A cyclone of a tweaker caught in the wind of mental decay... (Quick travelogue #22)
Okay, I admit it: I was looking to buy some marijuana on Market Street, near the Tenderloin in San Francisco. Its been said that when one goes looking for a drug instead of serendipitously being handed said drug, that yes, that is the sign of an addiction. Social or physical or mental or otherwise, its an addiction. For me, I cover that with denial, a clever countermeasure towards any of life's problems.
Fine, sure, you win.
First, I asked a red-faced, pellagra-plagued man seated on a black milkcrate. His poverty was not of soul; he was smiling. The Irish say a man is not truly poor if he can still laugh, and that a laugh is 50% smile, so I'd say he could at least buy a studio apartment in soul-karma. So, I greeted the man--"How's it going, man," to which he replied something blazé but honest: "ah, nothing much."
"Do you know where I can get some weed? I've gotta busk all night and deal with some fags in the Castro?" I added, hoping to stir some interest.
He replied in the polite negative, but wished me well. Commendable for someone who's soul has a kitchenette and a bathroom within urinating distance. His landlord must be proud ("God's my landlord!").
At any rate, I walked a bit, somewhat relieved that no, I don't have an addiction, that its purely recreational, that yes, I don't jones, I don't fiend, and certainly don't crave. Cool, I'm a normal human being--who carries a guitar and a banjo in each hand, decked out in torn jeans and German army fatigues with a handlebar mustache, not to mention Army surplus backpack with lime-green sleeping bag. Yep, purely normal.
Just then, a black man dressed in all black (he could me none more black) rolled up on a--yeah, you guessed it--black bicycle, saying, "Hey man, you need some weed?"
Serendipity strikes again. Or, the color black must enhance your hearing to levels of Chiroptera, a friggin' bat. I followed Mr. Black's gestures, and we negotiated an amount. I'm a parsimonious fellow, needing only $2 worth (a bowl of THC or less). Mr. Black had $10-worth. We struck up a bargain: $5 bag of weed, though he hinted at having coke (which I'm not a fan of). I made up a story that, no, I used to do coke (lie), mumbled that I had a warrant (lie lie lie), and that no, eyes on the prize: weed, maaaaan. He gestured for me to cross the street with him to an alcove of peach-painted cement, with cars parked underneath, and I followed the strange black figure who came from out of nowhere.
Out of his top pocket, Mr. Black pulled out the drugs: "Hold out your hand." I listened to his command, pulling out $5 in ones from my wallet. From his fingerless black gloves, he dropped the drugs into my hand. It was a hard, white, crystalline version of weed known... only to the... Market street... marijuana... aficio..nado... okay, I admit it, you win again (You 2 Tom 0). There was no weed; Mr. Black dropped a fucking crack rock into my hand.
Immediately, I protested as if I were a toddler in front of rollercoaster: "I don't want this, I don't want this, take it back, take it back!" Worse, when I looked at the rock, it was covered in white lint from the lining of Mr. Black's pocket. He was disappointed but unperturbed: "Man, wit dis you ken make twunny dollahs, jus remembah where you got it from!" My arm outstretched, under an alcove, two guitar cases, army fatigues, twirly handlebar mustache--man, was this America or what?
My tactics changed as quick as his. I said I would drop it, with a "three... two.. on--"
"You gonna drop my product?! You want me to make a mess out here?" Mr. Black protested, and my mind focused on the roughness of his gloves against my freshly-shaven face. "Where's my five dollahs?" Woah, suddenly it was his five dollars??!
Man, getting robbed is gonna suck. And all I wanted to do was get hit of marijuana to endure the endless streams of homosexuals on Castro St. and 18th while playing a New Yorker's rendition of hillbilly music in open-G. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Stand firm, Tom, stand firm...
"You're putting me in a Catch-22, take it back take it back," I said, this time combining my previous tactic of denying the crack rock and going the intellectual path of trying to confuse Mr. Black with words me might not understand. Then again, the intellectual path never worked in high school, and it most certainly didn't work for Piggy in Lord of the Flies. It also helped that I grabbed my guitar/banjos in one hand, crack rock in the other with out-stretched arm, and walked back towards Asian tourists and the lackadaisical weekend crowd pacing near Market St.
It was a bad scene. Sociologically, Mr. Black was superior in strength and street-level intelligence. I was stupid white boy lost in the big city, trying to make my way with a timid smile and easy-going demeanor. But, then again, no, I was on the road for x amount of years, homeless for x amount, and residentially-challenged while living in practice spaces. Fuck you, darkie, and your drug-plague!
"I'm gonna drop it!" I threatened, and he held out his gloved hand to catch the rock.
"Hey, everybody, this guy over here's a cop caller! He's a cop caller!!!" Mr. Black yelled. To which, I did the natural thing: laughed and hurried the fuck across the street, to disappear into Market Street. It was comical to see the guy on his bike, his black ass astride on the bike, vainly trying to make something out of his failed drug deal.
The guy on the milkcrate was gone, most likely to work on his own addictions... My soul was a high-rise condominium overlooking the beach.
Okay, I admit it: I was looking to buy some marijuana on Market Street, near the Tenderloin in San Francisco. Its been said that when one goes looking for a drug instead of serendipitously being handed said drug, that yes, that is the sign of an addiction. Social or physical or mental or otherwise, its an addiction. For me, I cover that with denial, a clever countermeasure towards any of life's problems.
Fine, sure, you win.
First, I asked a red-faced, pellagra-plagued man seated on a black milkcrate. His poverty was not of soul; he was smiling. The Irish say a man is not truly poor if he can still laugh, and that a laugh is 50% smile, so I'd say he could at least buy a studio apartment in soul-karma. So, I greeted the man--"How's it going, man," to which he replied something blazé but honest: "ah, nothing much."
"Do you know where I can get some weed? I've gotta busk all night and deal with some fags in the Castro?" I added, hoping to stir some interest.
He replied in the polite negative, but wished me well. Commendable for someone who's soul has a kitchenette and a bathroom within urinating distance. His landlord must be proud ("God's my landlord!").
At any rate, I walked a bit, somewhat relieved that no, I don't have an addiction, that its purely recreational, that yes, I don't jones, I don't fiend, and certainly don't crave. Cool, I'm a normal human being--who carries a guitar and a banjo in each hand, decked out in torn jeans and German army fatigues with a handlebar mustache, not to mention Army surplus backpack with lime-green sleeping bag. Yep, purely normal.
Just then, a black man dressed in all black (he could me none more black) rolled up on a--yeah, you guessed it--black bicycle, saying, "Hey man, you need some weed?"
Serendipity strikes again. Or, the color black must enhance your hearing to levels of Chiroptera, a friggin' bat. I followed Mr. Black's gestures, and we negotiated an amount. I'm a parsimonious fellow, needing only $2 worth (a bowl of THC or less). Mr. Black had $10-worth. We struck up a bargain: $5 bag of weed, though he hinted at having coke (which I'm not a fan of). I made up a story that, no, I used to do coke (lie), mumbled that I had a warrant (lie lie lie), and that no, eyes on the prize: weed, maaaaan. He gestured for me to cross the street with him to an alcove of peach-painted cement, with cars parked underneath, and I followed the strange black figure who came from out of nowhere.
Out of his top pocket, Mr. Black pulled out the drugs: "Hold out your hand." I listened to his command, pulling out $5 in ones from my wallet. From his fingerless black gloves, he dropped the drugs into my hand. It was a hard, white, crystalline version of weed known... only to the... Market street... marijuana... aficio..nado... okay, I admit it, you win again (You 2 Tom 0). There was no weed; Mr. Black dropped a fucking crack rock into my hand.
Immediately, I protested as if I were a toddler in front of rollercoaster: "I don't want this, I don't want this, take it back, take it back!" Worse, when I looked at the rock, it was covered in white lint from the lining of Mr. Black's pocket. He was disappointed but unperturbed: "Man, wit dis you ken make twunny dollahs, jus remembah where you got it from!" My arm outstretched, under an alcove, two guitar cases, army fatigues, twirly handlebar mustache--man, was this America or what?
My tactics changed as quick as his. I said I would drop it, with a "three... two.. on--"
"You gonna drop my product?! You want me to make a mess out here?" Mr. Black protested, and my mind focused on the roughness of his gloves against my freshly-shaven face. "Where's my five dollahs?" Woah, suddenly it was his five dollars??!
Man, getting robbed is gonna suck. And all I wanted to do was get hit of marijuana to endure the endless streams of homosexuals on Castro St. and 18th while playing a New Yorker's rendition of hillbilly music in open-G. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Stand firm, Tom, stand firm...
"You're putting me in a Catch-22, take it back take it back," I said, this time combining my previous tactic of denying the crack rock and going the intellectual path of trying to confuse Mr. Black with words me might not understand. Then again, the intellectual path never worked in high school, and it most certainly didn't work for Piggy in Lord of the Flies. It also helped that I grabbed my guitar/banjos in one hand, crack rock in the other with out-stretched arm, and walked back towards Asian tourists and the lackadaisical weekend crowd pacing near Market St.
It was a bad scene. Sociologically, Mr. Black was superior in strength and street-level intelligence. I was stupid white boy lost in the big city, trying to make my way with a timid smile and easy-going demeanor. But, then again, no, I was on the road for x amount of years, homeless for x amount, and residentially-challenged while living in practice spaces. Fuck you, darkie, and your drug-plague!
"I'm gonna drop it!" I threatened, and he held out his gloved hand to catch the rock.
"Hey, everybody, this guy over here's a cop caller! He's a cop caller!!!" Mr. Black yelled. To which, I did the natural thing: laughed and hurried the fuck across the street, to disappear into Market Street. It was comical to see the guy on his bike, his black ass astride on the bike, vainly trying to make something out of his failed drug deal.
The guy on the milkcrate was gone, most likely to work on his own addictions... My soul was a high-rise condominium overlooking the beach.
