One guy chronicles a series of interesting texts that lead us into the dangerous world of dealers and such.
Hint: Mary isn’t who you think she is. 


written by KEVIN DUNSHEE

It’s 6:30 pm, and I’ve just arrived in Philadelphia, where my girlfriend has already taken to her new favorite past time of playing (read: snooping) on my cell phone. I moved from Philly to Killah Queens in September, and Amelia has since developed an acute paranoia that I’ve been texting (read: sleeping with) Ridgewood’s entire female population in her absence. I’ve neglected to point out that this group is comprised almost entirely of first-generation Polish-American grandmothers because the point, ladies, is that I am an upstanding boyfriend with nothing to hide.

“Kev, who the FUCK is Mary?!”

Expert tip for all my novices out there: loud expletives indicate anger in most females, followed closely by verbal degradation and, in extreme cases, nut-shots. Proceed with caution.

“It’s not what you think.”

It’s not, though I suspect I’m the first innocent man to use that phrase. It’s just that it happens to be more succinct than the truth, which is that it can be hard for a newcomer to find a reliable pot dealer in this city, and that maybe once he does, said dealer is one of those dudes who wants to treat the situation like we’re in fucking “Maria Full of Grace,” insisting that you give him a fake name and only communicate in code. Here’s the text log of my conversation with “Mary:”


        Nov 25th

      Me: (=

      Mary: (=

     Dec 3rd

      Me: (=

      Mary: (=

      Dec 15

      Me: (=

      Mary: (=

      Jan 1

      Me: (=

      Mary: (=

Pretty straightforward system: my smiley means “can I get some pot?” Mary’s means “sure. be right over.” So what exactly does my girlfriend think is going on here? What, am I engaged in some type of bizarre, 8th-grade-level flirting session with a girl whose only fetish is the OG smiley emoticon? Like I’m not good for a heart here and there, maybe throw in a wink or that guy who looks like he’s doing the Oh-face? I know how to sext.

I straightened things out with Amelia, but the situation did create a bit of nostalgia for ghosts of drug dealers past. My dealings with them were personal and warm, albeit bizarre and incredibly frustrating. My new communication, while efficient, is cold and sterile. I’m from the city of brotherly love, folks. Give me intimacy over efficiency any day. Besides, those conversations were always good for a chuckle. I’ve compiled some of my favorites below. Names have been changed to prevent snitching.

Tommy was one of those 20-something wannabe gangstas who could never quite  reconcile the thug-life with still living at his Mom’s house. This  conversation took place during the same week.


      Friday 6:30 PM

      Tommy: Ayo

      Me: Hey

      Tommy: You need trees? Got that Delorean Kush, shit’ll take you back to the future  kid.

      Me: Haha is that a thing? I’m good for right now but I’ll let you know.

      Tommy: You sure? I can dip over quick I’m on the road now.

      Me: Where you’re going, you don’t need roads.

      Tommy: ?

      Me: I’m fine

      Sunday 2:30 PM

      Me: Yo can I pick up from you today?

      Tommy: New phone who dis?

      Me: Kevin

      Tommy: …

      Me: Dunshee

      Tommy: You a cop?

      Me: We’ve known each other for three years

      Me: I’m a bartender

      Me: Where you work

      Tommy: I smell bacon

      Me: Dude.

      Tommy: If you keep prank texting me I’ll have to report your number to the police.

      Me: wtf?

      Tommy: Sorry mom took my phone. What time you wanna come by?

After Tommy was Kyle, your typical “deal to pay for my ludicrous pot consumption” type dude. I could show about 30 conversations, but this one says it all


      Saturday 3:45 PM

      Me: Yo I’m right by your apt can I swing by and pick up quick?

      Kyle: For sure

      Me: K be there in 2 mins

      Me: Yo I’m outside pick up

      Me: Pick up your phone man

      Me: Hello??

      Sunday 2:00 pm

      Kyle: Yo just woke up. Did you need bud?

And my all-time favorite, Alvin. Alvin was moving a lot more than pot, and for some reason thought I was the MAN. It was the perfect setup at first but this, too, had its pitfalls.

      Friday 9:15 pm

      Me: Hey what are you charging for an eighth nowadays bud?

      Alvin: Free 99 for you bruv

      Me: For real?

      Alvin: Yeah cum chill

      Me: Ok be over in a bit

      Alvin: Cum by whenever

Alvin was a 35-year-old bachelor, and I found his vowel choice disconcerting. This one was the last straw:


      Sunday 5:00 pm

      Alvin: You still want me to cum by?

      Me: Not right now I’ve got my parents here. Call you in a bit.

      Alvin: When do I get to meet your parents?

      Me: ?

      Alvin: (=

      Alvin: I really want to cum

      Me: Dude I’m just looking for pot

      Monday 12:00 pm

       Alvin: Lol sorry I was so zooted yesterday. Wanna come over and talk about it?

      Alvin: ?

      Alvin: Whatever dick.

I worry for the Tommys and Kyles and Alvins of the world. As America moves toward legalization, I wonder how they’ll fend for themselves in the absence of the only line of work they’ve ever known. I mean, they all sucked at it, I’m just saying imagine that level of suckiness applied to any purpose greater than getting me high. Pretty scary. “Mary,” on the other hand, that dude will be just fine. He’ll probably get in on some low key gun-running, maybe some human trafficking, real tactical stuff. But it’s that kind of sloppy, clumsy innocence that’s always made the experience special for me, so if anyone knows where I can find that, shoot me a smiley face. Anyway, I wish I knew what I was getting at here. I think it’s that I should smoke less.

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