What did one wall say to the other?
At the corner of 7th and Market, next to the Farmers Market, is the Black Market. Operating about 20 feet from Rasta Rug Man, and Produce Lady is Stolen Cell Phone Guy and DVD Man. I've been getting my smokes from Cigarette Man: 2 packs for $5. Pretty good deal. DVD Man can hook me up 3 bootlegs for $20. There's also Sock Man, Porn Man, VHS Man (though, he's more homeless than hustla), and Sensual Oil Man "Hey man, need any sensual oils?". Sometimes these guys overlap, and if I wanted, I could get my porn and socks from the same dude. Convenient!
***
This shit is illegal man! Tipping the brim of my flat-cap over my eyes I saunter up to Cigarette Man. My face in shadows I lay the five dollar bill on the low wall that leads down into the subway. Cig Man is on the other side. "What you need fat boy?" Smokes. And fast. I look left then right: Cops are walking towards us. Cig Man slides his hand down below the wall. I stare at him dead on while my own hand finds the switchblade in my pocket. No way this guy is gonna get up on me. Gun or product? Whats he got? My hand's sweaty, and the cops are getting closer. Hurry up man. "Here, scram." Two packs appear on the top of the wall. I drop the knife back into my pants. I pick up the smokes with my sweaty hand and back away. Blocks later I'm smoking, a slight smile cracks my face. It's dangerous being involved in organized crime, but I keep ahead of the law. Existing. Thriving.
Then it all comes back to the real: it's two in the afternoon and sunny. Cigarette Man is standing next to the BART entrance with all of his goods on the wall in plain sight. I walk up, put a five down, and take two packs off the wall. Simple. And he still calls me "fat boy."
Damn.
***
This shit is illegal man! Tipping the brim of my flat-cap over my eyes I saunter up to Cigarette Man. My face in shadows I lay the five dollar bill on the low wall that leads down into the subway. Cig Man is on the other side. "What you need fat boy?" Smokes. And fast. I look left then right: Cops are walking towards us. Cig Man slides his hand down below the wall. I stare at him dead on while my own hand finds the switchblade in my pocket. No way this guy is gonna get up on me. Gun or product? Whats he got? My hand's sweaty, and the cops are getting closer. Hurry up man. "Here, scram." Two packs appear on the top of the wall. I drop the knife back into my pants. I pick up the smokes with my sweaty hand and back away. Blocks later I'm smoking, a slight smile cracks my face. It's dangerous being involved in organized crime, but I keep ahead of the law. Existing. Thriving.
Then it all comes back to the real: it's two in the afternoon and sunny. Cigarette Man is standing next to the BART entrance with all of his goods on the wall in plain sight. I walk up, put a five down, and take two packs off the wall. Simple. And he still calls me "fat boy."
Damn.