The Preppie Pot Papers

Page 8 of 8

Razz says it's best to find your own grower, although that can be difficult because secrecy is the name of the dealing game. A lot of growers are willing to dispense their supply with no money down. The dealer returns the asking price to the grower minus his profit, which is basically commission. "Growers never want to go out and sell ... too risky. They find a group of people they can trust to move it," Razz says. "They employ a sales team; if you get complicated too many times, like when I got jacked, they stop answering your calls." But Kiki calls Razz back because he prefers to keep working with the same person.

"If too many people find out [about you], [then] you should stop," Kiki says, adding that he'll probably quit soon thanks to the growing numbers who know about his attic. Razz says he plans to stop selling pot too, At Some Point ... We all laugh.

"There's too much to pass up, though," Razz exults. "I know the right people, not vicious Miami Vice criminals, but average Joes who happen to have a grow room in back of the crib and want to make some extra flow ..."

It all comes back to the smoking. There is a certain satisfaction for these guys knowing that what begins in Kiki's attic, and gets sold at Razz's front door, ends up elevating young minds around town. It's what amuses them most during a hazy session, as coughing and laughing squeeze out of their bellies and a fat dack is on the run. They share a toke for the money and the fun of being two red-eyed, stoned dealers who could pass for ordinary, upstanding citizens, because, in many ways, they are.

They enjoy a functional partnership. Kiki needs someone he trusts, and Razz, living at home, needs a grower who's careful. They go back up to Kiki's attic to survey the next harvest. Kiki guesses three weeks before it's ready. Razz wants them down as soon as possible. "Come on dog, we gotta move on this one," he exclaims, playfully shoving his grower.

"See the hairs on the plant, they're still white, not red, so stop pushing me, man," Kiki tells Razz.

"But I am the pusher man!" Razz raps while prancing out of the room. Kiki rolls his eyes. The hilarity of the moment is interrupted by the car-alarm ring of Razz's cell phone. A customer. Some kid Razz used to play baseball with: "Meet me at my crib, I'll be there in ten minutes.... Yeah, at 6:15." Since he's high as a kite and his timing sense is warped, Razz underestimates the rush-hour traffic that will make the trip from South Miami to West Kendall more like forty minutes, not ten.

When he arrives at his house, the buyer is sitting in his front yard and his mom is standing at the door. "This kid has been waiting for you but he doesn't know why he's here," his mother points out dryly.

"Come on Mom, you know why he's here," Razz replies, as the kid's face turns bright red.

"He's here to pick up a Little League bat," Razz continues. His mom doesn't find him funny, but she goes on inside, without saying a word.

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Humberto Guida
Contact: Humberto Guida