Rabble Rouser

It took Marty and Monty only two days to locate Jeff the Dealer. The citizens of Poscataw County would have been better off without this discovery.

‘Where are we going?’ I said.  I didn’t like being a passenger in my mother’s car, especially with Monty doing 80 down a two-lane road.  Marty and Monty had forced me to sit in back with Tito the Mannequin.   

‘Into Poscataw,’ Monty said.

‘Why?’

‘We met somebody.’

‘Who?’

‘He’s gonna hook us up.’ 

‘Are you sure about him?’

‘Very sure.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Some kid from town.’

‘A kid?  We’re not going to anyone’s parent’s house, are we?’

‘Naw.  Chill, man.  He’s a college kid.’

Jeff the Dealer was a sophomore at Southern.  He didn’t live in his parents’ house, but he did live in a dorm room. 

‘Mi casa es su casa,’ he said.  He was chubby with surfer blond locks and big blue eyes.  His flannel hung low and a pair of baggy unwashed shorts draped to his knees.   

‘Jeff,’ Monty said.  ‘This is Jackson.  Jackson, meet Jeff the Dealer.’

We shook hands. 

‘Nice to meet you, Jeff the Dealer.’

‘My friends call me Jeff.  So you guys want to smoke or what.’  We puffed on a homemade apparatus consisting of a Carlo Rossi bottle, a half-gallon of water, and surgical tubing.  Marty and Monty supplied tunes—Bon-Scott-Vintage AC/DC.  It was their litmus test—a prerequisite for becoming a Marty and Monty Certified Vendor.  At the first guitar solo, without hesitation, Jeff the Dealer unleashed the air-guitar.  Marty and Monty shared satisfied smiles. 

Monty rubbed his hands together briskly.  ‘What have you got for us?’ 

Jeff the Dealer stood.  ‘Step into my office.’  His office was a closet, and we didn’t step in; we huddled in a semi-circle as he pulled bags from a pile of socks on the closet floor.  ‘I have to hide the stuff,’ he said.  ‘So my RA doesn’t find out.’

Marty ducked away from the semi-circle to laugh.

‘Here’s the deal,’ Jeff the Dealer said.  ‘I’ve got your classic Mexican schwag.  You have to smoke three times as much of it to get high but it’s half the price.’  He handed Monty a one-ounce bag.  Monty held it up to the light before passing it to Marty.  Marty opened the bag and took a whiff. 

‘This stuff sucks.’  Marty rolled a bud between his fingers.  ‘Seedy.  Too many stems.’

‘Make you go sterile if you smoke that shit,’ Jeff the Dealer said.  He dug deeper into the socks.  ‘This stuff,’ he said.  ‘You boys are from Cali, right?’  We nodded.  ‘Well so am I.  Orange County.  This stuff would pass for decent on the West Coast.  Around here it’s the champagne of weed.  These hayseeds are so uneducated.’  Marty and Monty performed another inspection.

‘Not bad,’ Monty said.

‘Better,’ Marty said.

‘But not good enough,’ Jeff the Dealer said.  ‘Here’s the shit.  White Widow, baby.’

‘Ooooooh.’ 

‘It’s speckled with white and makes some people see white flashes.’

‘How much for an O-Z,’ Monty said.

‘Six-hundred,’ he said.  I saw Marty and Monty cringe.  I reached into my pocket and ran my thumb across the wad of bills taken from Jefferson Calvert’s cache.  I’d been carrying this wad for days now, just in case, but there’d never been a good reason to spend it.  I knew once I started there’d be no end to the discretionary spending, not until the money ran out or I got caught.

‘Give us two ounces,’ I said, handing Jeff the Dealer a crisp handful of aged twenties.  Marty and Monty stood open-jawed.  I turned to my friends.

‘It’s on me.  Call me Daddy Warbucks.’ 

Thus was born the Jefferson Calvert Cannabis Trust.