Doctor G: A Happy Accident

I must be dreaming...
I came of age in a turbulent time. The generation raised in the late sixties were very different than the fifties generation. Times were tough so I made money every way I could, I felt I was just honoring my family by working hard. I provided a product many people wanted and sold it at a fair price. That was how my Grandfather made his pretzels, and that was how I sold my herb.
The summer of â??71 was a wild time. All along the New England coast people were bringing their boats back from the Bahamas crammed to the gunwales with pot. All the crews bringing yachts back from Florida seemed to be stopping off for a few hundred pounds. Every pound of which was being deposited in hundreds of little harbors all along the New England shoreline. Everywhere you looked there were red or green cellophane wrapped bricks, weighing just a touch over two pounds each, stacked up, waiting for sale. A surplus that tended to drive the price lower. For so many of these folks it was just some extra cash, no big deal. The professional smugglers in the mean time were getting hammered by the Feds in one of those never ending crackdowns. In the meantime the streets were inundated with cheap pot.
I was sound asleep one evening when my phone rang enough to wake me up. I demanded to know who was waking me up and this had damned well better be good.
"It's me" said a voice I thought I recognized "I'm down here in the cut by Stony Creek. My truck is stuck; can you pull me out"
Now I knew who it was. And he was pretty close, maybe five minutes away. I had a big four wheel drive truck with a winch and all, I knew I could get him out.
"Sure" I told him " Give me a minute to get my pants on and five to get there"
"Great. I'll be at the payphone by the dock"
In less than ten minutes I had picked him up and we were making our way down to the beach. I couldn't see his usual truck, just a Uhaul stuck about half way down the beach.
"That's it" he said.
Many questions crossed my mind but this was not the time to talk. I felt there would only be two kinds of questions; the wrong kind, or none The tide was coming in and who knows how many people might have noticed a truck on the public beach. It really was stuck too. The rear axle was completely buried and the dual rear wheels were spinning freely. I threw a chain on the front bumper and I backed up my truck, but all I did was just spun my tires. I didnâ??t have enough inertia to budge the larger truck. I needed more weight to make any difference. Brooks could see my problem and he waved me to the back of the Uhaul.
"Back up to the cargo box" He said as he pulled the roll up door.
The back of the truck was stacked, floor to ceiling, with red cellophane wrapped bricks. Most of the back of this 14 foot box truck was full. I backed against the bumper and he pushed over a pallet sized stack into the back of my truck. Three hundred bricks, if it was an ounce. He kept scooping bricks into the back of my truck, until itâ??s springs started to sag.
"OK let's try it again."
I pulled around the front again, set the chains, and gave the biggest yank yet. It was just enough. The Uhaul came up out of the sand, spitting and churning; but moving. I kept the gas on till we got to the parking area and then I slowed down. Brooks wasn't paying attention and slammed into the back of my truck. Lights were starting to come on in the houses along the beach, we needed to be gone. I pulled the chains off and looked at the damage. My truck had a crumpled bumper, box and tailgate, the tail lights were smashed, and that seemed the extent of the damage.
"Look" he said" There's about 400 bricks in the back of your truck, hundred bucks a brick. I'll give you two grand for the damage to your truck and take two grand cash and you keep the bricks"
I had just dumped a couple of pounds of good Colombian and I had the cash.
"Done. How do we do this?"
"I know where you live. See you in 24 hours."
" Can do"
There were five hundred eighty four 2.2 pound bricks stacked in my bedroom an hour later. Over twelve hundred pounds of pot. I had never before seen such a pile much less imagined being in possession of such a stash. When we met the next day he didn't care how many bricks I had. He took the two grand and smiled. I found out later he had made 15 grand for his nights work. Good pay by anyoneâ??s standards. I was left with a busted truck and more pot than I could ever smoke. I quickly realized I had the need to move some weed. So I visited an old friend with a spare VW micro bus and loaded it up. I got out a College Directory and made of list of the known party colleges in the tri state area. There was quite a list and I wandered in to Vermont and New York as well. The whole circuit took about two weeks. I started with one hundred pounds in a duffel and made my way though Connecticut and Rhode Island. I had to go home to restock and fix the truck by mid Massachusetts, so I grabbed about a third of the pile.
My technique was simple. I would wander on to the campus and head for the student center. They knew which were the party dorms and where to go. From there I would just wander up and down dorm halls looking for a familiar smell. I would knock on the offending door and ask if they were interested in a purchase. At fifteen dollars an ounce, four for fifty, I was making plenty off the sales, but the risk of wandering strange hall ways was getting to me.
It was in Vermont, at a rural college, where I found the person I had been looking for. I wandered through this particular hall dragging a duffelbag and yelling at the top of my lungs "GOOD POT CHEAP" when a door opened and a head popped out.
"Try up one floor, number 42"
I mumbled a thanks and headed up the stairs. Number 42 seemed like a good bet. There was a picture of Jimmy Hendrix on the door and a familiar aroma wafted from under the door. I knocked. When the door opened I was transported away from this mundane institutional building into a black light paradise. Posters, felt paintings, all manner of psychedelic goodies covered every possible space, thoroughly illuminated by the multiple black light fixtures attached to the ceiling. In the middle of the desk stood his scale. It belonged on the counter of an old general store. It was an old style balance unit with gallon sized pans. With the additional weights he could weigh ten pounds accurately. It was well used.
"I heard you might be looking for some pot."
"What do you have?"
I reached into the duffel I was carrying and dropped a brick on to his table.
"Roll some of this, tell me what you think"
A few joints later we began to talk price, and quantity. A few more joints and I was pouring the duffel on the floor and counting the bricks. For 250 a brick he wanted everything I had in the bag. Forty eight bricks stacked up on his floor. He opened a drawer on the desk and counted out twelve thousand dollars in twenties and fifties. I stuffed the wad into the duffel bag and we sat and smoked a few more joints.
We discussed the market and how often could I came by and deliver quantities like this. The question really was how fast could he move this much weed. And how could I store it safely? It turns out he moved a steady twenty pounds a week, every week, for the next two years. I found a refrigerated meat locker to keep things in. So every other Friday for the next two years I delivered forty to fifty pounds to his dorm room, and later his home. Occasionally I took time off.

Hi Folks,
Here is your monthly tale from the Doctor!
Keep Smiling
Doctor G.

how long till you finish your book?

incredible

nice story

Doctor, you are the king.

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