JULY 31, 2021
A few months ago I saw one of those tiktoks that you’re supposed to stitch with an answer, they asked, “What is the weirdest way you have made money in New York City?” This is mine.
I had lived in New York for almost three months, in Greenwich Village. As a smoker, I have always had a designated “smoke shop guy” and the one I found in Greenwich was great. He was old, Slavic, and best of all he never ID’d me.
It was 7 am on Easter Sunday circa 2018, and my designated smoke shop guy was closed. I began to wander sixth avenue in search of nicotine and came across a smoke shop I had been to only once, to buy a bong. Different times. My bong had shattered, and this smoke shop was the only one in the village that carried ‘Illadelph’ a glassware brand that any West Coast stoner boy will exclaim is “the best.”
I walked in and found a heavier man standing behind the counter. It looked like the stereotypical New York smoke shop. Dirty glass display cases, narrow walkway, slightly sticky floor, horrible lighting, stale smelling air-conditioned air, and dented funhouse-style mirrored ceilings.
I asked for a pack of American Spirit light blues and a lighter behind the counter that had caught my eye. It exclaimed “I (heart) Girls.” He obliged, and asked “Do you really?” in reference to the lighter’s sentiment, to which I replied “Sure.”
And his eyes lit up.
To my surprise, he sat back in his chair and explained he has issues with women, lovers, and he struggles to understand how to “please his female partners.” He quickly opened up to me. He had been seeing a woman for quite some time, but something was off, she didn’t want to see him on certain days, she had kids of her own, even the sexual chemistry was sometimes off. He ultimately felt she “didn’t take him seriously.”
He asked if I could help, and I agreed, of course. We talked for 45 minutes or so, and I promised to come back.
The next time I left my apartment for smokes I diverged from my designated smoke shop guy and walked to my new client. When I arrived, he was elated. He exclaimed that he would pay me in $20 cash and one pack of cigarettes or Juul pods for one hour of my time. This was my new side hustle, a sex and relationship therapist for my neighborhood smoke shop owner. I made a new friend and double minimum wage.
When the time came to buy more nicotine I would prepare for our session, and when I got there he knew the drill. I would help him send texts, plan dates, swipe through dating apps, and try my absolute hardest to advise him on “things women like.”
This went on for the remainder of my lease, until early May of 2019. I sadly, had to tell him in our last session that I was moving. I wished him the best of luck, and I gave him my phone number in case he ever needed me.
Things did not work out between him and the woman from his original predicament. And I never heard from him again after I moved.
A wonderful, kind man, and an unforgettable character from my first year in New York. Who said nothing good could ever come from a nicotine dependency?
I had lived in New York for almost three months, in Greenwich Village. As a smoker, I have always had a designated “smoke shop guy” and the one I found in Greenwich was great. He was old, Slavic, and best of all he never ID’d me.
It was 7 am on Easter Sunday circa 2018, and my designated smoke shop guy was closed. I began to wander sixth avenue in search of nicotine and came across a smoke shop I had been to only once, to buy a bong. Different times. My bong had shattered, and this smoke shop was the only one in the village that carried ‘Illadelph’ a glassware brand that any West Coast stoner boy will exclaim is “the best.”
I walked in and found a heavier man standing behind the counter. It looked like the stereotypical New York smoke shop. Dirty glass display cases, narrow walkway, slightly sticky floor, horrible lighting, stale smelling air-conditioned air, and dented funhouse-style mirrored ceilings.
I asked for a pack of American Spirit light blues and a lighter behind the counter that had caught my eye. It exclaimed “I (heart) Girls.” He obliged, and asked “Do you really?” in reference to the lighter’s sentiment, to which I replied “Sure.”
And his eyes lit up.
To my surprise, he sat back in his chair and explained he has issues with women, lovers, and he struggles to understand how to “please his female partners.” He quickly opened up to me. He had been seeing a woman for quite some time, but something was off, she didn’t want to see him on certain days, she had kids of her own, even the sexual chemistry was sometimes off. He ultimately felt she “didn’t take him seriously.”
He asked if I could help, and I agreed, of course. We talked for 45 minutes or so, and I promised to come back.
The next time I left my apartment for smokes I diverged from my designated smoke shop guy and walked to my new client. When I arrived, he was elated. He exclaimed that he would pay me in $20 cash and one pack of cigarettes or Juul pods for one hour of my time. This was my new side hustle, a sex and relationship therapist for my neighborhood smoke shop owner. I made a new friend and double minimum wage.
When the time came to buy more nicotine I would prepare for our session, and when I got there he knew the drill. I would help him send texts, plan dates, swipe through dating apps, and try my absolute hardest to advise him on “things women like.”
This went on for the remainder of my lease, until early May of 2019. I sadly, had to tell him in our last session that I was moving. I wished him the best of luck, and I gave him my phone number in case he ever needed me.
Things did not work out between him and the woman from his original predicament. And I never heard from him again after I moved.
A wonderful, kind man, and an unforgettable character from my first year in New York. Who said nothing good could ever come from a nicotine dependency?