Ink and bullets: My guide to living on the wrong side of the tracks
No, no Mr. Ebbott, I didn't blow my cool...
I've lived more than an honest man could bare, I tells ya. This weekend was an eye-opener for me. Not just an eye-opener, but wallet-opener. Sorry, I forgot you just stepped in here, let me start at the tip 'n end at the toes. Anita is a talkative gal. She's been born with the gift o' gab, and used that gift to gain a friend on the bus back to O-town whom is acquaintances with a tattoo artist. Advantage: Anita. A week passes, she calls. Bam! Appointments are being made, pasta's being over-cooked, utility bills become increasingly overdue. To make a short story long, we arrived at the apartment, my sketchy sense (or sketchometer) was going through the roof. Turned out she (the tattoo artist) was very nice, and professional. Tattoo turns out fine. Fine like Brad Pitt in a loin cloth according to "Mel" the artist. We're happy, but in need of moisture. The only thing that can quench her back's thirst is some cream called, "Webber's Vitamine E". We arrived at the Shopper's Drug Mart at 11:30 in the p.m., and scatter to find this so called "ointment". I ask one of the Shopper's wenches about it, and she leads me to the pharmacist's counter. He turns and says, "I'm busy" with a wink, but adsence of a smile. Just then, a man stands up from underneath the counter, and says, "Get on the floor". I'm thinkin', "What the hell is this?". It doesn't even register in my head that they're being robbed, even when he pointed the gun at us. So, I turn to Anita and give her the look of "aw fuck. I just want to get home. Do ya think you could speed this mo-fo thing up?". So, he rounded up the rest of us suckers by the counter, and at this point I noticed I was sitting next to a brown box. He came to us and told us to take out our wallets. So I give him my cash, and when he asked for my watch, I "playfully" resisted. I just said, "C'mon, it's a cheap watch..." Ah, that wasn't good enough for him so I took it off. He got distracted so I slipped it into the back of my jeans. I mean, the main problems with junkies is that they just can't focus. Amateur. After robbing the other folks, he "set" the bomb that I was sitting beside, then took off. We all got up and moved to the back of the store. We left through the front and were led to the Loeb (grocery store) where we were given that look of "those poor souls" by the Loeb employees. I'm thinkin' the same thing about them, workin' at Loeb at midnight on a Saturday. The next hour was spent talking to pig after pig about what he looked like. Then the tactical squad (bomb-bitches, as I call 'em) wanted to know my info on the bomb. I gave him a piece of my what's-what, 'n then we headed to the bus that was waiting outside. The next five hours were spent there. More reports to be written, more trauma to make up to the greif counselour to see if I could get time off work. No dice. The only real inconvenience was that the washroom was a block away, and I didn't have my toque (or beanie, right Nisha?) and it was -35 outside. Everyone told their stories, and we tried to keep the mood light. We ended up getting home at around 5 in the morning. The next day, the investigator called me and filled me in on the going's on with the robber. He left us, and hit the Roger's Video and took three hostages. He kept them until 6:30 in the morning, ingested half of the pills he took from the pharmacist, flushed a bunch of stuff, and passed out. Lightweight...
One thing that I will never understand is how well Anita took to all of this. I mean, I've come to terms with "the big sleep" a looooong time ago, but she just kept her cool the whole time. Now that's a girl that's good in a crisis situation. Maybe she should produce the next Brooke Shields sitcom. Badda-bing, badda-boom!
I gotta go you literate, story-hungry bitches, but if I have to go to court, I'll fill you in.
I'm not the man they think I am at home.
No, no, no, no.
I'm a rock-it man,
Christo-no-fear
I've lived more than an honest man could bare, I tells ya. This weekend was an eye-opener for me. Not just an eye-opener, but wallet-opener. Sorry, I forgot you just stepped in here, let me start at the tip 'n end at the toes. Anita is a talkative gal. She's been born with the gift o' gab, and used that gift to gain a friend on the bus back to O-town whom is acquaintances with a tattoo artist. Advantage: Anita. A week passes, she calls. Bam! Appointments are being made, pasta's being over-cooked, utility bills become increasingly overdue. To make a short story long, we arrived at the apartment, my sketchy sense (or sketchometer) was going through the roof. Turned out she (the tattoo artist) was very nice, and professional. Tattoo turns out fine. Fine like Brad Pitt in a loin cloth according to "Mel" the artist. We're happy, but in need of moisture. The only thing that can quench her back's thirst is some cream called, "Webber's Vitamine E". We arrived at the Shopper's Drug Mart at 11:30 in the p.m., and scatter to find this so called "ointment". I ask one of the Shopper's wenches about it, and she leads me to the pharmacist's counter. He turns and says, "I'm busy" with a wink, but adsence of a smile. Just then, a man stands up from underneath the counter, and says, "Get on the floor". I'm thinkin', "What the hell is this?". It doesn't even register in my head that they're being robbed, even when he pointed the gun at us. So, I turn to Anita and give her the look of "aw fuck. I just want to get home. Do ya think you could speed this mo-fo thing up?". So, he rounded up the rest of us suckers by the counter, and at this point I noticed I was sitting next to a brown box. He came to us and told us to take out our wallets. So I give him my cash, and when he asked for my watch, I "playfully" resisted. I just said, "C'mon, it's a cheap watch..." Ah, that wasn't good enough for him so I took it off. He got distracted so I slipped it into the back of my jeans. I mean, the main problems with junkies is that they just can't focus. Amateur. After robbing the other folks, he "set" the bomb that I was sitting beside, then took off. We all got up and moved to the back of the store. We left through the front and were led to the Loeb (grocery store) where we were given that look of "those poor souls" by the Loeb employees. I'm thinkin' the same thing about them, workin' at Loeb at midnight on a Saturday. The next hour was spent talking to pig after pig about what he looked like. Then the tactical squad (bomb-bitches, as I call 'em) wanted to know my info on the bomb. I gave him a piece of my what's-what, 'n then we headed to the bus that was waiting outside. The next five hours were spent there. More reports to be written, more trauma to make up to the greif counselour to see if I could get time off work. No dice. The only real inconvenience was that the washroom was a block away, and I didn't have my toque (or beanie, right Nisha?) and it was -35 outside. Everyone told their stories, and we tried to keep the mood light. We ended up getting home at around 5 in the morning. The next day, the investigator called me and filled me in on the going's on with the robber. He left us, and hit the Roger's Video and took three hostages. He kept them until 6:30 in the morning, ingested half of the pills he took from the pharmacist, flushed a bunch of stuff, and passed out. Lightweight...
One thing that I will never understand is how well Anita took to all of this. I mean, I've come to terms with "the big sleep" a looooong time ago, but she just kept her cool the whole time. Now that's a girl that's good in a crisis situation. Maybe she should produce the next Brooke Shields sitcom. Badda-bing, badda-boom!
I gotta go you literate, story-hungry bitches, but if I have to go to court, I'll fill you in.
I'm not the man they think I am at home.
No, no, no, no.
I'm a rock-it man,
Christo-no-fear