PORTLAND WEED: A SHORT HISTORY

Portland weed once came out of Goose Hollow Inn men’s room.

A dealer worked from a stall with a full waiting room outside, according to sources.

Like all good history, BoomerPdx relies on primary sources and historical relevance to reflect past life.

If that life takes a turn into hardcore drug addiction, it’s a life gone wrong.

But, if it leads to cultural history, it gets blogged. Like this:

In the early days of bank ATMs the quick cash button gave twenty bucks.

In the early 1980’s an eighth of bathroom weed was twenty bucks.

A few years later the quick cash button dispensed $40.

Portland weed went for $40 an eighth around the same time.

Coincidence?

Portland has history to spare, but not everything sees the light of day.

And it’s not pretty.

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Sam Quinones came up from LA to talk about tar and his book Dreamland.

In what feels like an early version of the sharing economy, an addict’s next fix is only a phone call away in a heroin marketing plan. A delivery car is that close.

A black tar heroin associate checks back after the delivery. Was the driver on time? Was the product satisfactory? Are you happy with the deal?

Doesn’t that sound like an Amazon customer service email making sure everyone is happy? And not dead?

When you read about heroin deaths in young people, it’s about millennials.

Someone else might connect coddled millennials who earned trophies for participation instead of championships, who got timeouts instead of extension cord whippings, to hard drug customer service.

Somehow Mexican dealers figured out how to reel them in with extra care.

How does this happen? Helicopter heroin dealers?

Mr. Quinones could probably answer the question best.

My sources explained when I asked:

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“Where do I get black tar heroin in Portland?”

“You don’t want it.”

“If I did, where would I get it?”

“You’re asking me like I should know. Me?”

“Not you like you’re an addict. I just want to know how it works.”

“You want to know?”

“I want to know.”

“You don’t want to buy any, you just want to know.”

“That’s it. I just want to know.”

“Where to buy black tar heroin.”

“In Portland.”

“Because you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not a junkie?”

“Correct.”

“Not an addict.”

“Right.”

“Just want to know and you insult me with this question: Where can I buy chiva in Portland. Like I’m a kingpin.”

“Look. I’m sorry. I’m interested in…”

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“No problem. You’re funny. Okay? So there’s a place. A bar. You’ll see people standing around outside. Park your car and walk over. A few of the people talk to one man.”

“Okay. This is good.”

“I’m not done. The man tells his customers where to stand. Another man comes by and takes money. Then another man tells them where to stand until another man walks by and hands off the dope.”

“Where does this happen?”

“What’s the difference. Now you know.”

Another source gave the location, Burnside and NE Sandy. Now I knew.

After listening to Quinones talk about being a reporter and how he does the job, I left Powell’s Books, hopped into my soccer mom van, and turned onto West Burnside headed for the bridge.

On the way I passed a big crowd packing the sidewalk around Broadway, shuffling around.

At nine at night it could have been bible study, or dope.

Quinones said he was a reporter, but not the kind who risks their life for the story. Sounded good. I didn’t stop.

As a BoomerPdx blogger I follow the same rule. But Portland is my city, not his, and I wanted to see how black tar heroin works here.

The next few Portland blocks leading toward the Burnside Bridge looked barren and cold, like a bad side street where life is cheap. Perfect for a zombie movie, or a junkie lay down.

When I got to the dealer zone it was empty. No one. Where were the deal makers and the runners? Gone, or gone for the night.

Finding Portland Weed Today Couldn’t Be Easier

Today you might find a drive up weed window; back then weed promised a jail window.

Or worse.

Imagine a weed stop in a house full of wholesale dealers sitting around a table breaking down a brick.

You make a weed stop with a buddy, not some cartel deal.

Except the guys at the table have a hardcore edge, like they didn’t eat well or get outside often.

Before you leave, an unexpected knock comes at the door.

One of the guys says, “I didn’t tell you, so now you know. If that’s Frankie, we’ve got to kill him.”

“Yeah, drown him in the toilet and take him out the back,” said another guy.

Just another day of fun and games?

In this room two things happen. You either stay, or leave. And you’re not leaving without Portland weed.

But, it’s not Frankie and everybody laughs. You tack on what you hope is a ‘yep, there you go’ expression.

You notice a Lazy Susan of white lines spinning on the kitchen table. They all turn and look at you.

You pinch your nose with what you hope is an expression of ‘I’ve got a huge sinus infection.’

Sniffers know the sign. But you could still be a nark?

No one wants to be in that room, but if you are, look for an exit moment. How does that happen?

Make eye contact with your buddy. Do the head swing, but not too obvious.

Just remember, you’re the only one who doesn’t belong there, so move slow.

Portland might be so many good things to good people, but the dark side is as dark as the inside of a back alley dumpster at midnight.

Which is where you might be found if you’re not alert.