I started selling quarter ounces at school and work for thirty bucks. Mike had dropped out, and was working with his dad putting glass in buildings. It only took me a month of selling quarters to get together enough money to rent a three bedroom house for Dawn, Mike, and me. We must have looked at a hundred houses before we found someone who would rent to two seventeen-year-olds in Bountiful, Utah. Dawn and I went to school every day, and I had a great business selling pot. It paid all of the bills plus bought food and clothes. This was great because it meant I could spend my paychecks from work on my new girlfriend Stacey.

It was getting too cold to ride my bike to work so I rode the bus. One time I left my backpack on the bus, and it had thirteen quarter-ounces in one of those fake oilcans designed for stashing shit. I called my mom from work and asked her to go to the bus station and pick up my backpack for me. She went there with my Grandma and when she tried to pick up my pack there were cops there trying to arrest her. I guess they figured out the oil can.

She called me at work, just screaming.

“Don’t you ever send me to go pick up your dope!”

She had lied to the cops and told them I still lived at home. The next day was Thanksgiving, so she said she would bring me in first thing on Friday morning. They made a copy of her driver’s licenses and agreed. I told Roget that I needed a couple of days off for personal reasons. I spent all of Thanksgiving skiing and worrying about my future.

First thing, on Friday morning, we went down to the Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Office. I was taken inside of an office with a detective. I was glad when he told my mom to wait outside.

“Explain yourself.” The whole time I couldn’t get over how nice the pot plant that was growing in his office was. I was never able to get mine that big. I decided to just tell him the truth.

“My mom is a raving fucking lunatic! So, I have to support my little sister and myself while going to high school, attending college for my apprenticeship, and working simultaneously. I only earn twenty five cents above minimum wage, and that just isn’t enough to pay the bills. So, I started selling pot at work to make ends meet.”

“Where do you buy your pot?”

“Some black guy that rides the same bus as I do.”

He explained that he had gone through my backpack and found homework from high school, homework from an accounting class at the University of Utah, and my apprenticeship logbook. He had even read about how tough conference was. He said he was impressed and couldn’t believe that he found thirteen quarter ounces of pot in a back pack of someone that appeared to have their shit together more than his own kids.

Then he pulled out my log book and got the telephone number to the American Culinary Federation in St. Augustine Florida. He put his phone on speaker. I almost shit my pants when I heard them answer.

“Thank you for calling the American Culinary Federation, how may I direct you call?”

“May I speak to someone in charge of the apprenticeship program?” When they got on the line he told them his name, rank, and whom he was with. “What would happen to an apprentice if they were convicted of a felony possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute?”

“They would not only lose their apprenticeship, but they would be barred from the American Culinary Federation altogether.”

“Thank you.” He hung up the phone. I couldn’t believe what happened next.

“See this rolodex? I am putting your name right here, and if I ever hear of you again, I am not only going to nail you for what you’ve done, but I will nail you for thirteen bags of weed as well. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” He threw my back pack at me.

“Now, get out of my office,” but when I stood up he continued, “Hey Todd, just keep working hard and you will get through all of this.”

“Thank you. Can I have my oil can back?”

“No, you can’t, but I am sure you’ll find another one,” he replied laughing.

To this day, I still have never been charged with an alcohol or drug violation. I have been charged with many other violations, but never for drugs. I have no idea why…

For the next few months things were pretty good. I was making a good cash selling weed, work was great, and, for the first time in our life, Dawn and I were happy. One day, I decided to splurge, and I bought a gram of coke from Hodgi for eighty bucks. I took it over to Vern’s to share. I just about shit my pants when he pulled out a needle. He told me that it was a waste to sniff coke, that it would ruin my nose and sense of smell.

“You won’t be a very good chef if you keep sniffing it.”

So, right there in his kitchen, with a telephone cord wrapped around my arm, I shot up my first syringe of coke.

“Hey, I can smell it! Wow, I can taste it too!” I then experienced the most wonderful feeling of my life. “Oh, man, thank you so much!”

I loved it. I loved everything. I had to go throw up, but I even loved that. I was seventeen years old.

Shooting up coke was just too hard core to even tell anyone about. In the next few years, I only did it a few times. It was only when I was at Vern’s and only when there was coke around, which was not that often.

It was 1979 and things were great. My biggest worry was Skylab falling on top of me, and this wasn’t too much to worry about at all, considering the last six years. A great new band had just come out, called The Knack. I bought their album and Dawn, Stacey, and I danced to My Sharona in the living room of our happy home.