My First Big Deal — and the One That Still Haunts Me

Let me be clear right from the start: this is not a flex.
This is a confession.

Back then, I was just a kid in my early twenties doing what a lot of young guys did in those days—moving small amounts of weed to keep some spending money in my pocket. Quarter ounces. Ounces. Sometimes a quarter pound. On a wild week, maybe a half pound if I was feeling bold.

It was mids. Real mids. Not brick weed, but definitely not what you see on dispensary shelves today. Nuggy enough. Green enough. Sometimes a little brownish. The real giveaway? Seeds. You broke it up, you picked them out. That’s what made it “middies.” Nothing glamorous—just enough to get by.

Then one day, a guy I trusted pulled me aside and said words that still make my stomach tighten.

“I got a deal about to go down.”

He paused. Long enough to let that sentence breathe.

“This could be a lot of money. But I need you there—just in case.”

Then he asked me something that made my ears ring.

“You still got that piece?”

I said, “Yeah… the pistol.”

He shook his head.
“No. The auto.”

I remember laughing—not because it was funny, but because fear does strange things to you.

“The auto?” I said. “What the hell are you getting me into?”

He didn’t smile.
“This could be life-changing money. But these guys? I don’t really know them. And it might get dangerous.”

Then he said it.

“An eighteen-wheeler. Packed. Full. Of bud.”

Not a pickup. Not a van.
An eighteen-wheeler.

“If this goes right,” he added casually, “we could be sitting on a million.”

I told him no. Immediately.
That sounded insane.

But when I went home, I couldn’t sleep.

I kept thinking about what that kind of opportunity could mean to a kid like me back then—how fast life could change, how rare those moments felt when you’re young and hungry.

So the next day, I showed up.

I talked him out of bringing the automatic—thank God—but I did bring my pistol. Legal. Registered. Concealed. Not that it mattered. If I pulled it out, my license would be the least of my worries.

Understand something: this was over twenty years ago. Weed wasn’t legal. Weed plus a firearm wasn’t a charge—it was a sentence. Prison time.

When I finally got the full rundown, my heart dropped.

We didn’t have the money.

What we did have was a duffel bag filled with one million dollars in counterfeit bills.

And the plan—if you can even call it that—was to hope they didn’t notice.

“If they do,” he said quietly, “we might not walk away.”

By the time we reached the drop, my shirt was soaked through with sweat.

The truck pulled up.

Then the security.

These weren’t guys pretending to be tough. They were standing there in military gear, machine guns strapped on them like accessories. No hiding them. No effort to look casual. Just pure, professional confidence.

I remember thinking, We are dead. There is no version of this story where we survive.

An RV was parked next to the trailer. One of the men looked at me and said—in a deep, calm voice that scared me more than yelling ever could—

“You wait here.”

My friend went inside the trailer with the duffel bag.

And I stood there alone.

I’ve never been that scared in my life. My heart was pounding so hard I was convinced they could hear it. I tried to stay still, tried to breathe, tried not to look like someone who didn’t belong.

Then I heard shouting.

Another language. Fast. Aggressive.

I knew it.
This was it.

But instead of gunfire, they grabbed the duffel bag, jumped into the RV, and took off.

Seconds later, my friend pulled the truck around, yelling, “What the hell are you doing standing there?! Get in!”

And just like that—we were gone.

Later, when everything settled and we finally had time to look through what we ended up with, the truth became clear: it wasn’t what it appeared to be. The quality at the front of the trailer—the stuff you’d grab to sample—was decent. But the deeper you went into the load, the worse it got. Lighter buds. Seeded. Inconsistent. They were stacking the best up front and burying the garbage in the back, hoping no one would notice until it was too late.

In other words, they were trying to get us.

Looking back now, it’s almost ironic. We thought we were pulling something off, but in reality, we avoided getting burned ourselves. It wasn’t worth what it was supposed to be worth. It wasn’t some legendary score. And it sure as hell wasn’t something I’d ever want to be part of again.

That was who I was then. I’m not that person anymore. But that experience never left me. It taught me how thin the line really is, how fast things can go wrong, and how lucky we were to walk away at all. That’s the truth of it—and that’s a story I can finally tell.