I do some practice runs during my first week, sneaking one case of beer out at a time. I follow Brandon’s exact directions, burying the case deep within the trash-filled cart at the end of the shift and rolling it through the store like it’s no big deal. I’m nervous as hell the first time or two, breaking the law right under Brenda’s nose, but once I’m out that door and moving across the pot-hole-filled asphalt lot toward the Dumpster near the back alley … well, I know I’m home free. From that point forward it’s a breeze. I just toss the case into the Dumpster as if it’s a normal piece of trash.

So when I have four cases sitting in there after four days, I know it’s time to get some customers, because the truck that empties the Dumpster comes by once a week, and the last thing I need is for my supply to disappear.

Getting customers is so easy it makes me laugh.

One day I’m outside sweeping the lot when I see Tony Banks and Mike Foreman, two relatively cool guys I played middle school football with, sharing a cigarette in the back alley. (They quit playing sports after eighth grade, grew their hair out, started listening to metal, and quickly became legendary weedheads.)

I stop sweeping and walk up to them.

They nod and say, “What’s up, Zach?”

And I say, “Not much. Can I hit that?”

And they laugh and go, “Yeah, it’s cool, bro.”

So I hit the smoke and say, “You guys drink beer?”

And Tony Banks looks at me and goes, “Who doesn’t?”

And Foreman says, “Problem is it’s impossible to get a buyer around here.”

So I say, “Ten dollars a case. Interested?”

“Hell, yes,” Banks says. “When and where?”

“Payment in advance. Always.”

They look at each other for a few seconds and shrug. Then Mike Foreman teases a ten out of his pocket and hands it to me. Not wanting to reveal the true location of the product, I tell them to look behind the Dumpster at eleven-thirty.

“Cool, Ramsey,” Foreman says. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” I say. “Feel free to spread the word.”

We shake hands and I walk away.

When I look over my shoulder they’re already texting people.

Two days later I’m forty bucks richer and have a growing client list. I even got a call from Victor Hodge, Mr. Fastball himself, requesting a case every Thursday night during the summer.

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