Narcotica
January 28th, 2001
To Whom It May Concern,
I was told once by a passing fragment of my memory that writing soothes the soul, just look at all those ridiculous Chicken Soup books (because we know that those stories are a dime a dozen—that shit never happens in real life). But hell, I’ll try it. God knows it’s been awhile since I’ve confessed anything.
To start, I’ll introduce myself: Josephine Hamilton. Such a run-of-the-mill-white-bread-kind-of-name, isn’t it? First, I don’t respond to “Josephine.” Second, they call me Jinx on the streets. Mostly because I’m a damn curse, and the other reason is because I tend to have a dirty little mouth (word-wise, not cock-wise, thanks).
I’m getting ahead of myself. I want to start at the beginning and finish at the end, without leaving anything out.
I first started profiting off of other people’s susceptibility when I was ten. My mom had been popping these little red pills, constantly, at the time. Pain killers, I remember. Over the counter—nothing special—but how many kids knew what Advil was? Please, they can barely understand how to add two and two, let alone comprehend that Advil was a type of drug.
Well, whatever.
I snuck about ten pills from my mom’s container (those childproof lids aren’t that—they’re only foolproof; and I do mean fool), threw ‘em into a plastic baggy and into my backpack. It was easy. Why would Mom think her child was sneaking painkillers to school? Honestly, she’d have to be a little more than paranoid to actually realize that’s where her pills were disappearing to.
Anyway—I’ve gotten off track—the first deal that went down was between this little punk who loved to push me around; just your common bully, but hey, I offered him a cure for his itch. Guess whose ears perked up? Damn straight.
He popped two. Then popped three more. (Yeah, dosage says four. Well, it’s not my problem if they overdose—I’m not his mother. Besides, they say four when they know the body can tolerate more. How many idiots do you think are out there popping six pills at a time when they know full and well that that’s over the limit? Easy way to make sure nobody truly overdoses, right? Right. My theory, only, of course, but it does seem to fit with the ways of corporate America.)
So, the pills didn’t really effect him much. I made up some cock and bull story about how the pills are supposed to make you feel like you’re in heaven.
Bought, sold, and got a repeat customer.
Sucker never knew what hit him (or his wallet—well, lunchbox at first, I was, after all, ten years old).
Looking back, it’s remarkable that swapping Advil for chips paved the way for the rest of my life.January 30th, 2001
To Whom It May Concern,
Where’d I leave off? Oh, right, Mr. Bully. Well, he was a regular for awhile, ‘til he got busted for having a pack of ten Ibuprofens in his backpack. The jackass popped one during class. Idiot. (And zero tolerance is a bitch—which really cuts down on my customer list to begin with—and kept sales down thirty percent.)
You think he pointed to me? Hell no. By the time he got caught, I had half the grade tricked out on painkillers and vitamins (vitamins, I learned, were a safer way of fooling people, and hell, they might’ve even improved somebody’s health, too!). He knew if he even breathed my name that his ass would be in deep shit. Not even after school fistfight, I mean, a real motherfuckin’ ass kicking. Courtesy of me.
A girl’s gotta learn how to take care of herself. Especially in a man’s world (kid yourself all you want, but when it comes right down to it, this society’s run by men). I toughened up.
I wasn’t very big, and definitely not that strong, but I was tough. Tough in the sense that I didn’t give up.
Hmm…there was this one punk who tried to screw me (figuratively, not literally—damn, why do I feel like I gotta clear up every innuendo? Probably because you probably think I’m a crack addict and a whore). I fucked him up.
He didn’t think I had it in me, but when I had his nuts in my hand, and twisted and yanked… I most certainly had his balls on a silver platter. That’s the thing about men—boys—no matter what age they are, or how smart they are, they are completely controlled by that second head.
You kick a guy in the nuts, and he’s crying. You kick a girl between her thighs and what? Yeah, it ain’t a good feeling, but I’m not worried about whether or not my “equipment” is damaged or if I’ve lost an appendage. Sweetheart, girls have it all on the inside.
I digress.
I think his name was Timothy. I used to call him Timothy afterwards because I knew it annoyed the shit out of him. And when I wanted something, I’d call him Timmy. Just so he knew I wasn’t going to play mean (for a few minutes, at least).
Despite our little tumble (not in the sheets), Timmy had my back for several years. We weren’t friends, but you see, he was the type of guy who had respect for a tough woman (or girl, as that was what I was in the sixth grade). Plus, I don’t think he anticipated getting similar treatment in the future, so he figured he better stay on my good side.
Good idea on his part.
And most beneficial on my part.February 1st, 2001
To Whom It May Concern,
I meandered my way through the woes of elementary school and sold my “wares.” I started moving into prescription drugs—for select customers—and those made me top dollar. The small stuff (vitamins, pain killers) I swapped for extra chocolate milk or fruit rollups, but I started asking for cash for the more rare items I had in my pocket waiting for an eager pill-popper.
After all, snagging ‘scrips wasn’t easy—my mom only had so many, and you can’t just go and dump the bottle into your purse and pretend nobody’s going to notice. That would be real stupid (unfortunately, I know some kids who tried to do this—they failed, miserably).
So, those sort of made me the kid-to-know (since they actually had some sort of effect…well, a more direct and instantaneous effect compared to vitamin C pills).
Looking back on all that, it’s kinda ridiculous how much they all idolized me and kissed my ass. Honestly, they were already on the road to be crackheads, since they were all so gullible. I just led the horse to water—I didn’t make him drink.
That’s what I love about it all… It’s about choice. Nobody is making anyone shoot up heroin or snort cocaine. It’s all on them. I might make getting the goods a little easier, but I hardly point a gun at an addict’s head forcing them to take a hit.
Oh, well. I have little conscience now, and even when I was in my younger years, I wasn’t exactly guilt-ridden and confessing my sins to the local priest, as my mom always dragged me to church on Sundays. I absolutely hated it…going to the house of something I didn’t believe in to listen to bullshit for a few hours… what a waste of my day. Plus, the clergy always gave me these funny looks. Even the pastor seemed to cringe at the sight of me.
I think they all knew I was bad news. (They were right, of course, but damn, they knew when I was what, twelve? So much for god lovin’ everyone, huh?)February 3rd, 2001
To Whom It May Concern,
It was easy to pass off placebos as hardcore drugs (well, I admit, I didn’t promise that they’d do that much – I just said stupid shit like it’ll make your troubles go away or make you do better in school, because at the time, that was enough of a selling point to make them buy) in elementary school, but I knew that junior high was going to be a different ballpark.
Mostly because everyone was a little older, and there were going to be those big bad eighth graders, sure to corrupt us tiny seventh graders (ha, I already did some of that, didn’t I).
So my dealing went through a bit of a lull throughout the first semester. First, you never start selling your goods until you know who your competitors are—and can be assured that you can outsell, outlast, and out-kick-their-ass. I wasn’t going to be putting myself in danger just to make some dollars; there’s more than one place to help people get their kicks.
I was getting more apt at observing and spotting who was doing—regularly or recreationally—and who was profiting.
Like I expected, it was some jackass (boy) who was way too cocky for being thirteen. His name was Trevor, but he wasn’t in the same market I had been. He was selling marijuana (which has to be one of the most boring drugs, take a damn vitamin, healthier and some can do the same thing). In order to inquire and get to him, I had to infiltrate myself into the “eighth grade” circle.
Which wasn’t all that hard, since I was such a tomboy at the time. Oddly enough, when I subtly approached them, my reputation as a supplier preceded me.
(Who would have thought they’d find out?)
It worked out, to my benefit, because Trevor was looking for a partner.
He needed a broker (the go-between in a deal) for some of his customers. I remember, fondly, how he tried to skimp me of my legitimate part of the cash. He made it seem like he was doing this grand favor for me by allowing me in on his operation. I was like, “Hell no, asshole, I can get twice what you’re selling and sell it all before you could even hand over the cash to your first customer. Don’t give me this 20-80 shit.” (We ended up splitting it 40-60, which, if he’d passed any math class, he’d know I was raking in more profits than he was, since he also had to cover the costs.)
Especially since I was the one risking more—he might buy it from the wholesaler, but I was the one who’s hands were the reddest if anyone got caught. So, I wasn’t going to let him run me. And he didn’t.
Even if he ever tried, there’d be some strong males he’d have to contend with—prior customers and beneficial friends that I had acquired through elementary school—that would kick his ass until the split went 80-20.
There’s strength in numbers.
But there’s even more strength in manipulation, and that was my number one lesson learned in junior high. (And, by far, the most valuable life skill one can acquire.)... to be continued
Back to original writing index
Author: zines@aol.com
This is an original work of fiction. All rights are reserved by the author.