Ballin’: Part 1
Sixteen-year old Major was getting ready for another day of school. He yawned and wiped the crusted discharge from his eyes. He looked at his clock and said to himself, “It's 6:45. I have plenty of time to get ready."
Major let out a big sigh of frustration. He plopped back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out other ways to make money. He thought about selling marijuana. He mused aloud, “If I sold a dime bag—that’s about a half of gram of weed—which is about ten dollars a bag. If I get me a big bag, I could break it up into a bunch of small dime bags and make a lot money much faster than cutting grass. I could even supply the wraps with it and charge an extra ten dollars. Maybe some Zig Zags or some Swisher Sweets?”
He pondered on it and came to another thought and said to himself, “Or I could sell one-eighth of an ounce, which comes out to three and a half grams. That’s about twenty dollars on the low end, but I’d have to find someone with some real top-notch cannabis to sell it for fifty dollars a pop. One of those would last most people about a week, but only a couple days for a heavy user. I could also sell some Zig Zags and Swisher Sweets on the side to make some more money.”
He considered other options along the same vein and murmured under his breath, “Or I could sell a quarter ounce, which is about seven grams. I could also sell that for about twenty dollars or about sixty dollars for high quality bud. Then again, I could take it to an ounce, which is twenty-eight grams. I could really make a killing off that: I could make eighty to a hundred and sixty dollars or even more off that, especially if my weed is top notch.”
Major nodded and continued speaking aloud, “Today, I am officially committing my life to being a drug dealer!”
He paused and let out another sigh of frustration. “Dang … what will my mom think? What will my dad think? What about some of my teachers trying to help me … and there’s no guarantee I’ll end up like Frank Lucas, Nicky Barnes, Ricky ’Freeway’ Ross, Manuel Noriega, or William Leonard Pickard. Those dudes were big-time, but they all had to start off small before they made it big time.”
He paused and reflected some more, “But what if I did it quietly or a little bit at a time, and saved up here and there?”
His gaze landed on the basketball in the center of the floor. He bit his bottom lip and, getting out of bed and walking to it, kicked it against the wall as hard as he could. It bounced off and hit the window, causing a crack in the glass.
He said under his breath, “Shit, Mom is gonna kill me if she sees this.”
He grabbed some newspaper and a roll of duct tape and covered the whole window. Since he didn’t have curtains, he hung a bedsheet over the curtain rod.
The white officer folded his arms and asked, “Kid, what’s your grade point average?”