The Good Ol Days?

There was a time that no less than $4,000 cash was in my apartment. I had an assault rifle hidden under my bed, loaded. I carried a knife and on occasion, a gun. Everyone knew my name and everyone wanted my number. I threw away dollars like they were pennies. I paid for a year of college, paid for dinner, paid for drinks…I paid for everything. My wallet hurt my ass from sitting on so much cash. I was up early and asleep late, meeting the demand while staying one step ahead of the police. My roommate and I ran our school. If you wanted to get high you called us.

We thought we were hot shit; turns out we were just douche bags who had connections. We have both grown up, but it is hard to forget about the “good ol days” when we ran the show. Sometimes we sit around and discuss the market, what we did wrong, what we did right and why we never got caught. We are a few years older, most certainly wiser, and when we reminisce the conversation always ends in how lucky we were.

Lucky that we didn’t get caught, killed or robbed.

But the more and more I think back on it, the thing I think I am luckiest for is that I escaped with my personality intact. If you knew me before I started dealing you wouldn’t have recognized me while I was knee deep in it. I spent a good portion of my days counting stacks of cash and then I spent the other portion recounting them. I cleaned and trained with my guns incessantly, ever prepared to fight off the seemingly inevitable home invasion. I bought things for people and threw my money around like it actually bought friends. I thought about the dollar, obsessed about the dollar, counted the dollar and worshipped the dollar.

I was the dollar, it was my life.

I am lucky that those few years of distribution didn’t destroy me. The obsession with money and power was out of hand, and I was what you could call small time. I often talk to my old roommate about what would have happened had we gone big time...the conclusions drawn are never pretty. As much as I loathe the person I was for those few years, I love to reminisce.

The following is the roommate’s take on our past occupation:

why is it that at 4:20 every day i stop and think...

if only I was a drug dealer again...

i would be sitting on a couch instead of at a desk...

i would be making more money than i am now...

i could spend more time with [my dog]... (Notice he doesn't say "my girlfriend")

not pay a lot for taxes...

get back my bull shit 20 hours of work at whole foods...

walk to work...

reducing my carbon footprint...

effects: a less stressful life in that i am not a harrassing telemarketer...

my customers would come to me because i have a good product that they all want...

i wouldnt be restructuring loans...

lets get drunk after work.