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From the full version of Sunnyside's Lousy Book

What a Bud

I wasn't what I would call a pusher by any means. That is I didn't go around selling pot to strangers. The friends I sold to were people I myself had bought pot through at one time or another. I basically had a small group of friends who would hang-out together because we had a few things in common. Most of us worked in the building trades, we all liked to smoke pot, and we all liked the idea of finding consistent fair deals on weed.
      The laws against possession and using marijuana can en-courage users to become dealers because the expense is quite high and we can't go down to the local liquor store to purchase it. As a result, many people find themselves dealing pot for free smoke, and in some cases for profit. The expense and profit side of the whole bit not only creates a black market for the substance, but it also tends to make dealers out of people who wouldn't normally do so. The laws making marijuana a controlled substance create a black market even cops sometimes find themselves involved in. By the end of this chapter you may suspect that the rumors about the cops in Pierce County controlling the pot industry there may very well be true. In my case I think they had it coming and going.
      Prior to being a homeowner I’d grown my own smoke in a spare room. Growing my own eliminated the run around and bad deals often involved in obtaining it. It also eliminated interaction with other users in the efforts of obtaining it. This practice changed once I became a homeowner. Even though I had the room for growing it, the option wasn't practical because when a person is buying the home that would be used to grow it in, it's not a very good idea because if the homeowner/grower gets busted, they can lose their home. The equity in a home isn't worth a few plants, so if a person doesn't like the run around and bad deals, the user is likely to buy in quantities so they can end up with free pot and it's unlikely they will lose their house if they get busted. Basically that was the situation I was in and the reason I was selling it was for convenience and free smoke.
      The reason I wouldn't take the chances of growing it in my spare room was because of things like a fire or a burglary can bring cops into the privacy of a home. Therefore I sure wasn't going to take a chance on losing my home over a few plants.
      I have a strong hunch the thing that motivated the fire department to dig up dirt on me was the fact that they found a metal halide light ballast in my attic. In fact they even opened a few boxes to find bulbs to it during their so called investigation after the fire. I had the lighting from the time I had a growing room in a house I rented in Parkland several years earlier.

Get this: My metal halide light had a police evidence sticker on it. At one time it was confiscated by police because a kid I'd known many years earlier had been caught by his mother growing pot in his closet. His mother turned him in, but he managed to get the light back from the cops and then sold it to me. Pretty funny hah?

I do want to make one thing perfectly clear: I feel the laws against the other harder drugs out are there for a good reason. Many drugs (such as the white powder type I call the Devil's drugs) are powerful enough to take over a person’s will and as a result many lives are ruined because of them. Such drugs are a problem in this society and very well need to have laws against them.

Just as the time Tubby, who had been a good employee of mine until he landed a job as manager for the Emerson apartment building in Tacoma. Though he dealt in weed, his major accomplishment as manager was keeping crack dealers out of the apartment building. Tubby said with crack dealers, you get constant traffic at all hours of the day. Get this: Although Tubby didn't have a credit card for borrowing money to score pot as I did; he used the tenant's rent money.

I met Steve who was a bassplayer I’d through Darelic who had played drums for Steve’s band at one time. I’d known Darelic since we were kids and I’d known Steve quite some time before the fire. Steve bought his own PA and lights on payments and managed the bands he put together. Naturally got a larger cut than the rest of the band members and he was the only musician I’d ever know to have much money. He always had a nice vehicle even ended up with a nice a boat and motorcycle. He sold pot on the side and turned out to be a fair and consistent supplier of weed. Since I liked to avoid the run around and lousy deals that many pot smokers find themselves dealing with, I opted for the strait forward kind of deal Steve was supplying me with. I’d score an eight ounce of weed through him about every week and it wasn't long before my other pot smoking buddies figured out I had a good connection. I found myself picking up enough weed for them too so that put me at about an ounce of pot per week.
      But possessing only an ounce of weed wasn’t enough for the city to get me in trouble with because it was still under forty grams and only good for a misdemeanor offence. This is where the local government got involved somehow. They arranged a situation where Steve wouldn’t be able to score a new supply as often as he had before. Soon I found out he wouldn’t have it all the time and I noticed the time span for which he could score was about every two weeks. Then the next thing I knew; it was about every three weeks and then four. For several months, the time span was about four weeks apart. I'd just borrow the money on my credit card and save me and my buddies the hassle of the running around looking for what would normally turn out to be bum deals if I didn’t. I grew accustomed to trusting Steve with $1,100.00 overnight. However, over time the time span between shipments got even longer and it took more money to score more stash to get me and my friends through the dry spells. I looked at it as the best way of going about being a pot smoker because when paying $260 per ounce and selling it in eighth ounces at $40 each. I’d have an option to have a quarter ounce for $20 or if I only used an eighth ounce a week, I could end up making $20. I think I average out right in the middle and I usually broke even, just getting free smoke. Having the option was better than the alternative.
      As time went on, my buddies started buying more than usual and I mentioned earlier in this story just why they were. The problem was: I was buying a felony amount of pot and was just what the city had in mind.

I first met Rodney while on stage at a jam session. He was the guitar player I was paired up with and we just happened to know a lot of the same material. As a result, we exchanged phone numbers and ended up frequenting jam sessions together.
      Rodney said he was originally from New York and most recently moved to Federal Way via Everet, Washington. Rodney said he was self-employed by the way of doing brake jobs and body work on cars owned by tenants at his apartment complex. There was a time I overheard Rodney tell another guy that he had it made because he got a check from the government every month. At the time I thought he was probably talking about some type of disability settlement, but now I realize just what he was getting money from the government for. I'm sure the government sent him to the jam session in Auburn to set me up and reel me in. A reason to suspect this theory is that he said was originally a bassplayer, but for some reason he took up playing the guitar. I happen to think it was necessary because he made various attempts at putting a band together with me and I figure it was just an attempt to get closer to me. We played a verity of material like Jimi Hendrex, Bob Dylen, Marvin Gay, and Bob Marley. Since Rodney’s singing voice sounded like a kid's, we’d usually received the best audience response when we played Bob Marley songs.

Rodney's charm was his secrete weapon he used to manipulate people and my first impression of him was that he was basically living off is girlfriend. The two quarreled most of the time and I felt there had to be a reason he put up with her as long as he did. Most of the time he’d be saying, “I’m going to throw the fat bitch out,” but when it came time to pay rent at the end of the month, well you know; he was lovey dovey. I couldn't understand how he could even tolerate her as much as he did because I sure couldn't. After she went along with us to jam sessions a few times, I got so tired of having her attempt to put words into my mouth and arguing with her because of it, I refused to let her ride in my truck. From there out she found herself sitting at home alone on jam nights.
     Eventually Rodney ended up with a job as a manager for section eight housing which happened to be duplex complexes next door to the apartments where he had been living. He was quite open about running crack dealers out of the rental housing. And from what he said, many of the crack dealers went to jail.

One time he pointed out a duplex in his neighbourhood that just had been foreclosed upon because the owner had a crack habit and went broke from buying crack from his own renters. -- Pretty funny huh?

I don't think Rodney’s normal occupation was working over pot dealers until I came along. Now when I look back before the time I was busted, there were times when Rodney used his manipulative charm to set me up by having me sell pot to strangers. He'd call and act as if he wanted to buy some weed for himself. However it became apparent once I arrived at his place and I discovered he was setting me up with others.
      The first time, he asked me to bring an eighth ounce to band practice for him, but as I about to hand the eighth over to him, I found out it wasn't for him at all, but for a young man that looked as if he could've been a minor. And as you know from earlier in this story; the young man ended up in the same court room as I did.
     The second time Rodney set me up; he said he could sell a half ounce for me. Once I got there I found out I was meeting the gal who was buying it. My first impression was that she wasn't the type who would normally associate with a guy like Rodney and things began to look strange as the meeting unfolded. Rodney had the deal go down in an empty rental unit next door to his and by the way the broad laid the bag of weed out on the stove to examine it, I got the impression she wasn't the typical pot smoking type of person. I realized right then and there it was a good chance she was a nark. I had a frightening feeling come over me. I felt as though I was about to be busted. Right away I figured there was probably a camera or a tape recorder going in the room so I gave Rodney the line, “I shouldn’t be doing this. This is crazy. I'm too important of a person to be doing this. I don’t need to be doing this. No more of this—ok.”
     As a result of the strange encounter, I told Rodney I no longer wanted to meet with the strangers if the weed he requested wasn't for him personally. I told him from there out, he would have to handle the transactions himself. I said, “I don’t want to see the people. I don’t want anything to do with them. I don’t need to be selling to people I don't know.” The next few times he called looking to score, I turned him down. He couldn't even make a discreet sounding call so one time I even said, “I’m no longer in the business.”
      Backing the suspicion of Rodney being a nark is the time we were at a jam session in Puyallup and a coattail waitress working there told me he was a snitch. At the time I found it a little hard to believe because I had known Rodney for about a year and thought I knew him pretty well. Maybe it was because Rodney had smoked weed with me so many times before and I figured that if he was a nark I would have figured it out by then. I'm sure I wasn't too worried if he was or not because I had already pulled the plug on selling pot through him by then. At the time I had other things on my mind and considered it might have been an effort by the conspirators to separate me from another friend just as it happened with the rest of my friends and family.
     Although I had shied away from selling pot through Rodney, the next time the city must have known I was desperate for cash because I'm sure they knew I'd been to the pawn shop earlier that the week. As a result of my lack of cash and sleep deprivation, I found myself going against my better judgement.
     I didn't think it was a set-up for the most part because it was my impression the buyers were guys that would normally hang out with Rodney. Even though they were black and appeared to be close friends of Rodney’s, I didn't like the idea that Rodney didn't abide by the conditions I set forth beforehand. As it turned out they must have been narks because they were the ones that handed me the marked bills that the cops were so thrilled about. Although I planned to use the money to get incorporated, the money ended up in the police property room where it should still be to this day.
      Although Rodney had smoked much of my stash, only once did he actually buy any pot off me for himself. It was while we were commuting from one jam session to another located in Sumner, he asked for ten dollars worth. Since it was such a small amount, I just took it out of my own personal stash.
     Another situation backs my theory that Rodney was a snitch is he must have hid the fact that he knew Steve, the bass player who I was getting the pot from. There was a time when we were at a jam session in Sumner and Rodney was chatting with Steve and his accomplice who’s a short gal who did his accounting for him and seemed to be the true supplier in some way. Even though they were only acquaintances with Rodney, I noticed they were conversing quite a bit. Though Steve’s band wasn’t the band hosting the jam session that night, I assumed Rodney was just being himself and using his charm as he usually would on musicians who'd host jams sessions at one time or another.
      Some more information that may give you a theory upon where the pot was coming from is the fact that when I would usually score, Steve delivered the larger quantities in large zip-lock bags, but the last quarter pound I received (or should I say 6 ounces,) was delivered in a plastic Fred Myers shopping bag. Just so happened Rodney's girlfriend worked at a Fred Myers store.
      Wouldn't you question the possibility that Steve was getting the pot through Rodney and Rodney was getting it from the local government? Then there is the possibility that Steve was scoring the weed from Stick who was living south of Tumwater at Rainbow Valley and that was why Steve had to make a trip to score the weed. Rule No.26: You tell me and we’ll both know.

Since I learned Rodney was receiving his information from the cops and not off the street, I wondered how much Rodney knew about what was going on. After the bust and spending the weekend in jail, I was surprised when Rodney called me the next day looking to score again. He acted as if he had no clue of what had gone down over the weekend. I told him I’d just been busted, but I refrained from telling him anything about my experience in jail. Though I knew he was a snitch, I wanted to let him know in person to see how he would respond. Since I wanted some answers; I took the incentive to drive up to his place and pay him a visit in person. I was wondering if I could get him to slip up and say something he shouldn't have known. I also wondered if being strait forward with him and confront him on the matter, if he would give out any information. If nothing else, I wanted to see how he would react face to face.
      On an unannounced visit, I arrived at Rodney's place. His girlfriend said he had just gone over to the hamburger joint a couple blocks away, so I drove over to meet up with him. I found him walking back towards home on the side of the road. When I picked him up, he acted as if everything was normal but for some reason I wasn’t falling for the act. I found it hard to hold back what I knew about him and ended up telling him about the writ-ing on the wall. He denied being a snitch and became quite hostel.
     I told him the writing on the wall wasn't the only thing that convinced me he was a snitch. He didn't say much of anything else in his defense and as I laid into him about it. He began squirming around in his seat in panic. Within seconds he bailed out of my truck while we were in the middle of an intersection waiting for a left hand turn signal. That was the last time I have ever saw him.

After a few years had gone by he must have thought that enough water had gone under the bridge to where I’d forget that he was a snitch. One day out of the blue, Rodney called me. He said, "Hay I've got a gig lined up and I need a bass player. Would you like to work the gig for me?” At first I told him I would, (just for the amusement, because I was going to stand him up) but when he checked back later I told him I was too busy. (At the time, I just happened to be busy working on an important office action for my U.S. patent application.) He called another time asking me if I would show up at a jam session. At first I told him I would, but when he called back later, I told him I couldn't see his point and told him about what the waitress had said among other things I new about him. Then I said to him, “Hay, I'm writing a book and I'm going to make you famous for being a snitch.” That was the last I heard from him.

I'm sure he wanted to patch things up with me because I'd overheard him several times at jam sessions tell people I was going to be a millionaire someday. I've got a few rules for guys like him. Stupid Rule Numbers 50, 51, 85, and 86.

The next chapter of Sunnyside's Lousy Book is:

Dam, another Lemon

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