Traveling so regularly between states, it’s sometimes difficult to remember which have legalized marijuana, medical or otherwise, since I took this adventure up nearly a decade ago. I don’t smoke, myself, or I haven’t in a long time. I try not to engage in any form of substance abuse now (my self-abuse takes other forms), mostly because I don’t want to but partially because I don’t want to be stopped on the wrong side of a border with gummies I had forgotten were spiked. This means that when I arrive at ‘The Back Door,’ which is literally the back door to a pizza shop in the worst part of Denver, and a scrawny picked-skin man opens the door asks me what I want, I hesitate, for a moment, glancing at the pistol tucked loosely in his waistband and then say:
“Drugs?”
‘Buying drugs used to be fun and dangerous before capitalism was given full access to dispensaries, transforming the process into the same sterile drag that is purchasing one of a handful of the current generation’s smartphones in a mall. The modern dispensary is so far removed from the head shop- from the dealer’s shitty apartment living room- that one can hardly find any familiarity in the process at all and the sheer variety of strains and mediums encourages the middle-aged and polo-ed employees to depart on a lecture about the various pros and cons of each product, at the end of which a customer is left wondering whether such differences can actually exist between specimens or whether it’s all much of the same, branded and rebranded to create a false sense of worth. It used to there was ‘good stuff’ and ‘the stuff you bought when funds were tight.’ Now it is like a wine-tasting, all flavor and no buzz.
‘The Back Door,’ half storefront and half dinner theater, allows a glimpse into the old days.
Run out of the back of a legitimate pizza parlor, ‘The Back Door’ makes it difficult to actually purchase any of their products, encouraging their employees to act erratically- sometimes even dangerously- in order to extract the maximum amount of cash from customers (or to scare them off in the process). Visitors report varying levels of complexity after engaging in the experience. Some describe angry tweakers wielding make-shift weapons at any attempt to negotiate a better price. Other report being ‘arrested’ and ‘held in a separate facility’ for ‘several days of questioning’ before being released onto the street with no record of arrest or of the officers that interrogated them.
Some suggest that ‘The Back Door’ is a front itself, disguised in camouflage so gaudy and intense that local law enforcement is forced to assume everything is above board. Others suggest it’s only another level to the game, though repeat customers are rare or absent from the conversation entirely.’
“Drugs, huh?” The man wavers on the stoop. He looks back inside and makes meaningful eye contact with someone I can’t see. “What makes you think we’ve got drugs here?”
I reach back to pull my copy of the guide from my back pocket and the man levels his pistol at me. “What you got there?”
My mouth is dry. “A… book?”
The man spits messily to his right and wipes his mouth on skin of his shoulder, bare where his t-shirt is ripped and stained from saliva. “The autumn one?”
I nod.
“How high you want to get? We’ve got a real mellow sativa-”
“No, No!” A chubby man in a button-up appears from inside and the dealer’s posture slips from unwell and on-edge to scolded puppy. “How many times do I have to tell you, your character wouldn’t know the names.” The man turns to me and pulls a little card out of his pocket. “Sorry- we’re training this guy. This should get you 15% off a pizza in the front. Come back tomorrow if you want to try again.”
The dealer and his boss pull back into the building and ‘The Back Door’ closes. I look up reviews for the pizza place and shrug.
Better than nothing.
-traveler
