whole time I’m thinking Oh fuck Sarah needs to give those drugs back to him. He’s gonna go fucking crazy.

He started getting really aggressive. He wouldn’t make eye contact and was pacing around the apartment. When I would try to stop him from going into certain rooms he would push me way. 

He accused me of stealing the molly again. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about and that he needed to go.

After a brief search he left. Sarah decided to return his drugs. She went downstairs to the alley space between the buildings retrieved the bag of molly and put it in Jason’s mailbox. His door was locked and we figured he’d find it there. Then she went to bed in her apartment.

Problem solved, Kate and I went to sleep in my bedroom. At some point in the night, the friend who needed a place to crash, arrived and passed out in my sister’s room.

At 6am, an hour before I needed to get up for work, I awoke to somebody rummaging through the apartment, talking to himself.

It was Jason. He was rambling like a schizo, “Where the fuck is my shit? What the fuck have they done with my shit?”

He was stomping and slamming things around. I was too tired and wasted to get up; I just wanted to sleep. I yelled at him from my bed, “Dude, get the fuck out of my apartment! I don’t have your shit! Will you please leave?”

The noise stopped and I fell back asleep. My alarm woke me an hour later. I got up and started walking around the apartment. My cell phone was missing, my iPod was missing, the cash tips I made waitressing the night before and had left on a table were gone. My sister’s laptop was gone. Anything valuable and easy to grab was gone.

I freaked the fuck out. I banged on Jason’s door and got no answer. I started walking back and forth between his apartment and mine, repeatedly pounding on his door. Already late, I left to go to work. Outside, I came across Jason and his girlfriend strolling down the street, coffee in hand, like nothing was wrong.

I said, “Jason what the fuck? Where’s my shit?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t take your shit,” he said.

“I heard you in my apartment this morning. I didn’t take your fucking drugs. Check your bedroom. Check your house.”

“Yea, I know, I found it in a box of my shit under my mailbox,” he said.

“So you found your drugs, but you thought I stole them and now you’re stealing everything from my house?”

“Nah, I didn’t rob your house,” he said, then walked into his apartment with his girlfriend and closed the door in my face, with me yelling and banging on the door behind him.

I couldn’t call the police because he had stolen my cell phone. I was also late for work. With only a three-hour shift that day, I decided to deal with everything after, instead of losing my job. Somehow the connection between him robbing my house and the immediate gravity of the situation did not exist.

While at work, I repeatedly called him and left voicemails saying he had three hours to return my shit or I’d call the cops.

Immediately after work, I returned home and knocked on his apartment door. His roommate answered.

I said, where’s Jason? All my shit is gone. He robbed my house last night.

“Jason moved out this morning. There is nothing in his bedroom. All his stuff is gone,” he said.

Jason had stolen some things from the roommate as well, so he accompanied me to the police station. I filed a police report and the cops said, “We’ll do what we can.”

I called my sister, who was still on vacation, and I told her Jason had robbed the house. I left out the part about stealing his bag of drugs.

FRIEND’S ACCOUNT:

Mike, the friend who was crashing in my sister’s room, had arrived early that morning and gone straight to bed. I talked to him the next day.

He said, “What the fuck happened this morning.”

I told him I was pretty sure the neighbor robbed the apartment.

Mike said, “Yeah, I know. I woke up at 6am and heard a guy screaming incoherent sentences outside. I looked out the window and he was pacing around the front of the house with an eight-inch blade in his hand, just talking to himself.

“I closed the window and locked the bedroom door because I was so freaked out,” he said.

AT THE TIME, DID ANY PART OF YOU THINK STEALING THE DRUGS MIGHT HAVE CONSEQUENCES?

No. I was really fucked up and thought, Fuck it, we’ll sell it. He doesn’t need the drugs and he’s not going to know.

WHERE DID THINGS GO BAD?

Letting him into our home and thinking oh, I can handle hanging out with crazy people.

When Sarah showed me the bag of molly and said, “Fuck yea, dude, let’s sell it!” as opposed to saying, “Give me that shit. I’m giving it back to him right now.”

The next morning when I realized the house was robbed, that I hadn’t called the police yet, and discovered that he’d moved out and disappeared. Plus the fact that I’m the younger sister and when my older sister goes out of town, I’m responsible for getting the house robbed and her belongings stolen.

That’s when I thought, Oh dude, you fucked up.

There is a string of bad choices in this story. It’s more like seven bad choices in a row.

Continued in Part 2…

 

 

 

 

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