How To Lose Money And Brain Cells - A Petty Drug Dealers Guide PT 5

The Times They Are A Changing

The next couple of months were spent doing the usual small time drug deals, selling some hash, weed and speed and meeting a few interesting characters along the way. Since breaking up with Carla I’d been taking a lot less speed and whole lot more ecstasy, the price had dropped to five pounds per pill and I was enjoying every minute of it. Now that I didn’t have her place to use I was selling the stuff mainly on the street, on the corner of my parent’s road to be precise. See Rule #7. Then I met a new dealer and he started giving us the good stuff, base speed, which is basically the form it comes in before Leonard could cut it with all manner of shit to make up the weight. We now had a new supplier, Charlie, who was also Leonard’s supplier but Leonard could go fuck himself for all I cared. All my casual user’s started to complain that a gram was now costing them twice as much, ten pounds instead of five, to which I would always reply
“If you leave the room for ten minutes I can easily cut that gram into three with some glucose powder and then you can have the same price and quality as before”
Obviously they never took me up on the offer, in fact they would usually call me at around four in the morning to talk nonsense and to say how much stronger and better it was.

Still, the speed freaks were starting to weird me out. The real hardcore speed freaks are a strange bunch. We used to sell to this one guy that was named, affectionately, Two Scoops on account that his wife would have to wake him up with a table spoon, a bag of speed and a glass of water so he could swallow his two scoops before getting out of bed or he would never wake up. There was a guy named Stevie who introduced me to his little gang of hardcore speed heads too.

Stevie was about twenty eight and his flat was an absolute mess as it was overrun with old televisions and stereo equipment that he was always trying to fix up. He would go out late at night with his cronies, high as fucking kites, and rummage skips looking for random old and useless electrical equipment. They rarely ever got any of it to work; they just filled their homes with the stuff and pretended that one day they’d get it all working. We had another customer named Deggsie, who would go out late at night and wander onto building sites and help himself to a drum of cable or two and then spend the rest of the night meticulously stripping it down to the bare copper so he could sell for scrap the next day ensuring that he would have enough money to get some more speed.

All these weird characters were starting to get to me, I mean they really were quite odd and I was also starting to have moral issues about the fact that they were unquestionably addicted to the substance that I was supplying them. After much debating in my head I decided to call it a day on selling speed these addicts, it was time to cut loose. I was still selling it to my friends along with dope and pills that was easy money. I was even starting contemplating working again. See Rule #10. I could feel the walls closing in around me in more than one sense.

I was getting fed up living at my parent’s and Darren’s middle class squat buddy, Rupert, was growing tired of me staying over all of the time. The problem I was faced with was that I would have to get a job, which wouldn’t leave much room for getting wasted, and all the jobs that I was qualified to do probably wouldn’t pay enough for me to rent somewhere and still have money to party.

I decided that my best option would be to try and get a live in bar job as it solved my two current issues, employment - See Rule #10 - and a place to live. Naturally, in order to do this I decided to stay up all night taking base, have a little more at around ten in the morning with a few Vodkas, shower and then headed in to London’s West End to trawl the boozers looking for work.

I arrived at Charing Cross station wired and broken, who in their right mind would give me a job? I walked along the Strand wandering in and out of bars inquiring about any possible job vacancies with no success at all. I cut into Covent Garden with just as little success, they either wanted to see a CV, which I did not possess or had ever possessed, or had no live in positions available; more often than not they just took one quick look at me and as soon as I’d finished my spiel offered a very firm “No!”

Eventually I moved onto Soho and by now I was so jittery, my movements had become erratic, I was downtrodden and barely coherent. I went into five different bars and only got further than asking the question in two of them but the result was always the same, a complete waste of time, my own and also theirs too. Who was I kidding; I was a gibbering wreck with dark painful bags under my eyes, who the fuck would employ me?

I was all but done with the whole ridiculous idea when I saw a pub called The Royal Oak. It looked pretty average, low key and kind of a dive, just the kind of place I felt comfortable in. I went in primarily to get a drink as I was sick of trudging the bitter streets. A slightly overweight, thirty something barman wearing a Guinness promotional tee shirt approached me and began to speak.
“Alright mate, what can I get ya?”
At first I couldn’t quite understand what he was saying and if it was even directed at me but eventually the penny dropped and after much awkward staring I answered.
“Large vodka, lime and soda and a job if you have one”
The man looked at me and let out a slight sman.
“Well the drink I can definitely help you out with and maybe the job too”
“Really?”
He replied as he poured the drink.
“Depends on your experience really. Have you ever done any bar work before?”
“Nope but I’m a fast learner and I’m good with people”
He handed me my drink and poured himself a pint of beer.
“I have a live in position available but with no experience your chances aint looking good son!”
“Please mate, how hard can it be? I really need a job and somewhere to live.”
“Yeah you like you do too!”
He answered with a sympathising half smile.
“You can teach me how to pull a pint now and I’ll learn the till in no time”
“Can you cook?”
“Of course I can!”
I replied with all the bravado and confidence I could muster. I’d never cooked more than a bacon sandwich or microwave ready meal in my life but what the fuck, you make your own luck right?
“Nothing fancy just full English, burgers, bangers and mash etc, you know the usual pub grub bollocks.”
“No worries”
“Well that’s a good start because it’s someone to work the busy shifts in the kitchen that I’m really after”
By now I’d already finished my drink.
“You look like you need another drink. It’s on the house but on the condition that you pour it yourself.”
“Not a problem”

I entered the bar via the hatch and he pointed me in the direction of the pint glasses and the pump. It was easy, I’d been drinking since I was fourteen and watched enough bar staff pour me drinks to know that you tilted the glass when you poured it to create less of a head.
“Not bad, not bad at all, son. The head could be a little smaller but for a first attempt that’s pretty good.”
“Now drink up and when Anna gets in I’ll show you the kitchen and bedroom.”
“Does that mean I’ve got the job then?”
“It means I’m considering it, now just enjoy that pint.”
“Cheers.”
“What’s ya name then son? I’m Tony”
“Ben”
“When was the last time you got a proper night’s sleep?”
Said with that same half smile.
“I dunno, maybe three, four nights ago?”
“Ha, you might just fit in here then”

I couldn’t believe my luck, was he fucking mad?
Anna arrived; she was a beautiful French girl with bright red bobbed hair and covered in piercings. I went upstairs to the kitchen with Tony to inspect the stainless steel nightmare that would soon become my working quarters. He took me up another flight of stairs and showed me an averaged sized room with a double bed and wardrobe in it and informed me that this would be where I would be living.
“So does that mean I’ve got the job then?”
“Yeah, why not? You look like you could do with a break.”
“Thanks a lot man, it’s well appreciated”
“Now listen – you can do what you like in your room, have your mates back, smoke weed or even crack for all I care, the only condition being that it stays in your room! You got me?”
“Loud and clear sir, loud and clear.”

I headed back to Darren’s immediately to tell him the good news. I had to wake him upon arrival; it was by now around seven in the evening. I told him about the multiple rejections I’d received and about Tony and Anna and that I started on Monday as the new cook.
“What the fuck do you know about cooking, you barely eat as it is?”
He exclaimed.
“Fuck all. I’ll have to do a few stints behind the bar too”
I replied with a mischievous grin.
“Well fair play on a nicely blagged job then! I suppose we should celebrate?”
“It’d be rude not to!”
We spent the rest of the night taking more speed and about half a dozen Es each and quaffed down a litre and a half of vodka for good measure to cap it all off. It was at about midday the following day that I finally had nine hours much needed sleep.

The next day Darren leant me a copy of ‘Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas’ by Hunter S Thompson. In between taking and selling speed, hash and weed I made time to read the book, the book that would start me off on a rollercoaster ride which would shape my late teens and early twenties, for better or for worse. I read the novel in two days, it immediately had me hooked and it was like right, this is who I want to be and this is what I want to do! I’d never bothered to read books before, my substandard all boys comprehensive school had failed to inspire me with the greatness and escapism of books, in fact, they just failed to inspire me at all!

Come Monday I would be moving to Soho to start a new life as a cook/barman and for the first time in about a year something other than drugs had got me very excited. The tide was definitely about to turn.