Eating Weed Brownies at Comic Con

ILLUSTRATION BY CHAD MITCHELL

 

Robbie is a laid-back, 31yrold San Francisco native who teaches public high school in the city. He’s a large well-proportioned man stating, “I’m 6’3’ and at the time [of the story] weighed around 240-250lbs.” It’s likely that a smaller guy would have succumbed to an edible-weed overdose much faster.

(The following is derived from a recorded interview and the names have been changed to protect his teaching career.)

When I was 26, I decided to attend Comic Con in San Diego. A couple of my college buddies had been going since 2000 and always pushed me to come along because we’d dork-out about superhero movies and comic books on occasion. So a few years after graduating college I agreed to go.

I was flying into San Diego and didn’t want to smuggle weed on the plane, so I decided to bake pot brownies. Some friends of mine had made a ton of hash butter and gave me a few sticks. They didn’t know how strong it was, they didn’t even smoke weed. Their plan was to make the butter and sell it to Cannabis Clubs. But clubs don’t buy hash butter from guys with no license or paperwork, so they started giving it away to friends.

I bought brownie mix from the grocery store and substituted all the recipe’s butter with the weed butter. I’d never baked weed anything before. I had no clue how strong the brownies would be and didn’t try them before leaving.

I flew down with the brownies in my carry-on and met three of my college roommates, one of their girlfriends, and this other dude we used to kick it with in college, at the shitty little motel we had rented.

The next morning my buddy made everyone Bloody Mary’s for breakfast. Then we ate a bunch of the pot brownies and some marijuana cereal bars that my friend had bought at a Los Angeles Cannabis Club. We rode the train across the city to Comic Con and smoked weed as we walked from the train station to the convention center. By the time we arrived, I’d consumed at least one cereal bar and two pot-brownies. I was stoned.

Comic Con was crazy. I’d never seen anything like it. There were people in costumes everywhere, dressed up as everything from Star Wars to Star Trek to Doug from Nickelodeon. I started taking pictures with tons of people and bought a skate deck. I skate, but I definitely did not need to buy a skate deck at Comic Con. I was really high.

Throughout the day we snacked on weed food. We ate more brownies instead of stopping for lunch. I don’t know why, but we didn’t think to eat actual food. We just ate more edibles when we had the munchies. Maybe I drank a bottle of water throughout the whole day. The convention was closing when hunger hit us and we started looking for a restaurant.

We ended up at this place called Dick’s Last Resort. It’s a restaurant where the servers treat you like shit, that’s their whole gimmick.  They’re like, “What the fuck do you want?” And if you’re not fast enough they turn and walk away.

We didn’t know about the bad service thing, which is just a terrible idea for a restaurant. We chose it because they had an open table. I sat down and our server was being a total dick to me. I’m like, dude, what the fuck? Why is this guy being such a prick? Being stoned, I was a little more sensitive to shit, but figured whatever, let’s just order. Suddenly, I was really hungry, really thirsty and did not feel well.

I became clammy. I thought, oh man, there’s something not right with my body. I need to drink a lot of water and lie down. I need to be on a couch and nothing else. I was far from any couch.

I drank a big glass of water. Everyone ordered beers. Mine did not go down right.

After one sip, I knew I shouldn’t be drinking. I had some more water, but nothing improved. I became clammier and clammier. I felt cold but my palms were sweating. I decided to get to a bathroom, that it would be the only safe space for me at that moment.

We were seated in an outdoor patio. I got up, feeling off-balance. I walked inside the restaurant and asked where the bathroom was. Someone pointed in a direction and said something. It sounded like “Wah, wah wah.” I didn’t understand a word, just followed the direction of their hand.

It was a huge restaurant, with tons of people and families sitting everywhere. As soon as I had entered the restaurant I needed to sit down. As I walked towards the bathroom I could feel myself blacking out. I saw a small space with two open chairs located at the beginning of a walkway for servers, which led to the restroom and kitchen. I sat in one of the chairs. I was continuing to black out. I thought, okay, I think I’m going to throw up. I need to get to the bathroom as fast as I can. On the count of three I’m going to get up and go to the bathroom and this is going to get better. I felt everything closing in. I counted to three, stood up and it was lights out.

I had fainted. Apparently I fell straight over like a tree, hitting the side of my face first, then the side of my body, before rolling onto my back.

I woke up because I felt myself peeing. While coming to, I immediately realized I was pissing myself on the floor, and stopped. I was aware enough to be embarrassed. Here I was on the ground in a restaurant and I’ve peed my pants.

People were huddled in a circle above me. My glasses were broken and laying on the ground next to me. I felt a warm wetness on my face, blood.

This guy said, “Are you okay?”

I said, yea, I just needed to sit up. I was wearing khakis, which was bad. Luckily, there wasn’t a piss stain on the front of my pants because I peed while lying on my back and all the piss had soaked the seat of my pants.

I decided to stand up, turn and immediately sit down in the chair. I think I pulled that off without anyone noticing my pee pants. Someone handed me a towel for the blood pouring from my face.

The lens from my glasses had sliced me pretty deep a few millimeters from my eye. There was blood all over my face. I looked like a total nightmare. Everybody had worried expressions.

I was still high at this point but adrenaline had kicked in, so I felt more awake and alert, but was still dazed.

Somebody asked, “Are you drunk?”

I said no.

An old fat woman was scowling at me. She was in her late sixties, and appeared to be a grandmother eating with her children and grandchildren. She said, “You had a seizure.”

I said, “What are you talking about?”

She said, “I saw it when you hit the ground, I think you had a seizure.” I said, “Uh, I don’t know.”

This whole time, my friends figured I was in the bathroom. I saw my server and asked him to get one of my friends. He wasn’t being a dick anymore.

My buddy John came in and said, “Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?

Are you ok?”

“I don’t know. I stood up, passed out and hit my head,” I said.

He was high as shit too, so he was like, “Oh fuck? What should we do?”

I had no idea. I said, “John, I should not be in this restaurant right now.”

He left to cancel our orders and gather the group.

He came back and said let’s go, motioning to the front door. I wanted to go out the back and he asked why. I waved him to come closer and whispered, “I peed my pants. What woke me up was peeing my pants.”

He’s like ohhh.

“When we stand up can you walk behind me so no one sees?” I said.

Outside, my friends started making fun of me immediately:

“I can’t believe you fucking peed your pants.”

“You just ruined our dinner and pissed your pants, I hope you’re happy.”

The next day everyone ate weed brownies again, but I declined. That was the last time I ate weed.

HOW MANY WEED TREATS DID YOU EAT?

Over the course of the day, I probably ate 3-4 weed brownies and 2 cereal bars. They were really strong.

 AT ANY POINT DID YOU THINK YOU MIGHT BE EATING TOO MUCH WEED?

No, the whole time I was like, whatever fuck it, I’m at Comic Con, I’m sure it’ll be cool. How high can you get? Not thinking I would get so fucking stoned I’d want to die.

I was seeing friends from college I hadn’t seen in a while. I figured I could just go back to the college days of smoking tons of weed and not worry about getting too stoned.

DID YOU NEED STITCHES FOR YOUR EYE?

I should’ve gotten stitches but I didn’t go to the hospital because I was stoned.

Is it really worth it to got to the ER high and be like, “I’m really stoned. I ate a lot of weed. I fainted and hit my head and peed my pants can you give me stitches?”

WOULD YOU MESS WITH EDIBLES AGAIN?

No, I don’t think so… well, of course maybe I would, but not in that manner. I might share a cookie with someone if I’m in a big, safe, green field with plenty of water and food.

HAVE YOU PISSED YOUR PANTS SINCE THEN?

No. But that wasn’t the first time peeing my pants as an adult. Urine rash is just terrible.

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Stealing Your Neighbor’s MDMA: Part 2

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 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.)

Continued…

Six days after the robbery, I’m at this bar Delirium with a bunch of friends. I’m outside smoking a cigarette with a buddy, telling him the story about our house getting robbed. I look across the street and see Jason and his girlfriend are walking towards the corner.

“That’s the fucking guy who robbed me! Stand in front of me!” I said. My friend hid me from view while I dialed 911.

The dispatcher answered and I said, “Hi, I reported a robbery like three weeks ago. I’m at a bar on 16th street and I’m looking at the guy who robbed my house; he’s standing across the street. Can you please do something?”

Thirty seconds later, I’m still on the phone with the dispatcher describing which direction Jason’s walking, when a cop car pulls up alongside him, stops and flashes their lights. I’m like, oh man, some shit’s going to happen.

The dispatcher said to wait in the bar and an officer would come talk to me, and then hung up. Minutes later, she called me back and said an officer was outside.

I exited the bar and a cop car was waiting. The officer said, “Ma’am, get in the car. We need you to identify the perpetrator of the crime.”

I became nervous and hesitated. Recently, one of Jason’s old roommates had told me that Jason’s dad was an active member of the Hells Angels in Castro Valley. He described all these connections his dad had with sketchy big time drug dealers and crackheads.

Luckily, my buddy offered to ride along in the cruiser and the officer assured us that Jason would not be able to see me. The cop drove up the street to where Jason and his girlfriend were. He shined the spotlight and headlights on him so he couldn’t see into the cop car, and asked me to identify him.

Jason was cuffed, leaning against the hood of another police car. His face was squished up from the lights and an officer held his cuffed hands behind him. The crazy girlfriend was sitting on the curb.

“That’s the fucking guy!” I said.

The cop said I had to come to the police station and file a follow-up report, indicating why I called the police and what took place. I was at the police station until like 2am. While I was there, one of the cops that arrested Jason came in and started talking to the officer filing my report.

“Did you see that little white kid that came in? He had a bag of cocaine on him this big!” He said, holding up his hand with three inches between his thumb and forefinger.

“That little fucker. I went up to try and talk to him and the kid picked up his skateboard and started swinging.”

The officer speaking was a 6’ 4’’.

My sister and I decided not to press theft charges. It would have required us to testify in court, in front of him and potentially his motorcycle gangster father. Instead, he went to jail for the coke.

The two positive impacts that came from this story are one: I created a new word used to describe sniffing cocaine off someone’s genitalia. That verb is “dusting.”

Two: I now receive a check for fifty dollars every month from Jason. His judge read the reports I had filed and ordered Jason to pay me restitution. The receipts that I submitted to the police detailing everything he stole totaled 2,200 dollars. I’ll be getting checks for the next two years. I think they garnish his wages, so I get a check from him that processes through the court. Then I spend it on cocaine that I sniff off people’s penises. Joking.

That’s it dude, that’s my story.

 

ARE YOU SCARED OF RUNNING INTO HIM?

I think I see him all the time. Right after he robbed me, I became paranoid and hyperaware of every scrawny white boy with a skateboard. Then I did see him and he got arrested! My fears vanished for about a month, until the police informed me that he’d been released from jail. We moved out of the apartment immediately.

DO YOU FEEL BAD ABOUT DROPPING THE DIME ON HIM?

When I saw him outside of the bar I was like, I want this motherfucker to be arrested, right now! I was so mad at him. Afterwards, I felt really guilty. When the cop in the waiting room said Jason was arrested with a bunch of coke, I became really concerned. I was really upset that he might go to jail for over a year. But he only went for a few months.

WHAT DO YOU THINK EVERY MONTH WHEN YOU GET THE CHECK?

It’s a little bitter-sweet because it reminds me of how stupid I was, but I also get fifty bucks. I actually have one of the checks in my backpack right now; I need to go cash that!

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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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Internet Drug Deal

Illustration by Jade Bayonet

 

Mike is a high-powered pot grower and dealer living in the East Bay. He is 28-years-old and holds a BA in US History from one of the top Liberal Arts Colleges in the US. He worked a series of “straight” jobs post-graduation but decided a home-grow high-grade marijuana operation would pay better when a friend offered to set him up. He’s an academically erudite drug dealer who writes short stories when he isn’t slanging pounds. This is his bad choice. (The names have been changed).

Last year, I was working part-time for a children’s camp but made most of my money growing and selling weed, sometimes cocaine too. I was desperate at this point. I was new in the game and needed to make more money, which meant selling more weed. I started posting ads on this website Budtrader.com; it’s like craigslist for weed.

So this guy named Tom responded to my ad. I called him up and he sounded like a real square on the phone. Tom said he was a UC Berkeley student and wanted to buy a quarter (¼ pound of weed), which seemed like a safe move. We agreed to meet at UC Berkeley campus the next day. But the following morning he changed the order up, he wanted to buy two P’s (2 pounds) instead. That was kind of weird, but I didn’t think about it, and told him 2 pounds was fine.

Problem was I didn’t have 2 pounds. So I went to my boy’s house, he’s also a dealer, and asked him to front me the extra 1 ¾-pounds of weed. He asked if I knew the guy. I said I’d met him a couple times. I lied so it wouldn’t sound like a bad idea and he gave me the weed.

Then Tom changed the meeting location. He said, “I’m going to this study group in Alameda, can you meet me there?”

Alameda is a pretty safe city in the Bay area. So, I figured ok, no problem. He told me the address and I drove out there.

I had the two pounds in a backpack. I thought, shit, I’m about to come up. At this time pounds were selling for a high fucking dollar; I was about to make $6,400. But only a ¼-pound of it was mine. The other 1 ¾-pounds were my boy’s.

The address was a sprawling apartment complex. It had been projects back in the day. Now it looked decent, but it’s really just shitty apartments. There were easily 30 buildings, it’s fucking huge. It was about two in the afternoon, a nice day. The sun was out and people were walking around.

I called Tom when I got there and met him in front of the building. He was a white guy with a chinstrap beard that ended in a long goatee. He looked bummy: unkempt, shaggy, brown hair; sagging pants; sweatshirt. Tom was an ugly fucker. I remember his teeth were small and dirty. He was looking around a lot, a dead giveaway in hindsight.

I started asking questions as we entered the complex through an outdoor hallway that lead to a flight of stairs.

“So, you go to UC Berkeley?”

Yea, he said.

“What’s your major?”

“I’m just doing my GE’s, my general requirements,” he said.

That sounded fishy because he went to fucken UC Berkeley, and there’s no such thing as doing your general requirements at UC Berkeley.

I asked what his major was again.

“Oh, I haven’t really got one yet,” he said.

“What year are you?” I said.

“I’m in my last year.”

I started to get this bad feeling. I’m thinking, this sounds really off. Also, he wasn’t dressed like a UC Berkeley Student. Tom looked like the type of white guy who spends a lot of time around black motherfuckas. I had begun to regret going into the apartment complex but I was still unsure if it was the standard issue nervousness that comes before doing any big deal or a more serious premonition. Then he dropped the square white-guy accent and started talking like one of the brothas’.

“What’s up though brah, can I see it?” He said.

I opened the backpack.

“It’s all there?”

Yea.

“Ok, fo sho. We got this study group going on in my boy’s apartment, wanna’ go in there?” He asked.

“I don’t like to go into apartments and I don’t really know you that well,” I said.

“I feel you, I feel you,” he said.

I asked if we could do the deal in the hallway. Tom said that was fine.

We reached the staircase and started up them, me first. The stairs were concrete slabs with a gap in-between each one. Every floor had a landing with a door leading to a long hallway of apartment front doors. At the second floor, I started feeling real weird, likethis doesn’t make sense. I stopped him right there and said, “Hey man, I don’t want to go any further. How about we go back outside?”

He said, sure.

As we turned to leave this fat dude came down the stairs. He had a hood covering his face and was walking with his head down in a rush. He bumped into me hard as he passed and I’m all, “Excuse me bro.”

He said “Yea, no problem.”

Then Tom shoved me against the wall, while the hooded guy pulled a pistol and put it to my head.

“Turn the fuck around!” He said, “You know what the fuck this, right?”

“Yea, I know exactly what this is,” I said.

He said, “Yea bro, don’t say nothing or I’ll blow your motherfucking brains out. I’m not playing wit your ass. You fuck around nigga I’ll blow your brains out.”

“Ok man, it’s good.”

“I’m taking your backpack,” he said.

I said that was fine.

I had two phones at the time, one business one personal. I was smart enough, well maybe I was stupid enough, to hand him my business phone. He said “Nigga, don’t play with me motherfucker, what’s that in your pocket?”

Tom searched my pockets and took my other phone too. The gunman acted pissed, he said, “Nigga I will blow your shit out right now, fucken with me like that. You fuck with me again nigga…”

He kept saying nigga this and nigga that, I thought maybe he was a black dude. I turned around and saw he was an Asian guy with a bunch of gold teeth. He caught me looking and yelled to turn the fuck around.

They had my two phones and the backpack, for some reason they let me keep my wallet, and they’re ready to leave. I was tripped-the-fuck-out. I thought, oh shit, I saw their faces, this is where they kill me, I’m gonna die in this hallway, my mom is gonna fucken cry.

The Asian guy said, “Stay right the fuck there! Keep your hands on the fucking wall!”

“That’s fine. You’re good brah, you got it,” I said, trying to keep calm. Then I turned and asked, “Hey man, do you think I can leave after this?”

“Yo nigga shut the fuck up! There’s another motherfucker on the other side of that door. He’s going to take care of you next,” he said.  He was talking about the door next to me that lead into the second floor hallway. Tom was already gone, the Asian guy started backing down the stairs with the pistol pointed at me.

I waited for a third guy to come through the door. I thought, I’m about to get kidnapped, they’re gonna kill me, or kill me in the apartment, they’re gonna take me to my house and rob me. The door was hinged to swing outward so I pressed my hands against it, blocking it. Then the Asian guy stuck the pistol through one of the gaps in the staircase, aiming at my knee.

“I will blow your fucken knee off right now so you can’t walk,” he said.

“You ain’t gotta do that. It’s fine man, it’s good,” I said.

“Yea nigga shut the fuck up, I’ll do it right now. I’m about to blow your shit off so you can’t walk anymore,” he said. Then he pulled the gun back through the gap and ran down the stairs. I was alone.

I didn’t move for maybe ten seconds, it felt like for-fucken-ever. My heart was beating so bad I thought I was having a heart attack, like when you sniff too much coke and your heart beats so fast you start panicking. I was sweating badly. I ran up the stairs and waited to see if anyone would come through the door below. No one did so I went back down, opened the door and entered the hallway. My mind was racing what am I gonna do? Knock on someone’s door and say “help I got robbed?”

I decided fuck it, I gotta get out of here right now.

I descended the same stairs. Apparently, I hadn’t waited very long, when I reached the bottom these fools were walking 30 yards in front me. They glanced back and I took off running. I jumped in my car nervous as shit and split as fast-as-fucken-possible.

I drove directly to the AT&T store and canceled my phones. Then I went home and drank a tall-can of Steel Reserve 211. Next, I hit a bar and downed shot after shot of tequila with Pacifico backs. I was so hyped-up I drank way more than normally possible without throwing-up. The next day I had a horrible hangover. I owed $5,400 dollars, which I didn’t have, to my friend who had fronted me the weed and I could have lost my life.

BAD FEELING

I started getting queasy and my stomach knotted up. Kind of like going to a test you didn’t study for. I felt totally unprepared. Like I was someplace I shouldn’t be, like walking into a fight with a big man and you’re thinking, I’m going to lose this fight.

WHY DO IT ANYWAYS?

Part was greed. I thought, man, fuck it. I’m gonna’ make this money and it’s all going to be worth it.

Then I thought, what am I going to do now? Am I just going to walk away? You’re already out of the car. You’re already on their turf. It’s a really hard call to make because if you’re wrong and you walk away, then you just fucked yourself out of money.

ARE YOU A BETTER DEALER NOW?

No, it just made me extremely paranoid. I have dreams and anxiety attacks about this shit.

What scares me the most is last April, someone got shot in that same hallway, doing the exact same thing in the middle of the day. I know it is the same building. I’ll never forget the address: 535 Buena Vista Ave. The guy was shot at 535 Buena Vista Ave.  I already know it was the same guys. They killed a man for weed.

News Story:

http://articles.sfgate.com/2011-04-24/bay-area/30225746_1_charges-in-shooting-death-special-circumstances-robbery

 

 

 

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