With all the recent talk about New York City's prolific pot delivery services I thought I'd add my two cents. Not that I know anything about it, of course.



“Did you call them yet?”

“Who?”

“The pot guys.”

“Yeah, but they haven’t called back yet.”

“Damn,” Leonard said, swinging his legs up onto the shitty couch in the living room. “Are you sure you called the right number?”

“Of course, it’s programmed in my phone.”

“Don’t they usually call back within like five or ten minutes?”

“Not always,” said Ed, who was leaning out the large living room window, his palms resting on the dusty sill.

It was muggy and overcast outside and the rain came and went in dramatic fifteen-minute episodes. The cloud-swells floated over the sun making it almost impossible to tell what time it was, making it the perfect day to get stoned.

Leonard, now stretched out on the couch with the remote control balanced on his stomach, flipped to a rerun of the Simpsons.

“What if they got busted?” he asked.

Ed returned from the window and sat down in a rocking chair, one of an assortment of second-hand furniture scattered around the apartment.

“I’ve used these guys a lot,” he said. “They’re not like that. Don’t worry.”

“Not like what?” Leonard asked.

Ed went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Leonard lived in the apartment below Ed. He’d spent about the last three months of after-work hours and most weekends sitting on Ed’s couch smoking joints and playing backgammon.

Leonard never actually bought pot though. Mostly he just smoked it.

“Anyway, they’re very professional,” said Ed. “They don’t fuck around.”

Ed was more or less a master pothead, highly effective in just about every part of the process, from bong maintenance to purchasing etiquette.

Leonard continued: “If they’re so professional what’re they doing selling weed anyway?”

Ed was clipping his fingernails over a full ashtray. “For pot dealers, they’re very professional.”

“Do they sell other drugs too?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What’re they called?”

“Like ‘Happy Face’ or something. I don’t know.”

“That’s not very inventive.”

“It’s a pot delivery service. You think they want to stand out?”

“Well, yes,’ said Leonard, now propping himself in a sitting position. “I would think that among the many pot delivery services in Manhattan they would want to make a splash, yes.”

“See man,” said Ed, wagging the nail clippers at Leonard. “If you ever actually dealt with these people you’d know that asking so many questions makes them nervous, it’s really not appropriate.”

“I do deal with them. I went down to meet them last time, remember?”

“Yeah, and you fucked it up.”

“It’s not my fault they can’t make change.”

“I told you they only sell $100 boxes.”

“And I told you, I TRIED to explain to him that he could just split one order in half and sell it for $50, and when THAT didn’t work, I tried to tell him I was going to the ATM and I’d be right back. Then he just took off. What could I do?”

“You probably freaked him out with all your sketchy questions and shit. I’d probably take off too.”

“They’re pot dealers, " said Leonard. "Big whoop. And what's all this 'meet me on the corner' bullshit anyway? They should come up to the apartment. Much easier that way."

"They used to," Ed said. "I think they got sick of looking for parking."

"Lazy drug dealers."

“Leonard, how is it that you have absolutely no street smarts?”

“I don’t know,” he said, picking his nose. “Too much school I guess. I’m just glad he didn’t shoot me.”

“They’re not like that! They’re fucking POT dealers. They don’t carry guns. The guys running the whole operation are probably a couple of hippies sitting on a farm upstate or something.”

“That could explain why haven’t they called back yet.”

“It is taking a while,” Ed said, looking at the clock on his cell phone. “It’s been almost an hour.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

Ed stood in front of the window, looking down into the empty street. “Jesus, is this rain ever gunna stop?”

Leonard made his way to the kitchen. The counter was covered in what appeared to be either wet bread crumbs or a field of swollen roach eggs. Something about the afternoon light made the kitchen appear gloomy and dirty, or dirtier than it really was. Cringing, he brushed the questionable specs onto the floor and began rifling aimlessly through the cabinets. Ed appeared in the kitchen, a little agitated.

“There’s no way. These guys will never get busted,” he said. “What did I tell you about all the questions man? Now you’re making ME nervous, and I’m just a customer!”

“All I’m saying is that you should at least acknowledge the possibility that they got busted. That’s all. What if they DID get busted? How would you know? It’s not like they could call their customers like ‘Uh yeah, hey Ed, what’s up? Sorry I didn’t call you back the other day, I’m in jail and since you’re such a loyal Happy Face customer I used my only phone call to tell you that we got busted so you shouldn’t call anymore.’ No dude, they’d probably be too busy flushing weed down the toilet before the cops broke down the fucking door.”

“Do you hear what you're saying? First of all, weed is not fucking flushable! You can’t flush weed down the toilet.”

“If you’re about to get busted I bet you could.”

“These guys aren’t fucking big-syndicate cocaine traffickers or anything. It’s a small business, a cottage industry.”

“They deal all over Manhattan right?”

“Yeah.”

“Cottage industry my ass. You know how many pot smokers there are in this city? It’s fucking huge. Ten of millions. I bet the cops would love to bust these guys, I bet it’d be all over the news, I bet the Post would run it on the cover.”

“So what? They didn’t get busted,” said Ed, now pacing.

“Have they ever taken so long to call back before?”

“No, but,” he said, looking again at his cell phone. “These guys are totally consistent, it’s always the same deal when you call. It’s like clockwork. They always have the same …” Ed stopped short, and something like concern came over his face. He began pressing buttons on his phone.

“Are you calling again?”

He held up his index finger and pressed the phone to his ear, his face perplexed. He quit the phone suddenly.

“What?” Leonard asked.

“Their voicemail is different. It’s always been the same. I didn’t notice it until … fuck man, what if they?”

“What’s it sound like?”

“I dunno exactly, it’s like,” he fumbled with his phone again. “Here, just listen to it.”

“What are you doing?” Leonard jumped up and tried to pull the phone out of Ed’s hand. “Don’t fucking call them again! If they did get busted the cops are probably just waiting for people to call so they can bust them too.”

“Don’t be so paranoid.”

“Then don’t be so stupid about it!” said Leonard, almost joyously. “I bet the cops are sitting down at the fucking station right now waiting for all the pothead Lemmings to just dive off that cliff right into their hands, and then boom!” he said, clapping his hands. “They gotcha. Think about it, it’s an easy bust. Low risk. Then they can pump up the headlines with numbers, which is great P.R. and …”

Leonard was clearly enraptured. He made broad hand gestures.

“But,” said Ed, finally, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “They probably didn’t get busted so let’s just drop it.”

“You said the message was different, right?”

“Yeah, it used to be some Reggae tune and then just a beep.” said Ed, furrow-browed. “Now it’s some chick’s voice and it just says ‘leave a number,’ but the voice is definitely sketchy.”

“I just can’t help but think of this one episode of Law And Order when they bust this guy for smuggling and…”

“Shut the fuck up Leonard!” said Ed. “Help me figure this shit out!”

Ed’s cell phone rang. He hesitated.

“No number,” he said. “Should I answer it?”

“I dunno,” said Leonard. “If you do, and it’s the cops …”

He answered.

“Hello? Oh, um, hey. Yeah, it’s 116th and Broadway. Okay, how long? Ok, see you in a few.”

Ed set the phone down and looked at Leonard.

“Fuck,” he said. “I think you might be right. I think we’re being set up.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah, the voice on the phone was definitely not familiar. I’ve never heard it before. And the guy didn’t really seem to know the drill.”

“Sketchy man,” said Leonard. “Very fucking sketchy. What’d he say exactly?”

“It’s gotta be a fucking set up. He said they’d meet me in a maroon Impala at the corner of 116th and Broadway. And first of all, they’ve never driven a fucking Impala …”

“Yeah, that just screams ‘hey we’re undercover!' Do they think we’re fucking idiots or something?”

“And secondly, and most sketchily, they never meet me on Broadway. We always meet at Claremont.”

Outside, the rain started to fall again. After a moment Leonard turned to Ed.

“Hey, wanna scrape some resin?”

“Sure. Then we can figure this out.” Ed picked up a lumpy, colorful glass pipe from the coffee table. “You got a paper clip?”

“Yeah,” said Leonard. He rummaged through his bag and pulled out a deformed paperclip with a blackened end. “Here ya go.”

Ed began poking the end of the clip around inside the bowl. “So, let’s think about this logically.”

“Okay,” said Leonard. “So, if worse comes to worst, we don’t have to go down and meet them, we can just watch from the window.”

“True,” said Ed, now rolling the end of the pipe around over the flame of his lighter. A tiny wisp of smoke leap from the pipe. “But, there’s gotta be some way we can …”

“Also, I bet we’d actually have to buy the weed to get busted.”

Leonard continued to fiddle with the pipe while Ed prepared to go.

“You have your cell on you?” Ed asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay so, I’m going down to meet them. I want you to watch out the window, watch the car. I’m going to walk around the block once to scope it out too. If you see ANYTHING weird going on I want you to call me.”

“Then what?” Leonard asked.

“Then nothing. I’ll come back.”

“But what about the weed?”

“Fuck you man!” said Ed, turning to leave.

“Well, good luck! Be safe!” Leonard shouted down the hall.