| THE DEALER’S TALE
By Dudley Howell
It’s cold out here. The rain doesn’t help. It’s not
heavy but that horrible light rain that’s not sure what it’s
doing itself. It’s been raining on and off for most of the day.
I fasten my coat and wrap myself up in its protection. My chin feels warm
against the collar while the wind bites at my face. My hands are deep
inside the pockets and my fingers are numb but tingle gently. The road
is clean but you can still smell the filth, it looks crimson and wet under
the streetlights and the people hurry round like rats returning to their
holes.
I look around, my eyes are everywhere looking for people I know and those
I don’t. There will be another dealer around here somewhere, there
always is. We have our regulars and we don’t steal each other’s
punters and we never cross the roads. I always deal to the same guys,
have done so since I started. They come and go all day long. Like a conveyer
belt one after the other. All here for the hit, their escape from a sad
little world. We always undercut them. That’s part of the game.
They think they are buying the proper gear, but once it’s been cut
and a few extra’s added, they’re only getting about thirty-five
percent pure if that. Supply and demand, it’s the way of life. They
splash out their cash and we make money ripping these poor fools off.
The more I have the more they smile. There’s money on my mind and
my mind’s on the money. It’s like blood to me, it’s
my life force. I have money, then I get what I want. Cars, jewellery,
girls anything.
I’m not Mr Big and never will be, but I’ll make enough to
get out before it’s too late. I’ve got a plan. I can’t
be doing this forever. I’m not even near the top of the ladder.
There’s someone above me and probably above him as well. I meet
my boss once a day when he picks me up and drops me off with the drugs.
No other contact until he picks me up at the end of the day for his money.
He has a nice car and a driver. He’s a big time player, that’s
what he tells me.
I’ve been at this a few years but it feels like longer. I know the
rules. The other dealers have their section of the street and I have mine.
I’ve got a nice corner and I can see a lot. I’m lord of all
I survey. I’m King of the world with all my loyal servants paying
tribune to me daily. Funny thing is though, I don’t feel like royalty.
Deep down I’m just a part of the chain. Another cog in the bigger
wheel.
We don’t cross each other. That’s the rules. Don’t break
the rules and you’ll live longer.
I don’t like violence it’s not my scene, but I’ve a
piece hidden away just in case. I remember the first time I held it. Being
taught how to hold it and fire it. Scared me to death. But I bit my lip
and played the tough guy. Image is everything out here. It’s a way
of life.
It wouldn’t be good for the Police to catch me carrying a gun either.
We play a game with each other though. They know I deal and I know that
they know. But they can’t catch me holding. I know how they work.
The under-cover operatives and surveillance techniques. It’s all
part of the game.
This isn’t what I wanted from life, I tell you. I don’t think
it was my parents’ plan either. But things happen. Times change.
You have to adapt. Tell me who’s to blame for the state of play
and maybe there’s your answer. I’m stuck here working every
hour of every day. I’m ok though. I don’t feel any remorse
or sorrow about what I do. It’s the way things are. I’ve grown
cold to the fear of being caught, although it’s not really much
of a threat these days. It’s like the weather, it just blends into
one. Summer or winter always the same. I watch the leaves change and the
moon fade. I’m here all the time, almost part of the structure now.
As I look around I see you walking down the street towards me. Hood up
and head down, avoiding eye contact with everyone. As if they don’t
know what you are. Your hands deep in your pockets making you look small.
Trying to blend in and hide from the world. You’re just another
sad junkie in a line of plenty. Regular as clockwork. I could set my watch
by you. I look about me. No Cops around, but why should there be?
I look at you for a while. Staring at the pathetic wretch before me. Broken
and beaten down. Desperate and alone in your own little universe. You
disgust me. You stink. I can’t stand you. It’s a disgrace
what you’ve let yourself become.
I hate the way you look at me and try to smile. The way you stare at me
for a few seconds. It’s your thing isn’t it? It’s how
you play the game. Your eyes looking at me for sympathy. You won’t
get it, not here. I hate you but I’ll greet you with a smile, if
you can call it that. Nothing personal. I’ll let you think I’m
glad to see you and in a way I am. You keep me busy and keep the cash
flowing. This is business.
You’re nothing. That’s what you are to me, Nothing. Without
me you wouldn’t have anything. You know that you need me but you
just don’t want to admit it. You never do. I’ll admit though,
I like the feeling, I like the power. I need to feel big and strong against
your weakness.
But then I need you too. Without you and your kind I wouldn’t have
anything either. Strange how it works like that. Someone somewhere has
a wicked sense of humour. That’s what is so sad about it really.
We need each other. Like I said, its just business. So I guess we are
partners of a sort. Once you’re out of sight you’re out of
mind. Until the next time, that’s when I’ll remember you.
Or at least how much you spend and what you buy.
Don’t think of us as friends, or that you know me. Do you think
you know me? Can you feel me or see where I’m coming from? I’ve
been held down all my life and now it’s my turn. A chance to get
back at the man. I had nothing until I started selling. Now I have it
all. I’m the real deal. A big man in town.
And you. what do you have? Nothing. Why? Because I’ve taken it all
from you. Taken it and left with nothing but a bad habit and a sad dependence
on me. We’ve swapped roles you and I. It’s a shame really
how it’s ended up. No I don’t mean that. Seriously I don’t.
But you, you could have made something of yourself, but now you’re
just a sad image of a man, dependant on what I sell you.
I’ll take your money, your life and your soul, as I squeeze your
demons and keep you down. I’ll sell what you want. Some brown or
white. Some weed to make things right so that you keep coming back. You
may feel down now but I’ll help pick you up.
‘Ten brown,’ is all you say in your gruff voice. I can smell
your breath and it’s rancid. The yellow stain on your teeth shows
me that you don’t clean them that often. Your eyes seem hollow and
your skin looks terrible, but that’s one of the effects.
I don’t answer you. I won’t. I just look around and nod to
my right. I catch you following with your eyes. You won’t see them,
my boys, they are too well hidden. Within seconds a young boy runs across
the road to hand you a small plastic wrap before running back to his position.
Like a trained dog obeying my call.
You hand over a crumpled £10 note. I can feel the sweat on the paper.
It feels slippery and greasy. God knows where it’s been. I don’t
want to think about it. I nod my head again and another boy appears. I
pass the cash and again, like his partner, he’s gone.
The deal is done and you’re off. Back to your squalid little life.
You don’t look back but you know I’m watching. No doubt you’ll
be back tomorrow. Somehow you’ll get some money. You always do.
Some poor soul will be robbed or a shop will have something stolen to
pay for your habit. It’s how it works. The circle. It never ends,
it just goes round and round.
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