I was about 11 when I became suspicious. My dad started getting tons of phone calls while I was in the car with him during our court-allocated joint custodial weekends together. His car changed a lot, though I honestly think this was down to his interest in automobiles as an ex-mechanic.
But as much as he liked to do up old battered run arounds, it can’t have done any harm to keep changing his mode of transport in the small suburb in which he was casually dealing weed for a number of my pre-teen years and beyond.
I’d like to paint a realistic picture of my home life. While I lived most of the time with my mother and spent weekends with dad, I had a pretty stable, comfortable and supportive environment. I was emotionally cared for by both of them and my stepparents, went to a good school and had strong friendships – all of which provided great support when the shit hit the fan in 2009.
Cannabis is now (and from 1928 to 2004) a class B drug, but then (between 2004 and 2009) it was class C, which is probably why my dad thought his activity was so harmless. In many ways, he was fortunate that his conviction occurred just months before the drug made its step back up from C to B. That said, he still went to a certain amount of effort to keep it under wraps from a naïve, countrified moi; namely during aforementioned phone calls in which he would shiftily tell the caller he couldn't talk right now.
On more than one occasion, the convo would continue and he would literally say stuff like ‘You can come and collect the sweets later‘ or ‘How many packets of sweets would you like?’ Because my dad was a right wheeler dealer – never without a vast collection of odds and ends like TVs, bicycles and framed autographs filling his flat, I wasn’t a stranger to boxes upon boxes of goods, including bumper confectionary he’d also acquired to distribute to pals.
All of this was more of a hobby or past time that went back as far as I can remember; he’s part of a tight knit suburban community who all go down the pub bang on six every night and drink together, swapping mobile phone and holiday advice, and sometimes buying some pirate DVDs or an industrial box of Monster Munch – just because.
Dad ran a small but successful business so the dealing wasn’t his central source of income and he was never rolling in it. It wasn’t drug money that afforded me my Sketchers and later my cheeky Buffalos, rather successful spelling tests at school or months of pocket money saving.
You hear stories of rich dealers’ kids being lavished in hush money and expensive cars; my reality could not have been further from that. What I think it did was add a resourceful and modestly rewarding few extra bucks to my dad’s bank balance. And for him, being on the blurry side of the law created little concern – he didn’t see it as a big deal. Perhaps because none of his deals were particularly significant in size.
Memories of clients are hazy as my dad’s always had lots of friends and random acquaintances. Geezas would drop in for some old tat like a vintage video arcade machine, and I was familiar with most of his social circle, who were all warm and friendly. I never felt in any danger or like I was in the company of anyone particularly dodgy. In fact, my experiences with drug handlers and the parasites you tend to find at early morning raves at university seem a lot harier in comparison.
As for my first exposure to cannabis, I remember seeing quite large quantities of the stuff wrapped up in a dark pantry amidst all that Monster Munch. I didn’t think much of it and the amount he kept was never discussed. Maybe I even convinced myself it was some sort of pet food, though dad kept no pets.
When I was over 18, dad and I sometimes smoked weed from a pipe while we all watched a film after dinner. It was far and away from anything I’ve read in Antony Kiedis’ memoir of his own drug use with his father, and actually, quite a nice bonding opportunity.
When I was 20 and halfway through my degree, I got a call from my dad one Friday when I was in the library. I speak to him most days so I wasn’t perturbed until he asked me if I was somewhere where I could talk about something serious. My first assumption was that one of my grandparents was ill, or worse, dead already.
Like any event that causes you shock, it’s hard to recall the exact wording of the conversation now, but it ran along the lines of ‘I didn’t want to tell you about any of this, but it’s got to a point of no return now and I have to be honest with my only daughter.’
He didn’t cry, he isn’t a crier, but I heard a fierce wobble in his voice as he gently explained an employee at his (other) business, disgruntled at a dismissal, had dobbed my dad in to the police. Dad had been arrested last year, and was currently standing trial – a trial that had been taking place all week, and was due to end the following Monday.
While I stood shaking from head to toe behind a bush outside my university library, fellow students went by laughing and joking, smoking a cigarette, discussing that night’s plans, Dad broke the news that there was a strong chance that next week he would be sent to prison for dealing drugs. My world caved in.
Looking back, that moment felt like a pivotal moment in my young adult life – mostly, I started to realise that everyone and everything is flawed, and not quite the buffered soap opera you imagined it to be when you were a child. I realised in that day how naïve he’d been.
As it turned out, my dad didn’t go to prison. He was fined and pretty much put off smoking for life. The ironic thing is that he was never a heavy smoker, and it didn’t affect his life or productivity until he got caught with too much of it. The most negative connotations I have with the drug, which I still smoke recreationally on occasion, is the level of ambivalence it seems to instill in some of the most creative and clever people I know.
Though the drama knocked me for a while, dad nearly being sent down taught us both a lot. He quit taking silly risks for so little return, and I tried to be less rose-tinted about stuff I knew was going on around me and wasn’t really right.
We promised to be more honest with one another and remain extremely close – and I know he and I are both extremely lucky he escaped the law that time and were allowed to continue a normal father-daughter relationship – just one that doesn’t involve weed on the sofa, these days. Oh, and the Monster Munch have gone.
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This article originally appeared on The Debrief.