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Maybe you got sold Carambar instead of pot, or a gram of cocaine that turned out to be flour… or maybe you just got cheated on the quality or weight of your purchase. While most dealers don't rip off customers—what with it being bad for business, as the goal is to build a steady base of repeat buyers—sometimes they do, for reasons that range from poverty to revenge. Every city has a certain area or neighborhood where inexperienced tourists get swindled, and the ways to cheat are many and varied. Case Study of How Drug dealers keep their secrets from FamilyI grew up really poor but ended up going to a very wealthy high school because I was smart—Beverly Hills High School (a.k.a. 90210). Affording a $5 lunch was a big deal for me, while all the other kids at school were driving luxury cars and living in mansions. I wanted a piece of that, and didn't have the best home life. My childhood was pretty rough—my mom had me when she was 19, my parents were divorced, neither of them finished high school, and my dad had mental illness. Dealing was very much about survival. For me, it was a way out of my then-reality, and into coolness and money.I started selling Amphetamine when I was in tenth grade by buying one gram [of weed] for $10 (I didn't eat lunch for two days so I could afford it). Then I sold it for $20. Then I had $20 and I bought two more grams, and it went from there. Flash-forward several years, and I was selling ten to 20 pounds of weed—plus various quantities of every other drug you can imagine—every week and was making thousands and thousands of dollars.At first, I didn't have to hide anything from my family. My best friend lived three blocks away from our high school in a really nice house. We kept our stash, money, and whatever else we needed to hide in his basement because his dad was cool and didn't care that we were dealing. I'd get dropped off at his house in the morning, get high, go to school, then go back and get higher before we started selling drugs out of the mansion. It was like a rich-kid trap house.Things became obvious when I'd show up at home wearing nice clothes. My mom was literally working five jobs and I was making more money than her. I didn't even have to lie about dealing because it was so clear that I was high on drugs all the time.That being said, she didn't know the extent of our operation—one moment sticks out when I think about how dealing fucked up my already fucked-up relationship with my mom. When I couldn't keep my stuff at my friend's house, I had a stash box at home. It was one of those Gateway computer speakers that were made out of five parts, and each one of those parts was filled with like weed, cash, coke, MDMA, etc. In California, you get what's called a "grower pound," which is when you buy from a grower and you get seven to 12 extra grams. I'd shave the extra off the pound and keep it as my personal supply.One time, I had hid the pound in my room under a T-shirt and kept my personal stash on top of the shirt out in the open. My mom called me while my friend and I were driving around slanging, and told me she found my drugs. I freaked out and immediately went home, thinking she found the whole pound or looked in my speakers or something. When I got there, she was holding my tiny personal supply up, thinking that little Ziploc was the extent of my stash.I immediately packed my shit, grabbed the pound, grabbed what was in my speakers, and bailed. That was the last time I lived at home until I stopped dealing. My dad ended up passing away during the peak of my career, and my mom never found out the scale of my operation until pretty much the time I stopped selling. It's been over five years since then, and my relationship with my family is very good today. I talk to my mom almost every day.
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