Crack, Sunburn, Vodka
I spent a day as a hobo today. Recent parental complications involving drugs and sex and rock and roll and all that meant that today I was awoken (twenty minutes early -- I mean really, what kind of monsters are these people? I need my sleep) and informed I would be going to boarding school or boot camp or somewhere in between, because of a half-burned rolling paper that didn't flush completely down the toilet. I found this idea distasteful, to say the least. So about twelve hours ago I decided to be a hobo. I had some money and packed my clothes and other necessary products (toothbrush, washcloth, duct tape, needlenose pliers) and hopped on my bike and off I went. Apparently, and to my great suprise, my parents thought I had just left early for school. The illusion, however did not last long, and at one point I saw my mama driving, so I rode my bike into a bush.
So, feeling freed up, I rode a couple of miles and found a few kumquat trees growing in some rich Olmos Park bitches' yard. They were delicious cumquats. This is the time of year that they reach absolute perfection, the skin taut and yellow, juicy but not enough to spill. The loquats, unfortunately, have passed their peak level of deliciousness. A while afterwards I found a park and got myself some water, and headed downtown. The sidewalks were a bit difficult to navigate because of all the 300+ pound Mexican women and 90- pound anorexic white bitches, but luckily I made it downtown in one piece.
The cumquats, although delicious and wonderful in every way, were insufficient, so I went to a cafe across from the Majestic and got a bowl of tortilla soup rivalling lake Titicaca in volume, plus some red and black and chip-colored chips, and a mini-croissant (coolest thing ever), and a delicious helping of cheese for only $3.50 (three-fifty). It was around this time -- feeling slightly nauseated maybe because of the heroic portions of Tex-Mex cuisine and cigarettes, but I think primarily because of all the dumb bitches with hands-free cell phones ordering lattes -- that I decided I'd like some marijuana. I had nothing else to do for the next few hours, and some money to spare, and I was downtown, so I set out on my search.
Unfortunately, the Alamo is surrounded by about a five-mile radius where the populous is about 80% tourist, 10% Rent-A-Cop and 5% schoolchildren. I don't really know my way around downtown, so I took the way that looked most promising (working class) for finding someone on the street willing to sell some bud. I crossed over the railroad tracks to the East Side.'
Man. Those are some fucked up crackheads over there.
Really.
I met a young black guy by the name of Kyle who said he'd hook me up with a dime, so we walked and he told me about his passionate love for crack rock. The love for crack rock is a very unique one, comparable not so much to Romeo and Juliet as to Fatty Arbuckle and the hooker whose unwanted fetus he skewered on the tip of a coat hanger. Kyle told me the people he was going to see don't always have weed, asked if I'd like any white. I said powder would be fine, but I try to stay away from rock. It's a purely aesthetic issue, since they're the same drug, but I think it's a well-founded aesthetic issue nonetheless.
Kyle told me he'd be going to the house right at the corner, that I couldn't come because the people would trip out because I'm white, so I should give him the money. I did.
He walked about five feet, got into a car and disappeared. So long Kyle.
So I sat for a while, wondering what I should do, and along comes an older black man (44 years old, I learned) dressed in a red bandana, immaculately clean white button-up shirt, bright red pants, and the most spectacular white shoes I have ever seen. I don't remember his name, but the first thing he said to me was, "You okay, boy? Look like yo' fuckin puppy just died."
The second thing he said was, "If the cops stop us, I'm your sensei and you a martial arts student, got it?" I nodded, of course.
He, we'll call him L, said he'd get some bud and wouldn't fuck me over.
L, proceeded to dispense lecture upon lecture on street-wisdom, tricks of the hustling trade, his passionate love for the crack rock, how bitch niggers like Kyle give the old school a bad name. We drank some water from a hose outside a mortuarty and, lo-and-behold, ran into Kyle. Upon seeing me with L, Kyle hopped out of the car with astounding quickness. Apparently, on the East Side, people have ranks, and Kyle was pretty low on the totem pole, whereas L might be thought of as a captain. L was also very careful about where I showed myself. Before '87, he said, a white boy couldn't even cross the tracks without getting his innards sliced in half by a boxcutter and his wallet and watch pocketed in a crackhead.
"You better get this boy some weed or you gonna be getting some serious motherfuckin' contusions and lacerations motherfucker," L said to Kyle.
"Yea," said Kyle.
Kyle left once again, this time with what seemed to be a more clear intent to get me pot, and I headed over with L to his place.
It was big house, white, all the windows boarded with plywood, and alley in the back that I could probably lick and get high. I sat around at the front of the house for a while talking.
"You drink beer?" L asked me. I shrugged. "Quit fuckin lyin'!"
I accepted the beer.
For the next few hours I sat around the porch drinking beer and talking to all the old black crackheads, who would periodically disappear inside the house to take a couple of hits. A guy across the street walked up to me and offered me some, which I declined as well. It's a shame they didn't have liquor, because if I'd gotten drunker I'm sure I would have accepted, and that would have been a much more interesting, albeit life-threatening experience.
L kept borrowing my bike to go up the street and buy more crack. He had earned my trust fairly, and in the end my bike was not the least bit stolen. He also introduced me to his wife, Alicia (?), who was a prostitute. At one point, he asked me very politely if I could move off the porch, because I was blocking the view. Of Aliica. Another prostitute, who I think was a bit less successful than Alicia, came staggering out in slippers holding a bottle of Jack Daniels and cracked out of her contorted fucking skull. She stood the middle of the street and screamed at passing cars for a while.
After one of L's runs, he came back with what was apparently a huge amound of delicious (as far as they were concerned) rock, and so everyone disappeared, leaving me sitting there outside. While I sat there, a cop car pulled by, slowed down, backed up, and took off again. Three minutes later and three more cars appeared and pulled into the alley, no lights or sirens of anything, behind the house. I took that as my cue, and rode my bike back towards downtown.
In an amazing stroke of luck (or so I thought) I ran into Kyle on the way from the bust. He told me to come chill at his place while we waited for the weed. His place, located behind some abandoned buildings that once housed perhaps a newspaper printing facility, was about five feet high, ten feet long and four feet wide. But it had a sun roof. It was made of plywood, plastic and tarp, had a festering mattress, stained rolly chair and various crack-related things strewn about on makeshift shelves. This is were I met R, Kyle's good friend. R is a much older black man crackhead, who lectured Kyle about spending all my money on crack (which he did, if you haven't already figured that out).
ADDENDUM: I feel that their conversation on the above subject if of importance:
"Kyle, you spent all this boy's money on crack, didn't you?" said R.
"Yea," said Kyle.
"You know you shoulda got this boy his weed like you was supposed to."
"Yea."
"Hand me that pen so I can fix my pipe."
So we sat around while Kyle and R smoked crack, and I had some beer and cigarettes and turned down the persistent offers for crack. To their credit, they took gorgeous hits. Their inner upper body manipulated smoke like Terry Kitchen a spraypaint rig. I walked around outside a little, where I observed the graffitie saying things like "SMOKE HERR" and "SAY NO TO HIGH CRACK PRICES." R asked to borrow my bike to go get a lighter at the corner store, a request I was understandably reluctant to oblige. Crack pipe in one hand, he grabbed my leg with a grip like I've never experienced before, shoved his reeking nose two inches from mine, looked me straight in the eye and said, "Boy, you know why you trust me? I look you in the fuckin' eye, boy."
Then he forgot about the bike and smoked some more crack, offered me a calendar with "ugly bitches" scrawled across it in silver permanent market. They weren't so ugly, but it was a thoroughly unappetizing calendar nonetheless.
I told them I'd be back in half an hour, went to the pay phone and talked to Marji about the situation at hand. Lucas said I could stay at his apartment for a while so he came and picked up from the Majestic. After a harrowing ordeal getting my bike into his car, we headed over there, drank some vodka, smoked a bowl of resin and shake, and then I called my parents, who had been flipping the fuck out, apparently. I worked everything out, to the point where my current punishment level is less than that before. I had some clonazepam and more vodka when I got home, and had tangerines a much-needed swim.
Nice day.
And the weather was lovely, no?
So, feeling freed up, I rode a couple of miles and found a few kumquat trees growing in some rich Olmos Park bitches' yard. They were delicious cumquats. This is the time of year that they reach absolute perfection, the skin taut and yellow, juicy but not enough to spill. The loquats, unfortunately, have passed their peak level of deliciousness. A while afterwards I found a park and got myself some water, and headed downtown. The sidewalks were a bit difficult to navigate because of all the 300+ pound Mexican women and 90- pound anorexic white bitches, but luckily I made it downtown in one piece.
The cumquats, although delicious and wonderful in every way, were insufficient, so I went to a cafe across from the Majestic and got a bowl of tortilla soup rivalling lake Titicaca in volume, plus some red and black and chip-colored chips, and a mini-croissant (coolest thing ever), and a delicious helping of cheese for only $3.50 (three-fifty). It was around this time -- feeling slightly nauseated maybe because of the heroic portions of Tex-Mex cuisine and cigarettes, but I think primarily because of all the dumb bitches with hands-free cell phones ordering lattes -- that I decided I'd like some marijuana. I had nothing else to do for the next few hours, and some money to spare, and I was downtown, so I set out on my search.
Unfortunately, the Alamo is surrounded by about a five-mile radius where the populous is about 80% tourist, 10% Rent-A-Cop and 5% schoolchildren. I don't really know my way around downtown, so I took the way that looked most promising (working class) for finding someone on the street willing to sell some bud. I crossed over the railroad tracks to the East Side.'
Man. Those are some fucked up crackheads over there.
Really.
I met a young black guy by the name of Kyle who said he'd hook me up with a dime, so we walked and he told me about his passionate love for crack rock. The love for crack rock is a very unique one, comparable not so much to Romeo and Juliet as to Fatty Arbuckle and the hooker whose unwanted fetus he skewered on the tip of a coat hanger. Kyle told me the people he was going to see don't always have weed, asked if I'd like any white. I said powder would be fine, but I try to stay away from rock. It's a purely aesthetic issue, since they're the same drug, but I think it's a well-founded aesthetic issue nonetheless.
Kyle told me he'd be going to the house right at the corner, that I couldn't come because the people would trip out because I'm white, so I should give him the money. I did.
He walked about five feet, got into a car and disappeared. So long Kyle.
So I sat for a while, wondering what I should do, and along comes an older black man (44 years old, I learned) dressed in a red bandana, immaculately clean white button-up shirt, bright red pants, and the most spectacular white shoes I have ever seen. I don't remember his name, but the first thing he said to me was, "You okay, boy? Look like yo' fuckin puppy just died."
The second thing he said was, "If the cops stop us, I'm your sensei and you a martial arts student, got it?" I nodded, of course.
He, we'll call him L, said he'd get some bud and wouldn't fuck me over.
L, proceeded to dispense lecture upon lecture on street-wisdom, tricks of the hustling trade, his passionate love for the crack rock, how bitch niggers like Kyle give the old school a bad name. We drank some water from a hose outside a mortuarty and, lo-and-behold, ran into Kyle. Upon seeing me with L, Kyle hopped out of the car with astounding quickness. Apparently, on the East Side, people have ranks, and Kyle was pretty low on the totem pole, whereas L might be thought of as a captain. L was also very careful about where I showed myself. Before '87, he said, a white boy couldn't even cross the tracks without getting his innards sliced in half by a boxcutter and his wallet and watch pocketed in a crackhead.
"You better get this boy some weed or you gonna be getting some serious motherfuckin' contusions and lacerations motherfucker," L said to Kyle.
"Yea," said Kyle.
Kyle left once again, this time with what seemed to be a more clear intent to get me pot, and I headed over with L to his place.
It was big house, white, all the windows boarded with plywood, and alley in the back that I could probably lick and get high. I sat around at the front of the house for a while talking.
"You drink beer?" L asked me. I shrugged. "Quit fuckin lyin'!"
I accepted the beer.
For the next few hours I sat around the porch drinking beer and talking to all the old black crackheads, who would periodically disappear inside the house to take a couple of hits. A guy across the street walked up to me and offered me some, which I declined as well. It's a shame they didn't have liquor, because if I'd gotten drunker I'm sure I would have accepted, and that would have been a much more interesting, albeit life-threatening experience.
L kept borrowing my bike to go up the street and buy more crack. He had earned my trust fairly, and in the end my bike was not the least bit stolen. He also introduced me to his wife, Alicia (?), who was a prostitute. At one point, he asked me very politely if I could move off the porch, because I was blocking the view. Of Aliica. Another prostitute, who I think was a bit less successful than Alicia, came staggering out in slippers holding a bottle of Jack Daniels and cracked out of her contorted fucking skull. She stood the middle of the street and screamed at passing cars for a while.
After one of L's runs, he came back with what was apparently a huge amound of delicious (as far as they were concerned) rock, and so everyone disappeared, leaving me sitting there outside. While I sat there, a cop car pulled by, slowed down, backed up, and took off again. Three minutes later and three more cars appeared and pulled into the alley, no lights or sirens of anything, behind the house. I took that as my cue, and rode my bike back towards downtown.
In an amazing stroke of luck (or so I thought) I ran into Kyle on the way from the bust. He told me to come chill at his place while we waited for the weed. His place, located behind some abandoned buildings that once housed perhaps a newspaper printing facility, was about five feet high, ten feet long and four feet wide. But it had a sun roof. It was made of plywood, plastic and tarp, had a festering mattress, stained rolly chair and various crack-related things strewn about on makeshift shelves. This is were I met R, Kyle's good friend. R is a much older black man crackhead, who lectured Kyle about spending all my money on crack (which he did, if you haven't already figured that out).
ADDENDUM: I feel that their conversation on the above subject if of importance:
"Kyle, you spent all this boy's money on crack, didn't you?" said R.
"Yea," said Kyle.
"You know you shoulda got this boy his weed like you was supposed to."
"Yea."
"Hand me that pen so I can fix my pipe."
So we sat around while Kyle and R smoked crack, and I had some beer and cigarettes and turned down the persistent offers for crack. To their credit, they took gorgeous hits. Their inner upper body manipulated smoke like Terry Kitchen a spraypaint rig. I walked around outside a little, where I observed the graffitie saying things like "SMOKE HERR" and "SAY NO TO HIGH CRACK PRICES." R asked to borrow my bike to go get a lighter at the corner store, a request I was understandably reluctant to oblige. Crack pipe in one hand, he grabbed my leg with a grip like I've never experienced before, shoved his reeking nose two inches from mine, looked me straight in the eye and said, "Boy, you know why you trust me? I look you in the fuckin' eye, boy."
Then he forgot about the bike and smoked some more crack, offered me a calendar with "ugly bitches" scrawled across it in silver permanent market. They weren't so ugly, but it was a thoroughly unappetizing calendar nonetheless.
I told them I'd be back in half an hour, went to the pay phone and talked to Marji about the situation at hand. Lucas said I could stay at his apartment for a while so he came and picked up from the Majestic. After a harrowing ordeal getting my bike into his car, we headed over there, drank some vodka, smoked a bowl of resin and shake, and then I called my parents, who had been flipping the fuck out, apparently. I worked everything out, to the point where my current punishment level is less than that before. I had some clonazepam and more vodka when I got home, and had tangerines a much-needed swim.
Nice day.
And the weather was lovely, no?