We tried clarifying that this was the right guy without asking ‘Are you a drug dealer?’

This story took place during my second year at Michigan. Early on in the schoolyear, Ann Arbor was in a drought, and I needed pot—and quickly.

No matter who I called that claimed they had the hook-up, no one could come through—-or, come through at a cost anywhere near reasonable—-and, just as I was about to give up, on a Saturday morning I walked by a co-worker of mine, Al, who mentioned smoking after work to a buddy of his. Good, I thought, surely this kid can put me on the trail.

So I go up to him and ask him, and not only does he know where to get pot, he’s a drug dealer! I walk over with him and another buddy after work, buy an 8th for the universal price, and move on.

Things are going well and I become a weekly customer. That is, until Al calls me up one day and tells me that he only sells large quantities, beginning with half-ounces.

I’m certainly not in the market for any amount that large, so things dry up again, until I see the kid at work and he hooks me up with the number of a friend of his, Brett, who is also a dealer.

Thinking ahead, I call my friend, Len, who had also been dry, over from Central Campus (I lived on The Hill) once I had touched base with the new dealer, and we call to find out where he is.

Turns out, he lives in the same dorm I do—and what’s better, he’s only one floor above me. Instead of walking all the way to the ‘student ghetto’ to load up, now I could simply walk up a flight of stairs.

If only it were that simple. My friend and I headed upstairs in search of the potted plant, and arrived at the door of the new dealer.

“Are you Brett?” we ask, to which he responded “Yes.” Good. Then, trying to avoid an embarrassing situation by clarifying this was the right guy without asking ‘Are you a drug dealer?’ we ask him if he knows our old dealer, Al, who is Jewish, but whose last name escaped me at the moment.

He knew a Jewish Al. Good. So we walk in, and I tell my friend to speak up and tell the kid what he wants. “I’ll just get an 8th,” he says. At that point the room goes dead silent, and our “new dealer,” Brett, now stonefaced (no pun intended), responds, simply, “What?”

Len and I start laughing, thinking that this Blake is playing a joke on us. Well, the joke was on us, but through no fault of Brett’s, and we quickly realized that the reason Brett and his friends weren’t laughing is because they weren’t the right Brett.

Shit. In hindsight, I should’ve been known something was up, first because of his Michigan Marching Band shirt, which was sketch, and second by the fact that he never asked us to close a door the entire time, which is customary for such sensitive transactions.

The friend and I then proceeded to turn tail and leave, and look for another room that might possibly be Brett’s.

The next number I thought it was turns out to be a broom closet, and we keep searching, when we bump into this kid talking on his cell phone in the hallway who sounds remarkably like the kid I’d gotten off the phone with minutes ago.

Finally. We ask him if his name is Brett-—it was-—and then we proceed to question him, again, trying to get our point across without coming out and saying it. It becomes painfully clear that he wasn’t the right Brett when he asked us why we were asking all those questions, but, since we were obviously looking for pot, he turns and asks us if he could get in on it, and the friend and I walk away.

Defeated and perplexed, the friend and I head back down to my room, figuring some good music might ease the pain. Then, Brett calls, wondering where we were, as he had been waiting the entire time for us. He tells us the correct address--not only was it in the same dorm, one floor above me, but he was in the same hallway.

And when we get to the door, which was adorned, nicely, with blunt wrappers and a picture of the ‘real’ Brett smoking a blunt, we breathe a sigh of relief, go inside, and get the shit.

This was one case where the thrill was certainly worth the chase.