I have sad news to report. And if my suspicions are proven correct, I’ll have some truly devastating news to follow.
The New York Daily News is reporting that an apartment building in the Bronx caught fire Saturday, leading to the discovery of a basement pot growing operation and the loss of 17 garbage bags full of marijuana confiscated by the cops. What’s worse: I haven’t been able to contact my dealer, who I know lives in the Bronx, since then.
The building’s superintendent, 65-year-old Alberto Martinez, was arrested and charged with criminal possession of marijuana. Residents describe him as not speaking much English, which is annoying, because he’s obviously been living in the country for a long time AND I need to ask him if my dealer’s safe.
Here’s what we know about the apartment fire: everything I’ve already mentioned in this article plus a couple more unimportant facts in the original Daily News piece.
Here’s what we know about my dealer: he always responds to text messages within 20 minutes and he will call you on the phone when he’s outside your building. I’ve texted him six times since Saturday. No response. I’ve called twenty times. Straight to voice mail.
I have several nightmare scenarios running through my head and they are all entirely plausible:
Not only did my dealer get his weed from this grow room, but he may have lived in it, too. New York rents are higher than ever, and sleeping on the hard floor of a subterranean green house with a mask over his eyes to block out the blinding grow lights is likely all this guy could afford, plus the owner could be damn sure he wasn’t ever going to snitch on the room to the cops—he’d be homeless! Maybe my dealer was asleep on the floor when the fire broke out and the cops didn’t bother to carry out his body because it’d be even more paperwork to deal with, plus, unlike the 17 bags of ganga they lifted, they can’t sell it to other dealers later.
There are two more plausible ways my dealer may have died, but going forward you must understand that my dealer was incredibly stupid. Okay, with that understanding, I think that he may have been walking down the same block as the burning building, smelled pot, and ran directly into the burning grow room to check out the dank, burning to death as he marveled at all the flowering pot plants.
My last theory begins the same way (walking down street, smells smoke, runs directly into burning grow room) but instead of burning to death, he inhales more pot smoke than he ever has in his life. Now, I know what you’re thinking: it’s literally impossible to die from a marijuana overdose. Yes, that’s true, but you must remember that my dealer is (was?!) very stupid. I fear that in his state of insane marijuana intoxication, he may have done something lethally dumb, like jump his moped over the subway or somersault down the steps of the Met or walk through Harlem in a George Zimmerman t-shirt. Yes, he’s that stupid. I’m very concerned.
There’s not much more I can tell you. I’ve set a Google alert for “my Harlem dealer” and I’ll apprise you of any developments. Until then, stay safe and appreciate every day you have on this Earth. You never know when it may be your dealer’s last.