2005-11-30 - 10:19 a.m.
In the winter of 1992-93, I was busy academically imploding at Harvard and doing the long distance thing with C. at Stanford. She came out to visit me around Valentines Day weekend. My roommate, the King, was very accommodating and cleared out of our bedroom, pushing the beds together behind him (C. and I ended up sliding down between them onto the floor a lot when we slept).
Among our other romantic activities that weekend, we decided to buy some pot. C. had only started smoking it at college, so we had never done it together. We figured, what better way to celebrate our love than to get stoned? Almost no one I knew at college indulged (yes, uptight Harvard kids; go figure) and smoking up alone is just lame, so I don�t think I had done it yet there.
Now a problem was that I didn�t really know where to get it. The pot dealers I�d seen tended to be high school kids hanging around �the Pit�, the sunken area around the Harvard Square subway station entrance where all the �cool� kids could be found. I didn�t really want to deal with negotiating with some hipster wastoid teen. �Yeah dude, I got pot. How much is it worth to you?� Fuck that.
I had heard they sold drugs in the Combat Zone. This is an area of downtown Boston that has been cleaned up tremendously in the years since and rechristened the �Ladder District� (it now has a palatial movie theater and expensive restaurants and overpriced loft apartments). But back then it was still really seedy, a good place to get mugged or pick up a streetwalker.
Of course �really seedy� is a relative term in New England. It�s geographically a pretty small area, so a visitor kind of gets the impression of being in the EPCOT World Pavilion version of a slum. I remember once noticing a porno theater with a marquee saying �OPEN ALL NIGHT!� Well, I thought, at least something�s open all night (Boston has notoriously early closing times). Then I passed closer and saw the smaller lettering underneath. �Until 2 A.M.�
Still, I figured it would be a likely place to score weed. C. and I set out on a romantic quest to cop dope in the bad part of town. Who says I don�t know how to show a girl a good time? We took the T there and wandered down the street trying to make eye contact with every likely-looking dealer. None of them would talk to us. Hmm. Maybe we looked like narcs; a couple of clean-cut white kids seeming out of place. Maybe I should be more proactive.
I approached a guy clocking the corner who was obviously a shady character of some sort. He was wearing a full-length raccoon-skin coat and a wide brimmed hat (in retrospect, he looked like a 1960s pimp). Surely, this man had drugs for me. He looked at me warily as I came up to him, squinting at me suspiciously.
�Hey man, you got a dime?�
He frowned at me, seeming extremely dubious.
�No, I don�t got no dimes. Take a hike.�
Huh. Well, that hadn�t worked out. At least C. was standing out of earshot and didn�t hear me get turned down so coldly.
We moved on down the street and I asked every guy we passed if they had a dime. Some shook their head at me. Some didn�t even acknowledge me. This was incredibly frustrating. I couldn�t get people who were obviously dealers to sell me drugs. Did I really look like that much of a chump? We got turned down all the way around the block and came back to the corner with the guy in the raccoon coat. I went up to him in utter confusion.
�Look, I don�t understand. We�ve been all over the street and no one will sell to us. I promise we�re not cops. Are you sure you don�t have a dime?�
He hesitated for a second, sizing me up. �You just didn�t look like the type. I don�t have dimes. I got twenties.�
�That�s fine! We�ll take one.�
�All right, go with him.�
He nodded at a big guy who got up off a stoop. We followed him down the block. He had his hands folded behind him.
�In my hand, take it.�
I reached into his hand and took what he was holding. It felt like very small rocks tightly-wrapped in plastic. I looked down at it. It was white. Gaah!
I thrust it back into his hand. Apparently surprised, he turned around and scowled at me.
�What? You ain�t getting more for twenty!�
�Uh,� I said dumbly. �This is crack.�
�Of course it is. What the fuck do you want?�
�Just some weed, man.�
�Weed? Like grass? Shit, I don�t got that.�
This couldn�t have actually happened, but in my memory a small crowd started gathering around us to stare at the moron.
�Do you know where I can get some?�
�No idea. I don�t think anyone�s got that around here. Why the fuck you come around here for that?�
�Uhm. Sorry.�
C. and I slunk off. We never did end up scoring pot that weekend. At least we heeded the words of Cotton Mather, or maybe it was Keith Haring: Crack is wack!
� 2005 Geoff Gladstone
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