After 15 endless minutes – mostly spent trying to decide who in this crowd is going to rob me when I leave – I reach the Plexiglas wall at the front of the check-cashing place. I shove my paycheck, all two hundred and sixty five dollars of it, along with my Massachusetts driver’s license through the little scooped out divot carved into the counter. The stone faced, rail-thin and straight up tough-looking, black woman on the other side of the glass examines the check and then pushes my documents back to me, along with a ballpoint pen with an extra twelve inches of grey duct tape extending from the top of it. I sign my check, noticing the stream of heated air coming through the hole. It feels nice. The proprietor of this establishment must not feel compelled to provide heat to us – the animals – on the other side of the glass.
The walk to work is endless in the bitter cold. I must will myself forward, re-commiting to the journey with every step. I so badly want to call in sick and just lay around the apartment watching tube – high – but I have to make it to work. I have to get that paycheck, have to get it to the check-cashing store, have to get the drugs in order to get right. Choice has nothing to do with it.
My walk from home to work, from Avenue C and 4th Street to 5th Avenue just below 23rd, takes a little more than a half an hour. It can be a real bitch of a walk, especially on a cold day like today. There’s no subway that helps to cut down the travel time in any substantial way, so I’m stuck hoofing it twice a day, every day, unless I spring for a cab, which I’ve done like… once, maybe. Continue reading “Christmas is Coming – Part 3”
The black people won’t stop coming. One after the other I kill them. I dole out a torrent of hyper-accurate punches, kicks and head-butts. I take blow after blow in return – to my face, body, kidneys and spleen – but in the end I vanquish the mother-fuckers. I’m the one left standing atop my assailant’s corpse. Still, there’s always another black man behind the one I’ve just bested.
You can read part one of this entry here.
I come to sitting on the living room couch. It’s time to leave for work. Despite the clouds outside the tall windows and high ceilings in the loft allow for plenty of ambient light. It’s almost too bright. The apartment is disgusting. You can clearly see a sheen of dirt on the hardwood floors. My rush is over. Not that it was all that much of a rush to begin with. I’m in maintenance mode. I shot just about a half a bag of dope a couple of hours ago. Which is really not very much, but it’s the state of the state these days. It beats withdrawal.
This morning – today is the 23rd of December – I sleep till eleven. I don’t have to be at work till 3:00 this afternoon. The best part of my day is when I get high – about 2 minutes after I wake up – given that the rest of the day will be downhill from there, I sleep as late as possible. When I finally do make the decision to get up I sit squarely in front of the assortment of paraphernalia that I pre-arranged on my nightstand last night. It’s cold here in my basement level, windowless bedroom, but I’m so focused on the task at hand that I hardly notice. I take a razor blade and slit the piece of tape holding together the heroin glassine and unfold it to reveal the silhouette of the powder inside, a pinky finger high and an inch across. It’s my last bag of dope. Continue reading “Christmas is coming…”
I’m beginning to reconsider my original assessment of how hot Sara actually is. Maybe I was a bit hasty in my initial appraisal. I do that sometimes; judge women a little too harshly. She bends over the coffee table and sets down a bowl of tortilla chips. I catch a sidelong look down her shirt and decide that there just might be more life in those boobs than meets the eye. Boobs can be tricky that way.
Continue reading “San Francisco Sojourn”
I’m loose and relaxed as I start down 4th Street from Avenue A. I’ve still got the remnants of the dope I snorted 3 hours earlier running through my system and the beer sloshing around in my belly is making me feel a little sleepy.
Not that I care particularly, but… it’s a conspiracy. The country’s attitude towards drug use and abuse is a perpetuation of the status quo that’s evolved out of ignorance, rather than malice. Most people are sheep, you know? They do what the system tells them, hence they don’t try shit for themselves and without thinking about it they prolong the current state of affairs. The line they keep trumpeting in school, “Drugs are bad,” is a patently false. Drugs are lots of things, good, bad and everywhere in between but the main thing to remember is drugs fucking work. Drugs make you feel good. Continue reading “Just Say “Yo” to Drugs”
If only he could see himself through her eyes, then Kevin might understand just how petty and immature he comes off, so far from the tough guy persona he imagines for himself. He’d see how to her, he’s a prepubescent boy, his chubby cheeked face twisted into a pouty rage, howling about how emasculated he’ll feel without her on his arm at that miserable dinner.