Cocaine Ain't for Me, but I Love the Smell

By Justone Malone

A regular blue-collar guy who stumbles into the world of cocaine dealing and remembers what it's like to live life and take chances. The money is rolling in, but he could care less. He is more concerned with the partying, the sexcapades, and the adventures that cocaine will take him on. But all good things have to come to an end. ©

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986448645

Book preview

9780986448645

Chapter 1 COCAINE AIN’T FOR ME

Cocaine ain’t for me, but I love the smell…You will hear me saying that phrase over and over again. When I say that phrase people usually ask me what it smells like, and with a short and sweet reply, I normally say it smells like money. I say that because I know that’s what people expect me to say. But it is much more than money to me; that sounds crazy but for me it is true. When I’m at a table drinking whiskey and bagging up three to four ounces of blow into one-gram baggies I’m not really thinking of how much money this shit is going to make me. I’m thinking of what adventures this shit is going to take me on. What crazy parties will I end up at, what inner circles I will be invited into, what random woman I will be fucking by the end of the night?

It’s been many nights when me and, let’s say, six to eight people bum-rush a club bathroom and turn it into a VIP area. People banging at the door trying to get in screaming they have to piss, some of the sexiest women in the club in the bathroom with us, and I’m shoving blow up their nose. I’m having so much fun so I don’t give a fuck, plus normally, it’s some random dudes buying the entire amount of blow their cash will allow, just to keep the partying going with these random women with the thought of them fucking these chicks by the end of the night. I make sure I don’t leave until the women have my number, the men not so much because I know the women will be better customers because they will always have some suckers buying them blow.

You learn a couple things in this lifestyle when you pay attention, number one: all money isn’t good money and number two: some people just are not worth the headache. Number three is my favorite: never stay in one place for too long. You have to master the art of always knowing when to leave, being able to move amongst a group of people and not draw any attention to yourself. I think all those things helped me to be great at what I was doing. I would walk into a bar or a club and study people’s behavior: their body language, who they were talking to, and how many times they went to the bathroom. I could see the same people three or four times that week in the same bar and wouldn’t make any contact with them. I would sit at the bar and have me a couple of whiskeys or a couple of cheap beers and study my prey.

Who were my prey? Anyone and everyone who could possibly be customers, not just any customers, but the right customer’s, the ones with the right connections. Most people are so predictable and routine it’s nothing for me to get to them. I would make eye contact with some people a couple of times before I mind-fucked them. If I knew a certain woman or dude was doing blow and who I thought would be a good customer for me, I would slide them a bag of blow. I would always bag up like five, twenty sacks when I was out scouting for new customers. After I made eye contact with them a couple of times I would walk up to them as I’m planning to leave the club and shake their hand with a sack of blow in my hand…I would smile and tell them to have a good night. They would feel what’s in their hand and I would tell ‘em, it’s on me, enjoy the party. Eight out of ten times this worked. When I saw them the next time I would act like I didn’t even know their ass, but I knew I had me a new customer because most of the blow on the club scene is shit. It’s a bunch of fake-ass dealers who step on their blow a bunch of times just to try to make a couple extra dollars. Mostly they’re some cats that work in the industry as bartenders, servers, or just some random dude that’s in denial about his cocaine habit. Fucking up the game, snorting up half their product, and selling the other half just trying to break even.

I provided more of a customer service, and I fancied the give before you take method. Most people are so busy trying to rip everyone off, or trying to make the most money possible, they forget to take care of the customer. Once my customers got in really good with me they didn’t want to go to any other dealer even if my shit was more expensive, because they knew I wasn’t on any bullshit and I had the best quality out there. Plus, I was always good to them: if I saw them out, I would buy them, and whoever they were with, a round of drinks, I may even throw them a party pack of blow just for the hell of it. I just chalked it up as the cost of doing business. And my business was fucking booming, I was like a party promoter; I was out five days a week: Monday nights, Halo; and Tuesday nights, Clermont lounge; Wednesday night, MJQ and Star Bar; Thursday nights, Jacks Pizza, El Bar, and then bar hop at the clubs in the Midtown area of Atlanta. Friday night, I would head back to MJQ. That’s not even including the customers I had at local strip clubs that would call all times of the night when they needed my services. My white-collar business clients I would meet them just about every Friday around lunch time at some random restaurant where they and their coworkers would go for lunch. They would text and tell me what bar to meet at, and I would normally get there before them, I would sit at the bar and maybe have something to eat or a beer. They would text me beforehand and tell me what they wanted, normally, three to four 8 balls. I only dealt with two guys in this particular group who used to buy blow for a couple people in their office. I would see one of the two guys go to the bathroom and I would follow right behind him and make sure the stalls were clear and we’d make our exchange. They would even buy me lunch for my inconvenience of even having to come to the damn bar in the first place. Their friends don’t know me, and I don’t know their friends. Both parties are happy.

My gay clientele who never seemed to sleep or stop fucking partying ever, would call or come by at any given time. Also, I was on standby for them 24hours because they had all the connections. Some of them were make-up artists and did make up for a lot of the celebrities in Atlanta; a couple of them were hair stylists as well. I had a few that were straight up scam artists, doing everything from credit card fraud to boosting high-end merchandise right out of Lenox mall. And last but not least, my fucking neighbors who, without them, none of this would be possible, nor do I think my business would have grown the way it did without them. I can honestly say, for some of them I was their favorite nigga. I could tell some of my neighbors and clients never had to interact with black people in a social setting. Maybe they had a couple of black coworkers, or that one black friend that has no clue that he or she is really black. I don’t think they had ever experienced a diverse strong black man like me before. Physically, I embodied all of the traits that the media teaches white America to fear. A black man with a whole body full of tattoo’s walking a pit bull is very intimidating to some people apparently. I had one of my white neighbors tell me, after he got to know me that he thought I was a thug or a gangster-rapper when he first saw me in the courtyard walking my pitbull Lola. I have no clue why white people think that all black guys with a gang of tattoos are rappers. Maybe he thought me being a rapper is the only way I could afford to live in the same neighborhood as him. I must say moving to a predominantly white area/neighborhood opened my eyes to how little white people know about black people and our culture. I found out that they only know and believe what they hear and see on the news. So, if the news media portrays us in a negative light to people who never, or rarely ever, encountered black people, then, when they meet a black person they are going to be scared as hell that you are going to rob them or your pitbull is going to attack them. Ignorance is truly the parent of fear. A lot of times when I encountered some of these white people I felt like it was my duty to tear down a lot of the stereotypes they had for black people. Do you know how offensive it is when a muthafucka compliments you on the fact that you speak correct English? Like, why did you assume I couldn’t speak correct English? What were you basing that on? Most of the white guys I came in contact with were pretty cool and some were assholes; they were so ignorant I just felt bad for them. My neighbor, Christian, is a prime example. He would say some of the most ignorant and inappropriate shit and not think twice about it. He just didn’t know any better. Overall, most of my neighbors were good genuine people though.

I honestly don’t think I had one regular blue collar-working neighbor as a customer. Hell, I think I was one of the few regular blue collar working people that lived in the building. All my customers who were my neighbors were either white-collar workers, in a band, a model, stripper, or entrepreneur, etc. My neighbor’s friends were just like them so they made even better clients because I didn’t have to see them everyday. You should have seen the Friday and Saturday nights at our building. We would party like the whole place was a frat house. I would be bouncing from five to six different lofts serving different factions some of the purest cocaine Atlanta had to offer. Their buddies who didn’t stay there would just tell their wives or ole ladies, Hey, babe, I’m going to see my buddy, Jason, but their women didn’t know that Jason’s place was the meet-up place so they could get their drugs and just party and bullshit with the fellas. And this would be the same story from all the different lofts I would visit. These fuckers knew how to party, though. If they stayed close by, they would just catch a cab over and party all weekend, or till it was time to go home, and the people who stayed far away would do the same thing. They would just get to their friend’s house, chip in on how much blow and booze they wanted to do for the weekend, and just party their asses off. Then take their asses back home on Sunday night and relive their boring-ass lives. In true Weekend Warrior fashion I’m sure when they got to work on Monday their only thoughts were what they were going to do for the upcoming weekend. These white people had life figured out. When you have money and a great career, why risk fucking that up with a DUI? So everyone would just catch a cab over to the complex. This was smart because, if you catch a cab, you have no worries of being fucked with by the police. They didn’t have any drama amongst them and their friends. They just wanted to party, enjoy life, and get fucked up, and I helped them with that as much as I could. Truth be told, they were helping me enjoy life as well …

I grew up no stranger to drugs; it was all in my neighborhood and, at times, in my house. I saw firsthand how drugs could destroy a person, a family, or even a community. So, as a child, I said I would never get involved with drugs. I saw my mother dabble around with drugs, and I would act like I didn’t know what was going on. To me, it was just a part of life. Hell, to this day, my father still does drugs, he just can’t seem to let that shit go. A lot of people view weed as a drug, but I never have, nor will I ever see it as one. I was always very mature for my age, a very old soul. I think it comes from just being around older people my entire life. My Grandparents raised me mostly and instilled a lot of my core morals and values. I was taught to be a gentleman, and to be very respectful, work hard, and stay out of trouble. I managed to stay out of trouble, well, for the most part, that is. I also managed to stay with a hustle; the ability to earn is truly a talent. My grandfather was all about making a dollar; he was the ultimate hustler, but in the legal way.

My grandfather, Mr. J.C. Cole, was blind and had more hustle in him than guys with 20/20 vision. My grandfather was diagnosed with glaucoma before I was born and, eventually, he lost his sight. As a kid it did something to me to see a man without sight get up every day, hustle and grind. He was such a good mechanic that, even when he lost his vision, he never stopped fixing cars. He was so good at the shit, he could do it with his eyes closed. I was so amazed by that. Granddaddy JC had a tire shop; people would come by to get a tire patched up or to buy a used tire from him. He would do all of this without being able to see. He would always tell me he couldn’t go to bed broke. He said if he was broke he couldn’t sleep. He would say only a man who isn’t any count could go to sleep broke. He said a man’s goal everyday should be to go back home with more money than he left with at the beginning of the day. He was always on the up and up, straight and narrow. A very hardworking, blue-collar, man’s man type of guy. He would tell me how he wanted to work so bad when he was younger to help his mother Bama Cole that he lied about his age so he could start working in the coal mines. He had to tell them that he was two to three years older than what he was just to get a job. I learned a lot from my grandfather. He said, even though he had a good job, he always kept him a hustle on the side. He told me time after time how important it was to keep a job to have some steady income, and how a job would keep me out of trouble. My grandfather had enough land, and enough things going on to keep me out of a whole lot of trouble. About five miles from our family home, my grandfather owned about thirty acres that we called The Field and The Field