Call Your Guy - Culture | MERRY JANE
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Call Your Guy

Delivery weed is taking the nation by storm.

by Megan Reynolds

by Megan Reynolds

Everyone has a guy. They’re eager to sing their guys’ praises, texting contacts and making suggestions, telling you exactly why their guy is the best. Their guy is quick and has the best selection; someone else’s guy will sell you a huge bag of fine-enough weed for $60, but you have to travel. Another person’s guy delivers to your workplace but not to your home, but you have to get in the car with him and do a slow circle around the block, making small talk and drinking the iced coffee you got as your cover for stepping out of your office at 4pm on a Tuesday. Finding a guy is easy. But, just like love, you have to find the one that’s right for you.

For a long time, I used the same guy my friends had been using, a kind man who lived in the hinterlands of Brooklyn, a long subway ride and a 8 minute walk away. He was nice, his weed was sufficient and there was always more than enough. It worked until I realized that the best way to get stoned in New York didn’t involve leaving my couch.

I will never know the joy of walking into a dispensary, looking at a menu and speaking to someone educated and knowledgeable about the subject at hand. I will never have the pleasure of picking a strain that speaks to the way I want to feel at that very moment, purchasing it and not worrying, just a little bit. This is the nature of being stoned in New York. The city puts you at the mercy of so many tiny inconveniences, but when it makes up for its shortcomings, it’s well worth it. Nowhere else can I drop off three months’ worth of laundry before I go to work and pick it up on the way home, folded tight and ensconced in plastic. Anything I want, from bathroom cleaner to beer, can be delivered. And, figuring out how to buy weed is a quandary with the easiest, most elegant solution possible: the delivery service.

I always knew about delivery services, but the ritual around doing it right always made me nervous. I’m not cool. I lack the disaffected chill required to ask people about things without feeling like a narc. Subtlety is not my strong suit, but I understand that texting a random number and saying “Hey, can I buy some weed?” is not in anyone’s best interest. Every interaction with every delivery service I’ve used until recently has been fraught. Did I ask that right? What if this isn’t the person? Will I be arrested because I’ve somehow accidentally called a cop?

Most delivery services are, for lack of a better word, not good. You can wait for fifteen minutes or you can wait for an hour and a half. There’s no real guarantee of what kind of product you’ll actually get. The process falls somewhere on the scale between looking for love and trying to pick a new therapist, with the same sorts of ups and downs. But, when you find the one that works for you, hold on tight.

My delivery service is staffed by a rotating assortment of attractive adults, summoned by an innocent text asking if they want to hang out. They answer their texts with emoji, but in a way that makes it seem like you’re communicating with a real person and not a weird bot. Like Seamless, they answer me with an estimated time of arrival. The minutes of my life lost waiting for trains that never show up are all worth it for the experience of ordering weed to my apartment without having to put on a bra.

Once, they sent over a beautiful biracial male model, tall with cheekbones like glass. He carried a skateboard under one arm and carried a black backpack full of weed and cosmic caramels and baklava. He followed me into my room when I went to get my wallet, but maintained a respectful yet awkward distance between us as he rifled through his case looking for Girl Scout Cookies. Usually, the delivery person is a woman, an apple cheeked breath of fresh air that looks like she should be shift supervisor at a co-op in Berkeley. We make conversation that never feels terribly forced; they pet my cat and accept the water I always offer. Their selection is top-notch and asking questions about strains is like talking to a friend about what show to watch next: familiar and easy, but not without lively debate. It’s a painless transaction, and a quick one, too. They’re in and out within 15 minutes, and I’m squirreling away two shiny bags of Skywalker OG into my desk drawer for safekeeping. Out of all the exchanges I go through daily, from the sullen barista that serves me coffee to my unintentionally rude interactions with the salad delivery dude at work, this is by far the most pleasant and the most efficient. I could find another guy if I had to, but really, I hope this never goes away.

It’s the easiest, simplest thing in the delivery of anything, from laundry to food to beer, it's a novelty. It never gets old. As a baby stoner buying bags of shake and stems in the parking lot in the center of my hometown, never did I think that getting weed delivered to my actual home would be a possibility. Eventually, I hope that weed will be legalized throughout this great nation of ours, and I will be able to stroll into a dispensary and buy an eighth as easily as I would toilet paper. Until that day comes, my delivery service and the simple pleasure of getting what I want when I want it without leaving my house is all I need.


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Megan Reynolds

Megan Reynolds has written for Racked, Gawker, BuzzFeed, Cosmopolitan and more. She lives in New York.



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