In this excerpt from Tough Enough, my co-author Kelly Tough sinks deeper into a world of drugs and criminals:
For two years I lived with the manager of the Guildford Station, in an apartment above the bar. Continuing to waitress on amphetamines, I was a textbook functioning addict, barely functioning.
Splitting with the Station’s manager required a new address, so at 34, I moved in with Corey, a Guildford Station regular. Not as his girlfriend, but as Senior Director of Illegal Drug Distribution. Or gopher, however you looked at it. Corey was a hefty guy with a mean streak, long blond hair swept straight back because it thinned on top. His hair often fell forward, so he had the constant habit of jerking his head back and combing hair off his face with his fingers. He often showed kindness, setting up a basement suite for me. I sold cocaine and speed from the house, meeting buyers when Corey was out. It was a constant stream of addicts at the door, and many dangerous situations, but I wasn’t worried; we had an alarm and a safe, bear spray and lots of weapons. Not that I would ever use a weapon. I was also Corey’s mule, transporting drug shipments around town. Sometimes, Corey took me along to visit suppliers or watch him intimidate (well, torture) business associates. Corey liked having a Playmate working for him…everyone wanted to see Corey’s bunny.
Looking back, I now understand moving in with Corey was my tipping point. Not long before Corey, I was married, had a proper home, focussed on being a mom. Everyone in Corey’s world sold drugs or was a drug addict. The people I hung out with were criminals, Surrey underworld figures, biker gang members or members in training. These criminals, or people like them, were the type who took me in when Mum kicked me out at 13. These were people I was comfortable with.
I quit waitressing to work for Corey in the drug trade full-time. He didn’t pay me a salary, but took care of whatever I needed, housing, food, cigarettes, whatever. He also supplied free speed and its nasty younger brother, crystal meth, as much as I could handle, insuring I was constantly high. I wasn’t making pension contributions or planning for my future.
*
“Bunny, you’d be good at making clones,” said Corey. “That’s your new job.” Corey clicked a secret lever at the foot of the stairs, and the staircase rose so we could access the clone room, like Batman’s lair. We ducked our heads going in. Stacked trays of baby pot plants, rows of fluorescent lights, a long counter like the one in Mum’s gardening shed.
“We’ll get Sharon to come over and teach you.”
I loved making clones from day one, and I was great at it. They were my babies and I was the mom. In the windowless clone room, I’d talk to my plants, encouraging them to take root. It was warm and calming in there, like in the womb. Not Mum’s womb, but a womb where you felt safe and appreciated. I took cuttings from larger plants and transferred them to teensy pots. I’d turn my babies, lift them, check on them umpteen times a day. Every time I lifted a plant from its pot and saw a tiny curling root I’d say aloud, “Five dollars! That’s another five dollars.” The illegal pot producers bought as many clones as I could grow.
I could have happily lived at Corey’s place and tended baby pot plants until I died. But with all things related to Corey, money eventually became a bone of contention. After two years I was the best clone maker in Vancouver, but Corey refused to increase my pay.
“It’s only a dollar, Corey,” I said. “A dollar more for every clone. You keep raising your prices, but you pay me the same.”
“Look, Bunny, that’s what it pays. You’ve lived here for free, for three years, you’ve got a great deal. If you don’t like it, go get another fucking job.”
“It’s not fair and you know it. Christ, I’ve had enough of guys walking all over me. Just fucking pay me you cheap bastard!”
Corey simmered for a moment, and quietly said, “That’s it, Bunny. You’re done here. You’re lucky I’m letting you leave with all your fingers. Get the fuck out.”
Homeless, again. I immediately called Manny, a drug dealer I met at Corey’s. Manny owned a grow-op in Surrey, so I hoped we could arrange a work/shelter deal. He had a crush on me, so I wasn’t surprised when he said, “Yeah, you can stay at my place and look after my shit. C’mon over.” That was a relief, because I needed a home and someone to take care of my daily expenses. I offered my clone expertise, not my love or my body, and he seemed OK with that.
