Nearly half of all Americans have tried marijuana, and weed use is increasing at a steady rate. Chances are, you know a stoner or are one yourself. In either case, you know that weed smokers don't ask for much. They want good bud at a good price from a good dealer who responds to their text messages. Extra points if the dealer has a personal brand, but making any effort to retain happy clients in the booming weed economy is all that's necessary.
But good customer service is easier in theory than practice, which is why solid, responsible dealers stand out. They're impossible to forget, regardless of how stoned you might be every time you see them. The ideal dealer is friendly, reliable, and just weird enough for you to want to keep a healthy distance from him in your personal life.
We asked some people to share anecdotes about their favorite pot dealer, and the replies were truly heartwarming.
HIGH ON THAT GAS
I was at the gas station buying blunt wraps, already high out of my mind. There were five kids between the ages of six and twelve talking to the cashier, who looked like their older sister. I sheepishly put my blunt wraps on the counter, and the kids looked up at me and started making weed jokes. One asked, "What you gonna smoke in that wrap?" It was awful, and I felt awkward that this was happening in front of their sister. Then, she touched my hand and asked me if I smoked mids or dro. "Dro," I said. "I got good dro for ten apiece, boo," she said. Well then! She put her number in my phone as "Mizz 'Handy,'" which was a nickname for the gas station we were in. I visited Mizz Handy regularly: She would take me into the bathroom where there were no security cameras, and we'd make the exchange. She'd usually throw in a blunt wrap, too.
I spent most of my young adult years in military school and the army, so smoking weed was out of the question. Once I left the army, I started dating a liberal arts co-ed whose best friend was a drug dealer. I'd drive out to visit her every other weekend; when we weren't fucking, we were hanging out with her drug dealer. I was the only one with a car, so I'd drive us to this 24/7 diner, and we'd hotbox the car to get ridiculously high before eating. I was really awful at keeping my composure, and my girlfriend wasn't much better, so her dealer would order our food for us. He'd even make small talk with the wait staff like a normal adult. I don't know how he did it. He was a real pro. More than a few times, he saved me from leaving my wallet behind. Best chaperone ever.
While in Shanghai for a few months, I was worried I wouldn't be able to get high. (Priorities, I know.) I was living in a cute, mini-gated community that was a three-minute walk from a busy public sidewalk. The dealer I found in Shanghai also lived in my gated community, but would only meet me on this public sidewalk. When I wanted to pick up, he'd WhatsApp me a very specific time ("3:07 PM"), and we'd position ourselves on opposite sides of the block, pass each other by, and make a quick hand-to-hand exchange. Sometimes, he'd break off a piece of (un-bagged) hash in my hand as an extra gift, and I'd be like, "Bruh, you expect me to just hold this hash in my hand till I walk back to my spot?" I did, but still. He broke his leg near the end of my stay and finally let me come into his apartment. He opened the door, and there was this giant albino rabbit walking around. Totally wasn't expecting that. I'll never forget it.
ELMO SHEET CAKE
I knew my dealer before he was a dealer, so it wasn't (that) weird when he invited me over to celebrate his kid's fourth birthday party. It was cute, but ran later than a child's birthday party probably should have. Naturally, I stayed over and got baked with him afterward. His son was in the other room sleeping, so we had an amazing time eating half of an Elmo sheet cake and blowing bubbles. His girlfriend came home early, which was kind of a buzzkill, but I got to take a plastic container of Elmo cake and a goodie bag of weed home with me.
HE ALWAYS TEXTED BACK
My first college dealer responded to texts really quickly, so I was sad when the end of his senior year approached. Because of some poor planning on my part, I ran out of weed a couple of nights before finals week began. (Only novice stoners don't smoke during finals.) Seniors were already in party mode by then, but I texted him around 11 PM to test my luck anyway. He got back to me right away, but told me he was at a casino and would text later. At 4 AM, I got a text that said: "IDK if ur still up but I just got back." Of course I was still up. I scurried over to his dorm room and got a standing ovation from four of his friends when I entered. He patted me on the back, said, "You're the real MVP," and gave me extra weed for my dedication. I'm pretty sure he works on Wall Street now.
PERSONAL PAN WEED BRAND
My friends and I get high and have food delivered to my apartment about once a week. Our favorite dealer used to be our favorite pizza delivery boy. You could see the sadness in his eyes whenever he left our pot den to deliver empty carbs into the sober world. Taped to the top of the last pizza he delivered to us was a laminated business card promoting his new entrepreneurial weed venture (he's really into "personal branding"), and we've been buying from him ever since. He swings by my place just as regularly now, but with weed instead of pizza. The best part is that he somehow kept the pizza delivery sleeves, and carries all of his gear in square plastic containers that fit perfectly inside. When he has the time, he'll bring an actual pizza inside one of the sleeves and hang out with us.
TREES IN TREES
I never met my favorite dealer, and that's part of why I liked her so much. She was the sister of my aunt's office assistant and had some mysterious medical problem. It was serious enough for her to get state assistance and a medical marijuana card, but not serious enough to prevent her from regularly walking to the park near my house and leaving packages of weed for me to pick up. There was a tree in the park with a weird root configuration that featured a small, cave-like hole. This is where we made exchanges. She handmade burlap bags with fake moss super-glued on them—she was the Martha Stewart of selling weed—and I'd put my money in one bag and she'd put my weed in another. Sometimes she'd throw in a new strain or edible the dispensary was testing, just so I could tweak my selections for next time.
DATING THE DEALER
I was skeptical when my boyfriend said he was going to quit his job to grow marijuana—but I liked marijuana even more than I liked him, so whatever. We live in Colorado, and Amendment 64 says that you can cultivate up to six plants in an "enclosed, locked space," but I assumed he was going to join a legitimate commercial farm where real profit was possible. I was wrong. He tried converting all of the closets in his house into "enclosed, locked spaces" for weed. He's an idiot, so it didn't work out. Our relationship didn't work out either, because he enlisted this (really hot) professional grower to help him out. Now that guy's my favorite dealer, and we make new memories together every day.
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