After prep school, he built a thriving business. Now he’s got to find a way to get out of it.
Every day he tells himself the same thing. You are doing nothing wrong. It plays through his mind on repeat, keeping his nerves in check. You have no reason to worry. Tonight, a Friday, he is walking down a cobblestone street in Soho, hands wedged in his leather jacket, his posture slump-shouldered, as if he’s curling in on himself. In his right-hand pocket, there is a plastic bag containing numerous smaller plastic bags—“tickets,” he calls them—filled with either a gram or gram and three quarters of cocaine. The smaller ones he calls “chiquitas.” They cost $60. The big ones, known simply as “big ones,” go for $100. He is heading to see a customer, a twiggy, doe-eyed woman who asked to meet outside an art gallery. He thumbs through the Baggies, able to gauge the weight with his fingertips, and secures her order in his fist, all the while humming along to the voice in his head.
You are doing nothing wrong—
-NYmag
