Writing
The Social Club (in three parts)
by Xavier - London, England
part I - introduction
Whenever you meet a dealer there is a certain ritual you have to follow, a certain way of behaving that you inevitably learn to uphold without ever being quite sure who taught it to you.
This is especially the first time; that customary respect you show, the questions you cannot ask. Someone you know usually introduces you. A friend, a house-mate. Everybody seems to know at least somebody they can ask. But nobody wants to be a middle man for long, so sooner or later you end up meeting the source, going on a social visit, visiting a 'friend-of-a-friend'. You shake hands, exchange first names and sit down in an arm chair while the dealer gets the couch to himself. There is nothing really recognisable in the room around you. It all looks so familiar, so like any other room that you've ever seen that you can't tell it apart from any of the others. Maybe the television is on a little more often, the walls a little barer or the stereo piled beneath vinyl records and CDs of bands the names of which you've never heard, but otherwise there is nothing really unusual. Only that there is always something subtly sensory, some dominating atmosphere that it is always inscrutable, impossible to recall once you are away from it. You are never quite fully aware of anything while you are there, only trusting of it, trusting of the focus but not the periphery.
Everything has to make sense.
When you first arrive the dealer always seems in mid-conversation, as if they were half way through telling some personally gratifying anecdote when you interrupted. You listen and you wait while they finish. You wait because you can never begin by asking. The same goes for job interviews: you can't be seen to be asking for the position or desperate for work, just as you can't shake hands and ask for a bag. Politeness and custom is everything. It can make a deal or clinch a job. If you make a mistake and say the wrong thing the dealer may ask for more cash, suddenly not have enough gear, or intentionally put less in the bag.
You can't be weak either; you pander to the dealer without pandering to them. You listen, and you wait until they are ready. A polite conversation inevitably starts in which both of you try to remain as anonymous as possible. Most relationships begin like that I guess, hesitant and protective at first, though with the dealer it never gets beyond this.
You start by asking about something you overhead in his initial story. "So, you were at...", or "Then what did you think of..." and you go from there, leading the theme through a few exchanges, showing some interest and nodding your head when all you can think about is what he's got. You always make sure to convey that you've never heard anything about him, especially from a friend, especially not the one who introduced you, sitting on the other arm chair in the room.
Nobody likes to hear about a loose network, but nobody likes their existence
to be a secret either. As soon as the preliminaries are over, chances are
he'll offer you some gear without you having to ask. He has to make the initial
admission
of dealing, especially if he's going to take your money. Pot dealers are not
like suppliers of hard drugs. Pot dealers are users and will customarily offer
free samples since they have a much larger supply of their wares around. Hard
drug dealers will never give you a taste and never touch the stuff. Out comes
a bong and the stash from another room, the 'social stash' pre-cut in a large
bowl for when people come calling. The dealer usually smokes something more
carefully chosen for taste and strength and if you get to know him, and he
has enough, he may offer it to you. But at first you get what everybody else
gets.
The dealer packs and offers you the first round. At this point it is polite
to ask about the bong if it is clean and unusual in any way, and not just
a makeshift unit assembled from an orange juice container and a piece of green
garden hose. It is also sensible to ask about the contents of the bowl without
querying too closely
where it came from. You'd never get the answer to that question, but you need
to know your drug. They all have a name, a sub-species or some defining appearance.
Sensation is everything. How does it look, smell and taste?
How do you feel?
What do you see?
