My First Drug Deal

Everything I Learned About People As a Former Drug Dealer

Photo by GRAS GRÜN on Unsplash

I remember walking to 7-Eleven by myself as a kid. Buying Yu-Gi-Oh! cards was one of my hobbies, and it felt like a big deal because it meant crossing the street, talking to strangers, and handling money—things that made me uncomfortable. There were always risks: bullies, strange situations, or just the fear of being alone. But that was part of growing up. My parents both worked, so I spent a lot of time by myself or at my sister’s boyfriend’s house. That’s where I first saw drugs.

I didn’t know what it was at first—just a plant that smelled funny. My sister’s boyfriend taught me how to bag it up. I was eight years old, bagging marijuana during summer because I didn’t have a babysitter. It became a daily routine. One day, he asked me to pass a bag to someone outside. I hesitated. *This is against the law. This is bad.* But I was already bagging it up, so what was the worst that could happen?

I walked outside to a car with two older white men inside. They called it “reefer” and joked, *“That’s some good reefer you got there, little boy.”* It felt surreal—a kid selling something to adults. They handed me the money, and I went back inside. My sister’s boyfriend let me keep the $20. *“That’s how you make money,”* he said. Just like that, I was hooked.

I still got it for ya.

I didn’t get into the business full-time until I was 13, but that first deal stuck with me. It felt like my destiny was already written. I knew I’d become a drug dealer. But was it worth it? Could my life have been different? I’ll never know. I chose the harder path, even though people think selling drugs is easy. It’s not. It’s one of the hardest things you can do.

People think selling drugs is simple: bag it up, hand it over, and collect the money. But it’s not that straightforward. You have to market yourself without being known. Imagine running a business where you can’t advertise directly or tell customers where to go. It’s a failed campaign by any standard. In the underworld, referrals are everything. Trust is everything. And every day, you live with the consequences of your actions.

Even though I felt powerful, I was at the bottom of the chain. The person selling to users has no real power. They’re the most vulnerable. If you get caught, you can take down an entire organization. You have to be solid, reliable, and trustworthy. That’s why most dealers are under 18—minors get a slap on the wrist. Adults go to jail. It’s a system built on exploiting the young.

I still got it for ya.

There were perks: money, girls, and a lifestyle I wouldn’t have had otherwise. Girls were drawn to the hustle, the confidence, the sense of purpose. But there were also dangers. Getting robbed was a constant threat. Once, a friend I’d known since first grade pulled a knife on me over a $20 bag of weed. *“Give me the stuff or I’ll stab you,”* he said. I handed it over and never spoke to him again. That’s the reality of the drug world—trust no one.

You can’t be a drug dealer alone. You need a team: drivers, backup, protection. Everyone has a role, and no one can overstep. I was the one holding the product and passing it out because I was under 18. It was a delicate balance, but it worked—until it didn’t.

Selling marijuana was one thing. The customers were lively, mostly sane. But ecstasy changed everything. The customer base shifted—hyper, cracked-out, unpredictable. The stakes were higher, and the punishments were worse. But as a minor, I knew I’d get a slap on the wrist. My record would be clean at 18. Or so I thought.

Looking back, I wonder if it was worth it. The money, the lifestyle, the access—it came at a cost. I chose the harder path, and it shaped me in ways I’m still unraveling. This is just the beginning of the story. There’s so much more to tell.