Coyotes can coexist with human beings because they are smart, fast, and they know how to disappear. Charles Manson once said Coyotes were the ultimate embodiment of paranoia, and I think he was wrong about this, and a hell of a lot of other stuff, too. I think Coyotes are just more aware of their surroundings, their human surroundings, than even humans are.
When I sold pot for a living, I kept up with who bought from me, and who they hung around with. It was easy in a town like Valdosta to lose track of where your product went, but over time, people tend to smoke with the same people. When you sell pot, you’re trusting the person you sold it to, and whoever they tell. That was the rub.
I bought my pot from a woman named Sherry, and she had a lot of contacts, some of them shady. Her roommate was dating a married man from east Georgia, and I always assumed he was Sherry’s connection. He would come to see his illicit girlfriend, and the next day, Sherry would have pot.
Sherry had another connection, Alf, everyone knew about him because he talked too much. Alf looked a lot like the character from the show by the same name. Alf wasn’t careful at all. When he was busted with a half pound of pot, I shut down selling, and wouldn’t even speak to anyone I knew had bought from him. A month later, three people inside his circle were busted.
Three months without the extra income was painful, but at the same time, inexpensive compared to the fines associated with possession with intent. Alf was too mouthy to have picked up a new connection, unless that’s why a new connection picked him up, but I settled in to figure out who had once bought from Alf, and were now looking for a new connection.
Sherry and I had something going, but we were just friends. Trusting no one I bought or sold too, fully, once thing I noticed was Sherry never seemed to take any of the precautions other dealers did. When I shut down buying, Sherry was still selling, which drew in customers from other guys like me, who were being careful.
Six months passed, and just as I was about to get back into the game, Sherry told me she couldn’t find so much as a stem and a half dozen seeds. The market had changed, and that made me nervous. Two or three other people I knew had gotten busted, and as someone who knew busted people, I felt exposed. My name, very likely, had come up in conversations. Yet I needed the income, and pot was getting scarce. It was a seller’s market, but I had nothing to sell.
The sweep was comprehensive. Parties were busted, apartments were raided, people were pulled over after buys, the pot market in Valdosta went to hell over the period of two weekends. I had nothing I had bought and nothing to sell. I watched from the cheap seats.
Sherry graduated in two months and left town, never to be heard from again. Her roomie and the married boyfriend left, too. I got out of the business entirely, because I realized had Sherry sold me pot, I would have been carrying when all hell broke loose. It wasn’t love, no, not that, but somehow, Sherry decided not to take me down with everyone else, and I knew it. I never saw it coming, never suspected it was really Sherry, until it was too late. The question is never if you’re paranoid, it is always is “Are you paranoid enough?” or in this case, aware.
Mike writes regularly at his site: The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.