It's a morality tale, about a young man who steps into the organized criminal element, trying to make it somewhere in the world. It's a story about getting in over your head, learning harsh lessons, and living life in the fast lane. The main character comes to many realizations about human nature as well as life in general, as he journeys along his quest for, whatever it is exactly he is looking for. Is it money, status, respect, just a career, or perhaps even something more? His perspective on things goes on one giant roller-coaster ride over the course of his experience as a street level drug runner. The narrative is intended to equate, or portray the similarities that can be found between the underworld and everyday life. The main character exploits these similarities and parallels in order to justify his actions to himself, but in doing so raises some interesting questions. If I had to try and describe my vision for the story it would be like "The Wire" meets "The Sopranos" meets "Malcolm in The Middle". It challenges the questions and general presumptions about why people choose to turn to crime for profit, and just what kind of people they are. The goal of the story is to give a more gritty approach to a typically hollywoodized and glamorized subject matter, and try and show it for how it really is. It's also intriguing because the main character is an unlikely suspect, and as you see him face his trials and tribulations, I'd like to think that you can't help but cheer for him.
Anyways, this story has long since been edited to a massive extent, and I personally can't help but laugh when I read the original draft I was trying to write. However, in coming across it, I thought it would be fun to share it on the site and see what people think of my work when I was truly an amateur with no idea what to do. I just knew I had a story I wanted to tell, and decided that no matter how bad it looks, I gotta start putting it on paper. So here is an excerpt from an early portion of the first draft of this story. If it gets any feedback I'll start posting edited current versions of the story should anyone actually desire to read them. It likely won't because A. nobody will visit this site, and B. even if they do they probably won't wanna read something this long. However, if you do, give me honest feedback because this was my original draft so I won't be offended if you say it sucks.
Well here it is, in its original form from Feb. 2007, enjoy!
As we approach our intended destination, unbeknownst to me originally, I now know where we’re going; to drop off Myles. I recognized his block as soon as we pulled up a few houses down from his bungalow. I used to come to his house when I was a little kid to trade marvel cards and play video games-times have changed. His house still looks the same though, small, old and basic, but respectable, with that same old tree right in front of the porch. As he steps out, I do also to make my move to the front of the car. I notice he grabs a binder from the backseat on his way out and he gives me a brotherly handshake just before he walks off. I wonder what was in that binder, schoolwork?
As Myles makes his exit, I look back to the car to see that Ryan is still sitting in the passenger side. “You’re driving” he says, in a voice that would seemingly be coming from a drunk if I was someone who didn’t know better. “Okay” I reply, once again a touch of uncertainty in my voice. I take the wheel and drive straight, and from here Ryan will periodically tell me where to turn to get us where we need to go. It’s 10:15 now, and the night has just begun. We’ve got so many places to go, and so many people to see.
Chapter 3: Training Day…well…night
As we head from Myles’ house towards the far west end of town, Ryan is giving me the basic rundown of how things are going to go for the next little while. He tells me that my training will go for about a month until I learn whom everybody is and where they live as well as where to meet them, the customers that is. Selling crack, believe it or not, is a lot like any other job in some ways. You get hired, and you go through a training period in which you’re under constant watch and guidance from an experienced hand. Once you build your confidence and gain the trust of your employer to handle things without hassle, you are given more and more responsibility until eventually you and your boss can agree it’s time for you to go out on your own. Put it like that and it sounds just like my first days training to use a cash register at the video store. Meanwhile, as Ryan details the length of shifts, responsibility for being awake for shifts, and rules while on shift, I nod along giving the necessary periodical “mhm’s” and act like I fully understand and acknowledge the process even though I barely have a fucking clue. Then comes the part where he asks me if I know streets and if I recognize areas very well; a very important quality in order to be a successful drug runner. I’ve lived in Edmonton pretty much my whole life, and for that entire time, in the west end. I had been around town here and there, and had a license since I was 16, so I wasn’t a stranger to other areas of town. However when it came to Edmonton, once I got beyond the west side I had very little sense of direction, or where addresses were. Though, I did recognize certain parts of the city pretty well. Well enough that I had the audacity to think this meant I could tell Ryan that I could get pretty much anywhere I needed to go with a little practice. However, once I realized where we were headed, I found out that the city didn’t matter, because that’s not where I would be working.
About 30 km west outside of Edmonton is a suburb called Spruce Grove, with a neighboring suburb called Stony Plain just a few kms further west. This was going to be my new workplace. This was the general area that I was going to be flooding with these mischievous little white rocks. Apparently this shit has such a hold on people that they fork out $30 a pop, and these suburbs and small towns are simply goldmines for drug addiction.
As we get closer to the edge of the city, Ryan gets a callback from a customer to confirm a previously discussed location and time frame. “Yeah same place? k 15-20 mins” Ryan says to whoever is on the other end of the phone. He keeps the entire call easily to under 20 seconds. It’s obvious he’s been doing this for quite a while and has a grip on things. He then turns to me and tells me how important it is to give decent time to the customers, and to “never feed them bullshit unless it’s necessary”-after all, if you’re in a dishonest business to begin with, once in a while you’re gonna have to be a little dishonest to make it work. He then talks about how I need manage my transactions so that I can map out my stops and try to hit them in a straight line. “You know, see people on the way to see other people” Ryan says. Minimize my backtracking in order to maximize my time efficiency. If I told Customer A that I’d be at his place in 15 mins, and then Customer B phones and I can be there in 5 mins, and it’s on the way, then I make the stop. 9/10 junkies are going to call you back if they don’t see you in about 5-10 mins no matter what time frame they originally got from you. Most will deal with waiting a few minutes longer than originally established as long as every time they call you’re getting closer and closer. Good timing is everything in this business with these junkies. The good ones just call back to make sure you’re still coming and to get an update on how long, and wait patiently at the established meeting location. The bad ones annoy the fuck out of you until you’re pulling into the parking lot, calling you back every minute, fiending for what you have waiting for them in exchange for the sweat soaked cash gripped in their palms.
Ryan eventually directs me to eventually pull into the back area of a suspect looking hotel. As we pull into the parking lot he directs me to park in a stall with 2 pickup trucks on either side of it, and he insists that I back in and reverse park in the space. The parking lot is dark, eerily dark, even for nighttime in the winter. A shadowy figure in the shape of a woman, with a hoodie about 5 sizes to large, approaches the car from the passenger side. Ryan reaches into his little tin. It’s an Altoid Mints tin, but I don’t think he’s carrying mints in it.
The First Deal of the Night
It’s the Winterburn Hotel, and it’s seedy as fuck. It’s in the exact kind of trailer trash filled community you’d expect to find such a place. There would be many deals to come in this very parking lot, and these very hotel rooms would shack up many a crackhead all past, present and future. Not just this hotel, but all the hotels around it, and half the fucking trailer park community were customers.
Winterburn is on the very edge of the city at about 215th street, the very last street before the highway west to Spruce Grove. It’s a little ways from the main area where most of the customers are located, but business down here is good enough to draw us as a supplier, plus on the highway it only takes about 15-20 minutes from Spruce Grove.
At the window stands a hideous looking woman, just hideous. Her voice sounds raspy and lung damaged, like she’s been hitting the pipe and God knows what else for quite a long time. Her teeth are yellow to the point that they almost glow in the dark, and her clothes from head to toe look like none of them could actually be her own because they’re too large and they are men’s clothes.
Ryan blurts out “hey Lisa” in a non enthusiastic voice without even glancing at her as she stands at the window. “60” she says as she tosses a folded up batch of three 20s onto Ryan’s lap through the half opened window. Her voice is just ungodly, hoarse, and riddled with raspy, cancerous tone. Ryan still hasn’t looked up, as he digs two pieces out of the metal mint tin. He then closes the tin, grabs the money from his lap and then quickly, and professionally unfolds it, counts it, then finally looks up at Lisa like a stranger, and hands her the two white rocks in his other hand nonchalantly like a passer by giving change to a bum in the street. “Thanks” she says. “K, cya” Ryan says in a mumble that can barely be distinguished as a form of parting or goodbye. I then pull out of the hotel and onto the service road that leads back onto the highway. So there was my first deal, so far so good I guess.
Training day continued.
As we head towards Spruce, Ryan continues on with his words of wisdom. Despite his slurred and estranged speech, foul language and unintelligent word choices, I can tell I’m getting trained by someone who knows his stuff. There’s just a certain aura or experience about the way he bestows his knowledge upon me that allows me to trust it instantly. Ugly, monotone, dressed in preppy attire and tacky jewelry, Ryan was literally somehow just the spitting image, he was like the face of the drug game.
He stresses the importance of being able to multi-task and deal with stress. “You always gotta know how much food you have on you and how much money you should have to account for the food you don’t have on you.” Food is the code word for the product we carry, you never want to call it crack, especially on the phone, where you never know who could be listening. It is very important to always know what you’re at and keep track, i.e. how much you’ve sold and how much money should be in your hands from what’s no longer in your tin. “Sometimes you’re going to be stuck in rush hour traffic, you’re going to have a burger spilling in your lap, you’re going to be trying to count the food, count the money and meanwhile the phone is just going to be ringing off the fucking hook, just busy as fuck! And no matter what you just have to deal with it, you just have to find a way to make it all work.”
“See, we deal in 9-piece Games.” A game is a ball of cocaine, composed of, in this case, 9-pieces, but sizes vary from crew to crew. “So for every game you sell, you return me $200.” The rest is my profit, and at $30 a piece, that’s $70 profit. “Now when a customer buys a 9 piece game, you charge them $210, and return me a $180.” So that’s $30 profit on game sales, and $70 profit on piece sales.
We’re approaching a strip of lights and signs that looks like the beginnings of a small town. We’ve made it to Spruce Grove, and it’s time for me to get to know my new area, and those who inhabit it.
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