What a parent may find…

Found it, the stash and the cash. This has happened twice now and I’ll retell the first time, the worst time. September 9th, School has been in session two weeks. I am home grabbing lunch. Swinging home often discourages Chaz from hanging out here when he skips out of class. I go upstairs to be sure he is not curled up in bed either staring at the phone, or hosting his girlfriend Kate. He’s not, but that smell is there. The heavy pungent smell of unburnt marijuana.

Pushing open the door, difficult due to floor bound clothes and crap. I open the top dresser drawer, the sock drawer. There is the box. The box is a wood casket for a wine bottle that has hard closing hinges. Inside is cash mostly $20s and a large Zip-lock bag of weed. Uh-oh. What to do?

I count the money $580. I take it and the bag of weed.

I call Kim, my wife and Chaz’s mom to let her know this discovery.

I text Chaz: “Mom and I found your stash and cash. We took it. Discussion to follow. This is not ok, selling dope.”

The fuse is lit. I go back to work.

Text from Chaz:”Don’t touch it. I can’t have you touch it”…”Dad please don’t do anything with it.” “I’ll go to treatment.” I just can’t have you touch it”.

Several weeks earlier one of Chaz’s buddies was sent off to a 30 day treatment for chemical dependency. When he got back the kid said he liked being sober. That lasted a week for him. Chaz knows I go to Recovery Meetings every week. We have talked about going together.

I threaten to call the police. I have no idea what to do or say. I should be mad; I’m just sad.

I call Barry E., a lawyer and my good friend. I tell him what’s up: “I found Chaz’s stash. A bag of weed and a few hundred bucks”

“What should I do? Call the cops?”

“No don’t do that, do you want to double your trouble?” Barry says. “Chaz will then have a police record and you will be sorry.”

I explain the amount of weed, the money and that I have it.

“Oh great!” He relies: “Now you’re the villain”. He laughs.

I’m pissed: “Are you going to help me?”

“Think about it. You have the dope; the money. If a cop walked into you with that, who would they arrest?” “Nice play Shakespeare.” he laughs and continues:

“Christian, I can’t tell you how to parent and this sucks. Where is Chaz now?”

I reply: “He’s not at school. I’m not sure.” “he’s texting me again right now. Talk Later?”

“Yes, of course” “Be safe.”

“Bye Barry.”

From Chaz: “I’m about to trash your house if you don’t talk to me right now.”

“Don’t make me dad.”

Here I am about 1979. Senior in high school.  I work at Wendy’s on Blake Road, Hopkins. Every other Friday night, I work an evening shift and close. On the way home I stop at our store manager’s apartment to pick up a quarter pound of marijuana. The scene of her smoky living room and husky boyfriend is still clear: dirty dishes, dim lights, hanging crocheted plant holders, black and dayglo posters; a lava lamp. There’s a table and a scale and he weighs out 64 ounces. I point out that there are too many twigs and seeds he pulls out that crap and adds better buds. I’m satisfied. It’s fronted to me, which means the dealer gives me the dope to sell and I owe him $125 due in two weeks. I hand over the $125 for the last batch. He counts it. Fine.

I have buyers, friends who want weed and would never do what I am doing. They are not addicted like me. I need to feed my head. Whether it’s marijuana, coke, crack, crystal meth, Xanax, Oxy, or whatever. Our habits have grown too expensive.

Basically I get the quarter pound, 4 ounces. I split it into six half ounce baggies; selling at $20. Classmates in high school buy several of the bags; friends in my neighborhood buy the rest. The plan leaves me with an ounce to smoke and share, or sell. That’s the junkie business plan.

What happens: in my little business, the amount sold to friends decreases while the amount I consume increases. I start making the bags smaller and claim they are the same.  I sell them for the same price. I add leaves or powder to stretch the bags sold, this is called cutting or stepping on the bag. My friends notice and are pissed at me.

Whatever the junkies drug of choice, our morals decline in order to stay high. So I sell dope. Then I steal dope. Then I steal from my friends and lie about it. Desperate we consume and can not repay the drug dealer. I take money out of my dad’s wallet. I steal from our family. People steal pot from me. What a mess.

The dealer does not like to be stiffed and serious consequences at the hands of these lawless predators happen. People die.

The other trouble is robbery and getting jumped for the dope. What I had going on never lead there. Chaz has been jumped twice and people steel from him. Poor kid. I last maybe six months selling pot. I am not meant for this business.

Chaz has arrived. I dash for home.

Upstairs I hear Chaz stomping around as he searches every drawer, every nook and cranny. Door slams and falling things. I climb up the stairs.

I ask: “Is it fronted to you?”

He demands: “Tell me where it is.”

“Hidden. I want to talk to you about it.”

Chaz replies with another F-bomb. He notices and says: “The cops aren’t here yet.”

“I will only call them if you hurt someone or yourself.” I reply.

He is in his room, and looks at me. Says: “NO NO NO!” and pushes past me. I watch him head down the stairs. CRASH the mirror at the landing is pulled down and shatters. I follow. At the bottom he tips over a small cabinet and stomps on it. Then runs into our kitchen. I follow. He turns and swipes hard at a basket of silverware sending forks and butter knives my way. They crash into our new cabinets scratching the drawers.

He runs out and off.

I go upstairs, stepping around the busted cabinet and mirror. I return the cash to his weed box.

Three hours later and a string of foul texts we meet in a parking lot behind a coffee shop. He gets in my car and I hand him his dope. I feel like a drug dealer.