They keep knockin' but supply is thin
John Elder
March 25, 2007
The DEALER'S den isn't flash: a hostel room with a TV mounted high in a corner, a couple of plastic chairs and a giant bed made from piled mattresses. The shared bathroom is down the gloomy hall.
But with a couple of lamps he found at a market, the draping of colourful fabric here and there, the dealer - a man who collects the old-age pension - has managed to turn the downbeat digs into a cozy social club.
Open all hours and - save for the well-worn baseball bat leaning like a no-speak hoodlum against the bedroom wall - the prevailing mood is welcoming cheer.
"Hullo sweets," he says to a young woman still in her work clothes, the white blouse and black skirt of our most famous department store.
"Hullo Sparky," she says in a mock drongo voice, kissing him on the cheek, a little hug and then she sighs. It's been a long day on her feet being pleasant to the buying public and at this moment, the girl from Myer needs to chill out. Has the dealer got any weed? "Or is the drought still on?" she asks.
For the past two hours, there's been a steady knock at the door, literally dozens of people asking the same question. Is marijuana back on the menu? And the answer's been much the same every time: "I got nuthin green. I got a few capsules of hash oil and I got the pills."
"A couple of pills then," says the Myer girl - settling in with a cup of tea and a puff on a joint made from hash oil and tobacco.
Sparky - so nicknamed for his barking moods - turns to me and explains that ecstasy is being used by his customers as a substitute euphoric for dope. Because cannabis has all but vanished from Melbourne. Another victim of global warming, as the dealer tells it.
The dope drought started in the summer, during the first of the 40-degree days. Most of the growers were at their day jobs while their hydroponic crops in the basement withered from the hot air and the bright lights. Few replacement crops have survived to maturity since the first big wipe-out.
"I'd normally never buy less than a pound. I haven't bought a pound this year," says Sparky. "I've probably lost $15,000 since January."
Time passes. The room fills up and empties out. Most of the action is with the ecstasy and whiz. About half the callers aren't invited in and certain people are told never to call by again. "I don't want my customers frightening each other," he says. "Which is why I don't sell ice or heroin."
Now that random drug testing is part of life on Victorian roads, the dealer's life of driving all night and day, making endless house calls is over. He needs loyal customers who will come to his door and not make a fuss. The evening's visitors include an IT network engineer on $85,000 a year, a young Indian cab driver and marketing student, an eastern suburbs optometrist, a girl who works in a chemist, several people in-between jobs - and a homeless street worker with half her teeth missing and a counterfeit $50 from a kerb crawler.
Meanwhile, I'm sitting in the corner, writing everything down - and no one is concerned or even particularly curious about a journalist chronicling the night's trade. I could well be sitting in a supermarket, doing a survey on who drinks low-fat milk.
"We're not that far out of the mainstream," says Sparky, telling stories of the many respectable people getting high on his wares. The best yarn is about his solicitor, a suburban operator of the sort who often tries to go into politics.
"Whenever I've got a problem that's gonna see me in court, he makes me the last client of the day. We'll heat up a lasagna in the microwave. And then we'll roll up a number and talk about my case."
The Age
