2020
bites | let’s talk about the reefer
Talking Blunt In a conversation from four years ago, a pot dealer talks shop, the economy, and politics By EVANGELINE BRENNAN
W
hen a campus pot dealer voices his opinion about state marijuana legalization, it’s atypical for them to say that, while they think it’s smart from a business standpoint for the state to capitalize on the possible income from taxing marijuana, they don’t see themselves favoring it in the future, believing it could make them begin to resent what they had once loved about their state. It was a warm Spring afternoon in 2017 when a dealer in the notoriously known “party dorm” at their small, private four-year university sat down for an interview about his college side hustle. He was just a freshman then, looking for an easy way to make money and stoke the flames of his own smoking habit. The source, who chose to remain anonymous, will be referred to from here on in as “Mr. Blunt.” In the time of this interview, the media liked to portray drug dealers as people you would least expect; they were people like Nancy Botwin, the suburban housewife from Weeds, and the high school chemistry teacher, Walter White, from Breaking Bad, or whatever comical character screenwriters could come up with for movies. Given the representation, the fact that Mr. Blunt is a nondescript kid from a suburb in New York state should come as no surprise. Dressing in a navy blue, long-sleeve Vineyard Vine shirt and khaki pants, he sat on the settee of the dorm’s common room, one leg propped up on the knee of the other and leaned back nonchalantly. He didn’t seem to care that anyone could walk in at any moment, 16
Orange Appeal | 2022
be it another student or campus security. In this particular dorm, there was an unspoken rule of sorts, a “live and let live” motto that guided these college freshmen and the resident assistants through each day. This dorm took care of their own. They grouped together for parties. They texted warnings in a house group chat if campus security was in the area nearby. They cared, and so, for one year, this dorm acted as a family—a highly dysfunctional one— but still a family. So, of course, Mr. Blunt had nothing to fear sitting in the high-traffic common room just off the entrance of the building while talking about the small weed business he ran out of his shared room. For him, there was nothing to fear, no long-term consequences he had to worry about. In fact, when asked about any possible con-
sequence he thought he would have to face if he were ever caught, he laughed and shrugged his shoulders saying, “I don’t know what the school’s policy is, but it would probably be something like being suspended or probation or something like that, but I’m careful with it so…” At the time, Mr. Blunt stated that he would—at most—have an ounce of weed (the equivalent to about a small sandwich bag) at any given time, making sure to hide it carefully in his room given the number of surprise inspections the dorms would have throughout the year. If he had been caught selling, he could have been convicted of a felony, jailed for seven years, and faced a fine of $5,000. Depending on the harshness of the persecutor, he could have been tried for a much harsher crime; at the time, according to Penal Law 220.44, the sale of “marihuana”
