20

                                    

                                          


                          
Isaac
                          


                          
I make it back to campus just before sunset. I tear the bud apart with my fingers, separating the clumps until they're small enough to fit inside my grinder. I place them in the chamber, turning the lid over and over again. Just the sound of the teeth separating the leaves gets me excited. 
                          
Drug dealers always take this part for granted. They chop up their weed as fast as possible, barely paying any attention to its potency or texture. But it's not simple. 
                          
Grinding is an art form. You need the right product, the right tools, and the right routine. Cutting up bud with scissors will give you a completely different result than using a grinder. Dealers who use coins, keys, or knives, are out of their minds. They may get the job done, but the leaves will still be rough.
                          
No one wants rough weed. It should be smooth and fine. And the best way to do that is with a grinder. That's the only way to get the kief out, too. Kief makes everything better. It's the most potent part of the plant. You can use it to make hash, bake edibles, or even just sprinkle it on your blunts or the cone of your bong. 
                          
I can charge more for it, too. And I don't need a business degree to know the benefits of a high-profit margin. 
                          
Besides, I wouldn't be caught dead selling bad weed, and if it's not cut properly... it's not good enough. Most dealers are just idiots. I was too when I started. But you don't make it very far in this business without some kind of talent. 
                          
I empty the grinder into a Ziplock bag, stuffing it into my pocket along with the other baggies. The grinder doesn't fit any more than an eighth of weed, so I don't need to worry about weighing it. I climb out of the car, and get to work.
                          
I scan the bar as I walk towards it, checking to see if there's anyone else I need to say hello to before I reach my target. There are way more people here than there should be, but no one important enough to distract me. 
                          
I'm way too fucking tired to be here. I've spent all day at band practice, arguing with Jace and working on a new song. Aaron wasn't pissed about what happened, but Jace didn't even speak to me for days. I get it, I got in a fight and caused shit instead of enjoying our post-show high and helping them pack up our shit. But it's not like I ruined our set or another opportunity or anything. It was a dick move, but I don't think it warrants a full-blown grudge.
                          
"Ay, yo, Isaac!" Ryan calls at me from across the room. As soon as I see his face, every single inch of my body tenses up. There's nothing I want more than to march towards him and smack his head into the wall. But I resist the urge. I'm here for business, not revenge.
                          
Maybe both.
                          
I wonder how many of these guys were involved—how many knew about it and did nothing or maybe even encouraged it. I wonder who they are. 
                          
"Give me one of those," I motion to the crate of beers at the end of the table. Luke hands me one and I don't hesitate to pop it open. There's no way I can deal with this shit sober. 
                          
"You feeling better after the weekend?" He asks. 
                          
"Fucking great," my voice is filled with sarcasm. 
                          
"Hey, man, no hard feelings about the fight, yeah?" Ryan throws his arm over my shoulder, clapping me on the back. "You just had a bad day, let's just move on from it, yeah?"
                          
"I don't think so," I scoff, shoving him off me. "Were you just having a bad day when you raped someone?"
                          
"It wasn't rape, dude," he snickers.