Under most circumstances living with a drug dealer is probably a stupid idea. When said drug dealer is the single most unqualified, inconceivably incompetent person on the face of Earth, however, the whole situation changes from idiotic to downright hilarious. I know this because when I first moved to London, before discovering the joys of squatting, I couch-surfed my way into spending a brief stint sharing a flat with the most horrible excuse for a peddler of narcotics this side of the sky. Her name was Katie. If drug dealers were types of facial hair, Katie would be a goatee. If they were crimes against humanity, she would be a child killer. It was that bad.
For starters, Katie was rarely in possession of any drugs. On the off chance she did manage to score, she would get so fucked that she would either lose everything she bought, or give it away to strangers in an MDMA-infused generosity seizure. Secondly, all of Katie’s drugs smelt like vagina. This is because she insisted on storing them in her underwear. Once, on her way to a club, she squatted to pee in an alleyway, forgetting that her drugs were hidden in her underwear. As she began to pee the drugs fell out onto the pavement and she pissed all over them. This, in itself, is pretty gross. Not as gross, however, as the fact that she dried them out on the living room radiator the following day. Good as new.
Paranoia was a massive side effect of Katie’s drug dealing, and as a result she was constantly on the brink of a complete freakout brain-explosion. Her eyes possessed an incessant flicker of the criminally insane. Convinced both the house and her phone were bugged, she installed a system of codes that allowed all of her friends and clients to refer to drugs freely without putting her in danger of being locked away for life. You know, ‘Kevin’ for ketamine, ‘mom and dad,’ for MDMA- that sort of thing. The problem was, her eternal airheadness prevented the code from ever functioning properly. For example, once when I called her to ask for some ketamine (for a friend, obviously) I made a fleeting attempt to use the code.
“Is Kevin still in your room?” I inquired.
“Who’s Kevin?” she asked?
“You know, Kevin.”
“No, I don’t know,” she answered worriedly. “And if there is some random guy in my room can you please tell him to get out?”
“No, you’re not getting me,” I said, grinding my teeth. “I’m talking about the Kevin that you sometimes keep in the green box.”
“Ooh! You mean white powder Kevin?” she said excitedly. “Yeah, there are two grams of him left.” Nice. Why don’t just tell me your full name, address, and date of birth while you’re at it? I have since given up speaking in code.
This sort of thing happened all the time. There was Secret Garden Festival, where instead of taking advantage of all the drug-hungry creeps she spent the entire three days crawling about in the mud, trying to figure out what a tree was. I only saw her even attempt to sell drugs once. Unfortunately, she got a bit confused in the middle of it and instead of handing the girl MDMA, Katie reached into her bag and produced a handful of crushed-up leaves. Then there was the time she sent out a mass text-message to everyone in her phone telling them about the new stock of drugs she got in, conveniently forgetting that she had the numbers of family members and previous employers in her phone as well. Not that her mother would mind. I met the woman twice and on both occasions she was wearing fairy wings. Still high from that bathtub full of acid she drank back in ’78, I presume. And he list goes on and on…
Sadly, though I love her, I have to admit I’m glad my time living with Katie has come to an end. She made for good TV, but the novelty of having massive tribes of assholes show up at your door at one in the morning asking for smack wears off after a while, and you just want to be able to sit back, relax, and shout ‘crack-whore heroin-faced acid casualty’ without worrying about speaking in code.