Tick…tick…tick…

by asifemily

Waiting for your dealer is the slowest form of waiting known to man.  You want to score, so you call your regular supplier.  They promise they will meet you in half an hour, usual place, usual time.  You go.  Wait.  An hour ticks by but it feels like two.  You call again and are rewarded with “I have something I have to take care of, be there in ten”.  You wait twenty before you call again. Your mouth is dry.  Palms sweaty and your stomach is in knots.  Mailbox.

            I’ll admit that my dealer is normally super, but there have been times when I’ve waited in the designated place for three plus hours and then have finally been told it’s no longer possible.  I wonder what can be more attractive than the €50 I am holding in my back pocket?  The answer is, of course, heroin.  Like most dealers, mine is also an addict.  I know it’s not personal; I realise I am not as attractive as a spoon and a needle.  However, I can’t help feeling let down.  Don’t we have a relationship?  Don’t I support your bloody habit?!

            The truth of the matter is, no matter how well you think you know your supplier – whether you’ve given them a Christmas card or loaned them a few quid – to them you are just another whiney junkie getting on their wick.  They are safe in the knowledge that no matter how badly they treat you, you rely on them.  They can take their pick of the whiney junkies; a good dealer is hard to find.  I am writing this as I wait for my dealer.  Waiting for your dealer is the slowest form of waiting known to man.