Love Letters to All of My Pot Dealers

This article originally appeared on VICE Canada.

Dearest Jason,

You supplied me pot for two months in the fall of 2000.

You'd met my roommate, Josephine, outside a Blenz coffee shop in Victoria. That's where you and your friends would hang out, perched on and around newspaper boxes, strumming guitars with empty coffee cups in front of you and your pack of giant, wooly, hard-to-distinguish breed of dogs. Josephine was a perky and sweet girl, if not a little misguided.

She'd just moved to Victoria from Sarnia, Ontario, where she lived with her dad in a house next to a golf course that had an indoor pool. He bought her a spacious four bedroom a block from the university, which she rented out to me and a few other girls she met through flyers posted around campus.

A week after moving in with Josephine, I learned that her ex-boyfriend had gassed himself in her garage and a day later, she flew to Barbados where she chilled/deluded herself to the realities of her dark circumstances for the summer, before coming out West to start completely afresh.

I suppose that meant in matters of the heart as well, which is where you came in. While I'm not one to be charmed by homeless looking types who loiter outside of coffee shops, Josephine was clearly (maybe that's the wrong word) open to your advances, especially when you asked if she wanted some weed.

Your query quickly led to some unspoken, open-ended invitation to live with us. Turns out Josephine didn't like ever being alone and that worked well with you since you didn't appear to have a consistent place to live or even a set schedule. While I was incredibly irritated when you regularly helped yourself to my avocados, I suppose you made up for it by leaving baggies of hash and pot crumbs on the island in the kitchen.

On weekends I would smoke whatever stash you left lying around, despite not being much of a pot smoker. Two months after hooking up with you, Josephine met her future husband at a kegger, a beefy dude from Kelowna, who would exclusively call her "babe." I never saw you after that.

For more on weed, watch our doc 'The Real Nancy Botwin?'

Dearest Virgil and Manjeep,

You supplied me pot between 2006 and 2008.

What could possibly be more soothing to a depressed girl than SSRI's? Pot? Well, not according to my Vancouver doctor, but close. How about pot combined with whimsical gay stoner pals who are professional makeup artists? Let's the memories—and fabulous looks—begin!

I had known you guys at an arm's length through mutual friends in Toronto, but our friendship really started to deepen when we all ended up in Vancouver. You guys were there to take advantage of the city's film industry, while I was working as a journalist for a newswire. After watching fireworks together one night, you quickly became my surrogate family. I'd never felt so comfortable or silly around other people like I did with you two.

Although not technically dealers, you guys smoked more than anyone else I hung out with. You'd always buy your supply in Costco-sized quantities and gift me chunks of bud without me even asking. I'd sometimes try to throw you $5 or $10 but usually you'd tell me not to worry about it. I wasn't a daily smoker then, and would save getting high for when we all hung out. Over those three years, we'd have regular sleepovers where we'd order pizza, watch Bravo shows you'd TiVo, and get super baked. I was always going through some sort of emotional struggle, wrestling with moods and feelings of helplessness. But with you guys around, along with your giant bangs of weed, life felt joyous.

My favorite memories include the time you made me up to look like a sexually ambiguous Cirque du Soleil reject, and when I accidentally put your electric kettle on the stove. When the smoke detector went off, I was too stoned and in shock to do anything except say "Oh no. Oh no. Oh no," while you both swiftly dealt with the melting plastic and toxic smoke. When the fire was out, we laughed so hard I peed a little. I'll also never forget the time we took your dog Smudge's ashes to the dog beach, only to find a stash of weed inside the urn.

A big part of me felt lost when you guys moved back to Toronto. That prompted me to find my own dealer. I still love you to no end.

Dearest The Bambino,

You supplied me pot between 2008 and 2010.

I got your number from a friend who enthused about your exceptionally tasty supply. Mostly, though, I was happy you delivered. You insisted on going by the name The Bambino, though I never asked you why. Perhaps it had something to do with keeping a cover, or maybe it was because you had a pudgy, baby face that made your age indistinguishable. Your bleached blond, shoulder-length hair, which you always accessorized with a bandana, and the Hawaiian board shorts you wore year-round, gave you a total surfer vibe. I didn't know much about you since I never understood the etiquette of small talk with drug dealers, but I did know you were some sort of party promoter. I knew that because you were always inviting me to outdoor parties in Penticton and Aldergrove, which I never attended. Our ties were severed after I tried calling you, only to find your phone number had been disconnected. Here's hoping you're still running things, The Bambino.

Dearest Ike on a bike and his girlfriend whose name I never caught,

You supplied me pot between 2010 and 2013.

You left a stack of cards at the cash register in my neighborhood craft beer store. I gave you a call and you assured me my Vancouver apartment was within your catchment area and from then on, I was to communicate via text. Though you promoted yourself as being on a bike, not once did I ever see you on a bike. You always walked. You would always show up with your girlfriend—I never caught her name—who wore one of those toques with long ear tassels and Grover's face on it. Not unlike Jason, the skid who briefly weaseled his way into my university roommate's heart, you dressed in oversized cargo pants and always had dirt under your fingernails.

You kept your supply in a large bag of Ruffle chips, which was sealed with a glued-on Velcro strip. I was always given a choice in the types of strain, but you'd rattle off the names so quickly that it never meant anything to me. Sometimes, you were tired of making house trip, so you'd tell me to meet you at a pub you were known to frequent, across from the craft beer store. I felt that defeated the purpose of billing yourself as Ike on a Bike, but when I really want to get stoned, it's hard to argue or complain.

You asked me once if I wanted to be an extra in a horror film you were making and I declined. You went on for a while about how you used ketchup as blood for one scene where you explode a dummy head and I smiled and nodded enthusiastically. You told me about a plan to raise money for your horror film, which involved including a joint with each proposal. I wonder how that went. Our dynamic came to an end when I moved from Vancouver to Toronto, after being offered a job. I want to believe your dreams of filmmaking eventually came true.

Dearest Haze the Budtender,

You supplied me for two days this past winter.

I was escaping the unforgiving cold of Toronto to cat sit for six weeks in Vancouver. Towards the end of my stay, I visited a dispensary, which wasn't hard to do since they're pretty much on every block, next to a Starbucks and a sushi restaurant (inside Vancouver joke). I don't know why I thought there would be people in lab coats and zen music playing, but I was sorely wrong. I stood in a line to speak with petite Asian lady in a see-through bra, who was shimming to dub-step as she dealt with clients. She handed me a form to fill out and photocopied my ID. I waited with other people, giddy teenagers and sheepish men in splattered, painting outfits, to talk to a doctor. When it was turn, I walked into a room that was completely empty except for a desk mounted with an iPad, and a chair. A man on Skype with a diploma behind him welcomed me. He asked what was my ailment. I told him I have depression. He asked if I was on meds. I told him I wasn't. Forty seconds later I had a membership, and 30 seconds after that, a bag of weed which I bought from you. You had purple hair and a Thin Lizzy t-shirt with your nametag. You asked what I wanted and I told you to see stars, so you recommended Head Cheese. I thanked you and came back again two days later, before I had to head back to Toronto. I don't know when I'll see you again but I hope you're having a fruitful 4/20!

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