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Home / Articles / News / Features /  Toke '09

Toke '09

Dude, where's my medical marijuana?

April 21, 2009, 12:00 am


With medical marijuana, there’s always the original sin. The law protects registered medical marijuana patients and their caregivers from prosecution but, without a functional dispensary, the 269 patients who aren’t licensed growers are still dependent on dealers. These dealers are not protected. Even the growers have to get their seeds from somewhere and the law forbids interstate transportation of marijuana.

It’s a gray line the DOH doesn’t want to even touch. Even Milam is currently the subject of an internal investigation for facilitating and endorsing patient community gatherings where they can exchange tips, techniques, plants and pot.

If the medical marijuana program coordinator isn’t safe, then Kyle definitely needs to watch his back.

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Dave Maass

Get high or heal thyself: Medical marijuana is a dealer’s Holy Grail. Kyle B deals Hindu Kush and NYC Diesel.

Kyle lounges back in a top-tier seat on the Rail Runner, hugging a black diaper bag in his arms. Inside is a few hundred dollars worth of Hindu Kush, a highly valued strain of cannabis indica. Kyle has a morning rendezvous with a cancer patient who reportedly has been stuck with low-grade brick weed from Mexico.

Kyle doesn’t deal for the money. He does it to keep himself in supply. It’s the first Saturday train from Santa Fe—8:10 am—and he’s already smoked two bowls.

“They should have someone walking around with a little tray of bud,” Kyle fantasizes aloud. “You could have a little pin hole in the windows that would hold the smoke in but just let in enough air for ventilation.”

The man he’s meeting will be Kyle’s second patient/customer. (Sammy doesn’t count.) The first was his neighbor, Dorothy, whose face and neck were cut to shreds in an unsuccessful attempt to isolate her throat cancer. The pot helped with the pain and her appetite.

“I’d go over and smoke her out,” Kyle says. “She was really cool. She didn’t give a shit either. She had a little purple bong. I always wanted to get her a water pipe, a little bubbler, but I never had any money to do it.”

At the time, Kyle worked as a traveling salesman, demonstrating appliances in homes across the state. One night his wife called: There were ambulances at Dorothy’s house. She was dead.

“I was, like, cleaning this lady’s couch with a fucking [vacuum], trying to sell it to her and I just had to stop,” Kyle says. “I went outside and told somebody else to take over: ‘I don’t give a fuck right now.’ I hung out in the van, smoked a bowl and just broke down.”

He pauses.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely, as if he’s just taken a hit. “It was rough.”

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