It took less than a minute for two guys and their steel-reinforced Timberland boots to kick in my friend Marvin’s door. Neighbors said they both had handguns drawn and ready for a shootout if necessary. But whoever stormed in and stole a pound of weed and about 80 grams of primo hash probably didn't expect a fight because they knew Marvin and his schedule pretty well. These guys hit his place hard, exactly at the time he left every day to meet his girlfriend who worked in Manhattan.
I met Marvin through his girlfriend, Vanessa, who I’ve known for eight years. (Her previous boyfriend was a long-term pal of mine.) With all this chummy history, I initially felt I was in safe surroundings. Marvin was rad as shit—one of the coolest, most knowledgeable, and tripped-out thoroughly awesome smoky hang-time dudes ever. He was from Vermont but lived in California for many years and moved to NYC to be with his girl and hustle large amounts of ganja.
“If you’re going to be selling weed in New York,” I advised him, “never work out of your own home unless it’s with the dearest of long-term friends. Otherwise someone might not hesitate to kick your door in, splatter your brains all over the wall, take your pounds of weed, and laugh about it while they smoke it over your corpse. Or, conversely, you may find yourself rotting in jail as the lawyer who you paid to defend you smokes your weed, which he just bought from the cop who busted you. Welcome to New York, Fuckface!”
Allow me to digress for a second in case you think that’s an exaggeration: I once met a lawyer at a party who told me he buys all his pot from police officers who don’t turn in all the weed they confiscate after arresting someone. They’ll only send half to the evidence room and keep the rest. Then, to add insult to injury, they might sell all of it to the very asshole attorney who’s supposed to be helping you stay out of jail.
Marvin was lucky. The guys who robbed him didn’t have the intention of killing anyone, even though they were clearly prepared to get crazy if the shit hit the fan. Lots of people get their brains blown all over their living rooms over a couple of pounds of weed—sometimes it’s even less. You might recall the news story from a couple of years back about Jennifer Stahl, a former actress who sold tons of weed out of her studio above Carnegie Deli. She and several of her friends (who I’m pretty sure were also clients) were tied up before two dudes shot them at point-blank range. Although I never met Jennifer, the story got to me. The news reports described her as a sweet person, and she was unarmed and totally vulnerable. She paid the ultimate price. At the time I wasn’t yet a weed dealer, but the story has haunted me ever since.
I too am unarmed, college-educated, and a genuinely nice guy. I hustle primarily to live in my own semi-private Amsterdam—I do it to survive and revel in the splendor of the ganja 24/7. Through the miracle of psychedelics, I learned that all living things are manifestations of the divine source, and I treat my clients with a level of respect and hope that will inspire good faith. Hopefully, it will prevent them from robbing me and shooting me in the face.
Conscientious, ethical, and peace-loving people forge the true core of advanced marijuana cultivation. But the specter of violence always looms. Marvin is just one of my many weed buddies who’ve gotten more than they bargained for. Another friend of mine was making ends meet by working for a pot-delivery service in Manhattan. One day he was making his rounds and minding his own business when three guys jumped out of a van and forced him inside at knifepoint. They proceeded to steal his weed and his CLIENT ADDRESS BOOK! Then they started to make his deliveries for him. Why? It was so they could case the clients’ apartments and rob them at a later date.
Fortunately my buddy was able to strike a rapport with the knife dudes, and after four hours they released him. All of his clients were warned of this disaster and, thankfully, no one was robbed. This type of stuff is the reason I never carry any of my clients’ addresses on me while making deliveries. It shields my clients from such a hideous scenario should I ever be kidnapped or extorted… Still want to call a service? Good luck.