by Samuel J Adams
When I was fifteen, I used to smoke weed with my neighbor, Moustakas. Moustakas was seventeen but he’d taken the GED two years earlier and was already a working man. He repaired phones, working through piles on a table in his parents’ den. He commandeered that den like a man of importance and, like a man of importance, he was already hugely fat. And he sold weed, mainly to me, accompanying his sales with advice.
“Friend George,” he’d say. “Weed is a trifling side-hustle. Phones—that’s real business.”