Part 1 Few Have Lived as We
Tuesday, May 07, 2019. Let’s Start at the beginning (I always light a cigarette just before starting any narrative with this phrase… that’s how you’ll know its going to be a long one.) It’s a very good place to start. But, we aren’t starting from there. We’ll start from oh, I don’t know, Hwy I-25, and thus the die is cast. “Beware the King’s Free Food…” Actually, I’m not ready for that can of worms yet either and, so… hmm,oh I got it! GPS is a modern marvel (and already you’re chiding) “So, what else is new Sherlock?” Well, I’ll tell you but first put away your smart phone. Are you still with us? Now turn off your vehicle’s GPS. Are you still, still, with us? Alright, one thing I’ve discovered is that If Google Maps were a person he would be an insufferable Fool and before I delve into this singular digital reality allow me to illustrate a humble scenario in the manner of the Great Sir David Attenborrough;
Now Imagine that olde English accent narrating the rest of this narrative, it increases its hilarity and absurdity by exponential amounts…
Your’re two states away from home base. You’ve just exited I-25 and pull into the Kum & Pay for sundries and some gas for the Ass. Walking inside you approach the front counter, “Excuse me miss, how do I get to the closest public Library?” The attendant peeks around from behind a bullet-proof glass shield to look you over, a study in contradiction as you stand there disheveled. A bushy red goatee looking especially grizzled after a few days on the open plains, a sunburned left arm revealing the Celtic triskel brandished in solid black ink, the lone head of Bobba Fett shown menacingly from the front of your favorite Fruit of the Loom t-shirt. “Yes,” you instinctively hear her thinking, “you need a shower, not a library.” But she casually exits her booth after the once over and humors you by whipping out her phone,“Let’s have look, shall we…” as her fingers begin finging and then she lets google work its magic.
“Here we go,” she says, “you got a” but you interrupt her sentence by chivalrously showcasing your classy Bic, blue-tipped. She giggles and begins slowly listing off the directions. Frantically your patented chicken scribble begins flowing onto a previously unassuming page but suddenly, she stops. “Wait a second, Hey Deb what’s the address here?” Another head pops out from the manager’s office behind her and some trivial dialog between them ends as quickly as it began. Again her fingers fing and again she begins listing off directions but slightly different than the last. Surprised, you muse as she stops yet a third time, mid-sentence, “… take a left on Carlisle and, wait, that’s stupid. Carlisle is this street in front of us and Montgomery is two lights south from there…”
North, south, east, west; it’s all relative to you and so you put forth the tip of your index finger in your mouth for moisture and then raise it into the air inside the gas station to check the wind’s direction. Now outwardly laughing she comes to stand right by your side and point’s you in the right direction before redirecting her attention back to her phone. “This is really stupid,” she goes on, “Google Maps wants you to take a right on Montgomery, then a right on Carlisle and then a U-turn from there going all the way to San Mateo and then take a right at the corner of Montgomery and the Library is across the street from Baskin Robbins.” Approvingly, you nod with moderate confidence in your note taking but she stops you for the fourth time.…
“Throw those directions in the garbage,” she barks. Confused, you query, “Why?” as she puts her phone back into her pocket. “You see that stop light, that’s Montgomery… on the next corner is Carlisle and then one block after that is Baskins Robbins so, all you need to do is take the left out of this parking lot which might take a few minutes because of the traffic this time of day and then take a left at the second stop light… library’s on the left corner there.” In complete lack of surprise, somehow, you muster, “Really? So you’re saying that Google Maps wants me to do a song and dance around the May Pole to get at that building that we can both see from here?” She retorts, “That’s what I’m saying, man.” Thoughtfully sayeth you, “And had I taken google’s direction how long would it have taken me to get there?”
With blissful glee she delights in reaching back for her cell phone as intrigued by the inquest as you yourself. Once more her fingers fing and then proceeding that one furious moment of furious fingering she looks up at you and then at the street and again at her phone and then again at the street and then back at you, puzzled. “Don’t look at me,” you whimsy and so she turns again to her phone once more but this time solemnly recites;“Estimated time of arrival is twenty-five minutes.” You almost spit a mouthful of your mountain dew all over her protective safety glass. “Did you say twenty-five minu… to get to that building just up there, the one the left?” Almost in her own disbelief she responds, “I did… and I also said throw those written directions away because you could walk there from here in five.”
Part 2 So I See I’ve Got Your Attention
It’s simple enough… well, it should be at least but you know me; nothing is ever quite so simple. I left Fart Collins on I-25 with almost everything I owned, it’s hard to pack yer shit and leave when someone keeps barging into your room, right up into your personal space, uncomfortably close and screams that, and I quote, “You’re not leaving fast enough!” And so what began with me packing up my shit into totes and then into boxes becomes a mad-dash to fill up the trash can in the garage as quickly as possible… just to get the fuck out of dodge and needless to say the last two hours at home were spent throwing away stuff that was never meant to go into the garbage. This includes the computer from which I administer all of my therapeutic bloviating. I left the house two days ago with what belongings I could fit into my car along with one screw driver, one pair of vice grips and a tool box full of faith; an auspicious beginning to any trip which has no solid final destination. After a modestly delayed pit-stop I hit the highway’s pavement a’ running…
… running, which quickly resolves to a crawl as traffic in Colorado is too often want to do. But I’m in no immediate hurry, after all, the desert isn’t going anywhere. Like I said, simple enough. Yuppers, as simple as performing a self-amputation. You see friends, as mentioned previously life IS simple with such conveniences as GPS, and a cell phone… neither of which I have for… … …. reasons.
And so it came to pass that, just before reaching Aurora, traffic was (trafficked by those without GPS, naturally,) merged into and then forced to continue on the only roadway available to the outskirts of Commerce City wherein the only exit not under construction, or rather not blocked by a wall of orange cones, signs and other devious warning objects lead you directly into the parking lot of a Rodeway Inn. I noted the time as being approximately 6:45, uh, in the pm. Already this place looked shady as hell but, and knowing full well the dangers of midnight driving cross country without modern technology, I figured it most prudent to rent a room for the night… a decision I came to regret the moment I drove around back to park in front of room 240 (the dope smoking section.) For you see my, dear dear friends, no wait… wait, waity wait and back up. I entered the lobby more out of curiosity than prudence as my funds were limited and hotels are costly. But, and this is less my fault than that of fraudulent advertising, I was lulled into a false sense of security by the establishment’s representatives.
Imagine, if you will, Scatman Crothers (the black hotel manager from Kubrick’s The Shining,) leaning against the front desk having a little chat with the front desk manager. The front desk manager is for all intents and purposes Aunt Jamima, but twenty years younger and a hundred pounds lighter. “Man, its a crazy world out there,” I said, “please tell me you have a room available?”
Scatman chuckles and then responds rather slowly with a deep, country fried southern accent, “Well son, sometimes it’s snowing outside and you find yourself standing there in a pair of flip-flops.” Wisdom of the ages, no doubt, but instantly I feel more relaxed, off-guard. We converse mild-manneredly for a moment while the front desk attendant finishes checking in the guy in front of me (another poor bastard lacking GPS whom I had no choice but follow to our current locale.) Keep in mind dear friends, your humble narrator has spent about five years working the hotel industry; I know the ins and outs, I am aware the shady doings transpiring, I know how this shit works. “Smoking room, please, and how’s the parking lot here? Is it safe?” Scatman raises an eyebrow and points his hand towards Aunt Jamila whom answers in the same friendly southern drawl, “Well now, mista, I suppose it’s about as safe as any other parking lot in these good ole U.S. of A.” Touche, me thinks, but aloud I muse,“Fair enough.” I pay the lady, cash of course which requires a $25 deposit, refunded upon check-out presuming you haven’t trashed the room. And after a few more pleasant anecdotes from them both I walk back to my car. The sun is just beginning to set.
The first thing I noticed and only just because they weren’t there ten minutes ago is all the shady activity going down by the yokels; standing at both staircase entrances and on both levels and at every corner of the building their are sentries posted, gangstas, if you will, all of whom are shiftily glancing around at their environment while intermittently tapping away at their smart phones. Nothing unorthodox in and of itself, true, but take into account that ‘round back, at the staircase entrance, the dude on the second level is lowering down a sawzall attached to not one but two extension cords along with various other metal shop implements of destruction, uh, construction (remember this, its important.) “Hmmm, I got a bad feeling about this.”
While already less than appealing to one of my particular nature that feeling was further compounded with the realization that everything I now own, Humble though it may be, is in my car and much of it is visible through the windows… a fact not missed by the lookouts on duty. I park, grab my backpack and my guitar and make my way to the second level. Honestly, my dear, dear friends, I really didn’t think I stood a camp-flower’s chance in hell of reaching my room without first being physically assaulted but, hey, these are strange times indeed.
Forgetting about the realities of … well, reality, I open the door to room 240 and I’m instantly hit with that sweet, sweet stanky smell of some killer-ass cheba. Again my guard drops and I throw my crap onto one of the two twin-beds. I go to set the air conditioner setting which is to my surprise already set on high and blasting at full speed (remember this too, it’s important.) I casually look around for the remote control and finding it not I grab the room key (which has been on its reverse side completely tagged with black sharpy graffiti,) and make my long, long away a’ foot back around to the front lobby, unabashed. I walk inside and again, waiting for a guest to be checked in, stand patiently to ask for a remote controller.
From around the corner and behind the front desk a third African American, the proprietor (from the make of his jib,) steps fourth as I begin speaking to the front desk manager whom is hastily though subtly packing up her things to leave. A few pleasantries from the old man in a fashion nostalgic of Bill Cosby (young hip dad Cosby, not creepy old ruffee-o Cosby of late,) a few chuckles and what I almost swear was something along the lines of, ”Well, son, now you’ve got your remote control and all you need is a Jell-O’s Gelatin pudding cup.” I was headed back to my room… shady venture it was too, even more so than the first time.
Back in room 240… I turn on the boob tube and begin performing my own rituals, a rather swift endeavour to complete and then sit down on a chair and grab my little guitar. Remember me mentioning the air conditioner? Welletsy, having been in the room but a paltry couple dozen minutes I couldn’t help but notice that it had already kicked on again and off again at regular intervals of about five minutes. “So what,” you may think to yourself but (and remember the gangstas outside with all of the metal shop tools acting shifty?) but, but, but it’s a mere hop for a seasoned veteran of the hotel industry to add 2+2 which in this scenario = chop-shop. Oh yes, I had little doubt that I was smack dab in the middle of one of Commerce City’s plethora of chop shops and not taking lightly the possibility of being a victim to any deed nefarious, well, I called the front desk. Already the sun has set and darkness creeps upon us.
“Hey, this is the guest in room 240 and I’ll be frank, I don’t feel safe back here… can I move to another room?” Diplomatic, no? “No, sir, we’re sold out, I don’t have any rooms to move you to.” What with my super amazing powers of observation I recognize instantly that neither the voice nor the manner of this new attendant matched the friendly family atmosphere I was greeted with upon arrival and so I probe, “I see, well, I’ve only been here about 45 minutes and I haven’t used anything besides one plastic cup and the complementary ash trey, can I get a partial refund on the room?” I asked for a partial refund only because I’ve worked for Rodeway Inn and I know I’ll be but really damned lucky to get my deposit back at check-out regardless of the room’s condition. “No, sir, I can’t give you a refund.” Bullshit, I barked with one hand covering the phone’s receiver, “Okay dude, I’ll be up shortly to have words with you,” and I hung up the phone.
“Leaps and bounds, how typical of paranoid Zach,” you may say of me but, but wait. Around the full perimeter of this place were big loading trucks parked but running and at both ends of the building around the back side was an industrial dumpster inside a wooden fence, wherein, I observed from the second floor walkway various auto body-parts (fenders, bumpers, mufflers, etc…) being pulled out from behind one dumpster and being carted off to the other by a henchman on a bicycle with fucking loud clickity-clappers where stood another henchman whom was exchanging said body parts with others, similar to but not identical. Like I said, 2+2= one shady fucking conspicuous as all hell chop shop. And as for that five minute on again- off again air conditioner, yeah well, it was loud enough to mask the sounds of any auto body shop activities, were any such doings a’ transpiring…
Believe you me, my dear sweet friends, that no sooner had I hung up that there phone had every door around me, both upstairs and downstairs, begun opening and shutting with far too much aggression and suddenly, standing right outside my very own window, some turd yells, “Who said it? What room are they inn, that dumb ass hole.” Well, it’s like this; when you run a shady hotel of any kind you put your friends up at the very back of the building. And if said friends are either;
A) dip shits,
B) dope-heads,
C) untrustworthy, or
D) all of the above,
Then you check up on them about every 45 minutes or so. The dip-shit at the front desk undoubtedly called a buddy of his in one of those other rooms and said something thus noisy shady activities around my window crescendoed and carried on for about another twenty minutes, unit… Until I grew tired of that shit and dialed the lobby yet again, but this time with Bravado. “Hey dude, this is guest room 240… again… yeah, you said you don’t have any other rooms to move me too? Right, and you say you can’t surrender a partial refund so I can go stay some place less fucking shady, huh? Right, okay dude so tell me, does the proprietor of this establishment know that you’re running a chop shop out back?” The line goes dead for a moment and this turd-cutter mutters, “Uh, wha-What?”
Yeah, but that hesitation and terrified, meek, mousy response on the other end of the phone was confirmation enough and so my balls grow by about five pounds… “Oh, I’ve finally got your attention have I, well… let me rephrase that question into the form of a statement; which you’ll understand; if I wake up in the morning to find my car damaged or looted I’ll have your job and your ass on a golden platter, friend. You have yourself a good night,” and then hung up on him.
Another five minutes and all became silent back behind the Rodeway Inn for most of (not all, mind,) the night. Believe me or don’t it matters not but, the muffler on my car is not the same muffler I left Fort Fun with, the windshield didn’t have that big fucking crack all down the right side and there are several, modest new key marks embedded down the passanger side front door. Now, one might ask, or if I weren’t so well-cultured I might ask myself, “Why didn’t you call the Police?” Not stating the obvious, what with me and my histrionic relationship with the Colorado Authorities, I try and choose my battles wisely and, well that and just before exiting I-25 to enter the hotel parking lot there was a big electronic traffic sign which read,
PLEASE BE CAREFUL: EMERGENCY 911 WAIT TIMES EXCEEDING TWENTY MINUTES.
Part 3 Beta Males in Their Prime
I’d mentioned a modest pit stop prior to hitting the road; ($500 ) “So what’s it like there, in the desert?” I asked my friend. “You mean in the land of enchantments, well, its full of gangs.” Wonderful, if experience has taught me one thing it’s that I stick out like a sore thumb…. as do targets. Fortunately, I’m not that shy little tubby kid I used to be, no. Now I’m that tall, robust tubby kid ya’ know, with the broad shoulders and lot’s of facial hair. But still… “Well,” said I as I took another rip from the pipe, “if I can’t find myself in the desert then I suppose all hope is lost.” He conjures a flame and again I puff deeply, “It’s not that long a trip anyways,” he reassures me as he reaches for his smart phone. After consulting Google Maps he goes on, “just head south on the highway. It’ll take you straight through, you’ll be there in about five hours.” I stepped out of his pad and light a cig, contemplating the desert.
I’d mentioned that Google Maps is an insufferable fool; ($500) “Why are you going to the desert?” he reasoned, “Not to do anything stupid, I hope. I’d be awfully disappointed in you if you did.” He raises an eyebrow at me, inquisitively but sincerely as he blows a thick, musky smoke ring into the air. “Well…” I thought momentarily for the right way to say it as he leaned back into a more comfortable position and brought a weathered, sturdy hand up to his face and began stroking his signature Van Dyke, serenely. “…a million Arabs can’t be wrong, can they? I’m mean they don’t call the deserted enchanted for nothing.” Brilliant, no? He leans forward to set ablaze the pipe for me one last time before I go, “I’ll miss you old friend, I certainly hope you find yourself out there.” Leaving there I hit up the nearest Juffy Lube to lube up my jiff and believe you, me, I had them check everything (I’d just bought the car a day and a half ago, don’t you know?) and then took the I-25 South exit as I lit a smoke for the road.
I’d mentioned the wonders of modern technology; ($415 and some change) I’d contacted my, uh, contact in the desert early the next morning from the Commerce City chop shop to pinpoint exactly t’where I was headed. Having calibrated my compass and checked to see which way the wind was blowing (SCIENCE!) I then walked up to my car to assess last night’s damage. Hmm, a few fresh, moderate battle wounds but nothing as extreme as what an embittered ex-whatever might inflict. At least nothing that a buffer and an auto-dent plunger couldn’t manage (or at least that was my first impression; I’d only actually come to discover the muffler exchange later on, down the road.) As for the front windshield well, at least they hadn’t broken into my car and liberated what humble earthly possessions I still possess… still, I need a cigarette.
I’d mentioned that it should have been simple; ($335; they returned my $25 deposit) And yet, even for one such as I whom instinctively navigates by sense of smell it was far more unreasonable than sanity predictably humours. I’d printed off a set of directions from you know where and, coupled with my patented chicken scribble (dictated, mind you, from my erudite desert contact,) followed them to the letter and those specific letters read, Take the Second Left Onto the Freeway. Welletsy, imagine my rank lack of surprise when the second left to the highway was quarantined due to “construction.” Yes it was, but not only the second exit you understand, no but no, the first as well… and the third. No matter, I was going to reach the desert if it killed me. I had no other option (and neither did the few other fellow marks leaving that hotel,) but to take Peoria Way which, while I stumbled upon it out of shear folly, was fortuitously listed among my compilation of navigations. In stark contrast however, I was most surprised to be lead directly into Denver International Airport. Wtf…. I need a fucking cigarette.
Did I mention my love of irony?($335) Yeah well, whatever, there was another route I might try; Peoria St., yeah, I remember jotting that name down and it only took me an hour to get to it as I was forced to circle fully around the “airport” to exit off of Peoria Way and, because I do love surprises (don’t you? Of course you do,) I was gifted with another. Oh but yes, Peoria Street lead me solely back into the fray of Denver International “Airport” wherein I was blessed with a cornucopia of further featured quarantineed exit ramps and fraudulent detours having no alternative but waste another hour (yeah, another hour,) circling about the “airport” before locating an accessible off ramp. Now if you haven’t been to Denver International “Airport” then you’re unawares the magnitude of notoriously expensive convenience stores, gas stations and souvenir shops which pimple the landscape within its perimeters. The fact of the matter was that I was trying to get out of colorful Colorado… what need have I of souvenirs when I want nothing more than to forget this elite, living hellhole? Man, I need a cigarette.
I did mention I’d left town with $500, cash, in pocket? ($295; gas, sundries and my first fresh pac of delicious Marlboro Black Shorts, Red Striped…umm hmmm, satisfyingly smooth) No, I had no need of Colorful Colorado’s Colorfully over-priced dime store trinkets but gas, on the other hand. “I don’t know but I’ve been told it’s hard to run with the weight of gold.” To sum it up, and giving all due praise to the infinite wisdom of Google Maps, I had only frittered away about three hours being rerouted and detoured to many of Denver International “Airport’s” entrances and subsequent exits (hell, had I been able to stay on I-25 in the first place Id have reached the desert last night with $400 cash in hand but nooooo, fuck you very much Google Maps,) and I’ll be damned if I saw so much as even one fat, lazy over-paid country-fried county construction worker standing about anywhere mooching and slurping from the cask of my annual tax dollars.
“On the other hand I’ve heard it said it’s just as hard with the weight of lead.” With no alternative I took the toll road (by the by, they’re all toll roads excepting I-25, which had been closed heading into Aurora due to “construction.”) Despite having left Commerce City at the ass-crack off dawn with not to sup but fresh morning dew-droplets it had reached high noon and I still hadn’t left the Denver metroplex. Wtf? Outrageously costly gifts shops and convenience stores aside, Colorado shall get your money one way or the other, like it or not. Fucking Colorado, you know you’re driving me to smoke these damn things, right… which reminds me, I need a cigarette.
I did mention my loathing of the Elite? ($295) And so it came to pass, four hours later after the Denver International “Airport,” haberdashery that I pulled into Kit Carson. Wait, no wait, wait wait let me first shatter a deliberately fraudulent misconception about America’s Mid-west. While once it held true that the Mid-west was famed for its stockyards and vast expansions of fertile crop lands and fields, that is no longer the case. As I make the pilgrimage to Kit Carson, a path I’ve many times traversed during the past twenty years, I observe that where once the were four-scores of cattle littering the vastness of most every hilltop and field now there was (wait for it… wait…. wait…..) nothing. Nothing but interspersed stretches of radio and wi-fi towers and satellite dish grid stations and, oh and the occasional dilapidated, creepy, “You know just from the look of it that at least one victim has probably been sacrificed to a pagan god in that shack,” shacks juxtaposed to the random roadside attractions of the classic industrialized Midwestern bygone era and their repulsive smokestacks and concrete buildings. Jesus, I’m ready for cigarette….
Part 4 Who Bothers With Maps Nowadays Anyways
DISCLAIMER: This map is provided as a guide for those who intend to traverse in the greater City area. The City provides the line work on this map as a culmination of data collected from BBQ, BRoNCO, MerGoG, MiCroDT and Rio de Ranchero. The City only maintains facilities owned and operated by the City and within the City’s Jurisdiction. The information depicted on this map is thought to be an accurate and a truthful representation of the compiled data and information as of April 2018; however, no guarantees are made to the accuracy and quality. The data was acquired through various resources within state and local governments. The City assumes no liability for the use of this map and information.
Let us spare a moment to consider the best way to dissect the above disclaimer… a moment more perhaps and… yeah, I’m ready; scalpel, hemostats, body-bag, next patient. The City makes no guarantee to the accuracy or quality of its product. But it does make sure to purchase state of the art GPS, GIS, LIDAR, RADAR and satellite technology purchased with “the People’s” accumulative tax dollars amounting to $BILLONS upon billions, per state. And having witnessed first hand the shear volumes of wi-fi, radio and satellite towers everywhere, inescapably so in fact, I see no other reason than that of charlatanry and the deliberate distribution of disinformation accounting for the erroneous errors on this over-sized glossy bit of City-issued toilet paper.
“The information and data depicted in” your city map is “thought to be truthful and accurate.” That means that, given the badassery of GIS, whomever required that disclaimer to be present on your map was fully aware of its fraudulence.
What is GIS? (Geographic Information Systems) A geographic information system (GIS) is a computer system for capturing, storing, checking, and displaying data related to positions on Earth’s surface. By relating seemingly unrelated data, GIS can help individuals and organizations better understand spatial patterns and relationships.
What are the Functions of GIS? A toolkit is a set of generic functions that a GIS user can employ to manipulate and analyze geographic data. Toolkits provide processing functions such as data retrieval measuring area and perimeter, overlaying maps, performing map algebra, and reclassifying map data.
What do both GPS and GIS use? GPS stands for Global Positioning System. GPS uses satellites that orbit Earth to send information to GPS receivers that are on the ground. The information helps people determine their location. … GIS is a software program that helps people use the information that is collected from the GPS satellites.
Despite its incorporation and utter dependency upon modern state of the art mapping, tracking and surveillance technology which is increasing exponentially every year and has done so ever since the reverse-engineering of the micro-chip back in the ‘50’s, the government “thinks” the data and information which it is providing is truthful and accurate yet it makes no guarantees. Well, for an In Your Face and In Your Business Big Brother Government Policing the Rest of the World at Large, I’d “think” it would have a bit more backbone, I mean after all, billions of dollars are squandered away yearly on all that state of the art crap, is it not?
We, as your government, operating from within a state of Unparalleled Secrecy, make no guarantees to the accuracy or truthfulness of our Integrity, our Personnel or our Services. This disclaimer backed by Faith in the government of the United States of America.
What is LiDAR? LiDAR, which stands for Light Detection and Ranging, is a remote sensing method that uses light in the form of a pulsed laser to measure ranges (variable distances) to the Earth.
How does a LiDAR work? The principle behind LiDAR is really quite simple. … The LiDAR instrument fires rapid pulses of laser light at a surface, some at up to 150,000 pulses per second. A sensor on the instrument measures the amount of time it takes for each pulse to bounce back.
How far is LiDAR’s range? LiDAR’s laser speed guns use light in extremely fast pulses to detect an object’s speed. It has a range of 1,000 feet to 4,000 feet, and it’s very accurate. And as for a government such as yours, here in the good Ole U.S. of A (and I say yours, not mine because I am a sovereign entity; neither under the authority of any other nor having any other under the authority of my own, diplomatic immunity pending,) being so self assured, so self confident and so unrepentant in its zealously self righteous enculturation believing that “Our ways is the best ways,” well, this slimy disclaimer somewhat diminishes what little faith I still maintain in the government of these United States of America.
Don’t misunderstand me, unintentionally or otherwise, I love my country, this Land and much of its People but, and I’ve stated this many a’ time before; this country is being run by a pornocracy, staffed with (in my well-educated opinion,) and overseen by stupid-rich inbred aristocratic occultists whom long ago patented their use of disinformation and flagrancy under the ruse of National Security. The sleazy little disclaimer printed on this practically useless map which I hold in my hand is undeniable proof of such inequity.
Part 5 Ugly Kid Z
Howard Cosell here, ringside at the Desert Cafe were only days from now we shall all witness what could be the Greatest Moment in Shlop History. Yes, right here where just earlier this morning Unchampioned, “Nobody Special from Who the Hell Cares, Colorado,” Ugly Kid Z, and Heavy weight Bruiser “Glacious” Georgious G. Maypole traded barbs during a lively press conference delighting a rowdy crowd ahead of their May 18th ho-down. The frenzied debacle is the first in a four-day inter-regional shebang promoting the bout.
The dichotomy of the two was immediately apparent as Maypole, wearing a classy navy pinstriped suit and tie, danced around the stage goadingly while Ugly Kid Z, wearing a dingy, odoriferous track suit with Ole Glory decals looked on solemnly.
As is to be expected in the bout Maypole was the antagonist wasting no time landing southpawed jibes stating that Ugly Kid Z earlier this month asked the referee not only for a 2 point deduction against Maypole for having Hit Below the Belt, but also for more time to contact Geico thus saving himself 15% a month on car insurance.
Quote Maypole, “We did it, Bay-beee!. I couldn’t hear s*** those motherf***ers said, thank f***. This press conference is completely Wakk compared to what we’z used to, but hey bi****s… 20,000 people? Its wakk! I’m absolutely the Greatest and to show it off before you, well…trust me, you don’t want to miss this great spectacle. And somebody’s Z has got to flee!” end quote.
Strong words from a strange, strange man sayeth this humble Sports Orator, Howard Cosell, sitting Ringside at the Desert Cafe where I’ll be all week as further developments unfold.
Part 6 Crossing the Rubicon
“Nooo daddy!” the toddler protests grabbing defensively at his library books. I can make out neither their titles nor contents but reason deduces them to be fully illustrated teddy bear novels of some sort. “It’s okay son, it’s an automatic book return, you see?” Dad man’s up to the teleprompter and presses the green Drop Off button causing a mechanical slot to ‘whoosh open. “You just put it right in there, son,” he reassures the boy whom with grave suspicion of the machine retreats further. “But daddyyy!” he pleads on and clings tighter to his treasures.
“How ‘bout we test it first, eh? what do you say to that?” Clever dad. With famed approval and high renown the little boy raises his chin and marches up to the Book Return as he tucks his charge under one arm and reaches for dad with the other. After being swooped up the boy is brought close to the deposit slot but, “Wait daddy!” the boy triumphs! “I have to push the button first!” Clever lad. With famed approval and high renown dad nods with commendation and raises the boy yet higher that he may do the Honors and then, having done the honors the boy reverently withdrawals slightly into dad’s grip as once more the mechanical slot ‘whooshes open. And now, with Gusto, the boy slides his covetous booty into the waiting darkness of the Public Library Book Depository.
“It worked, son! Well done!” Magnanimously the toddler raises his free arm skyward as dad cheers him on. Those interested in the heroics, myself and one or two others among the dozen waiting for the library to open modestly bow our heads in silence and praise as the lad looks about his subjects well-pleased in his achievement. “You want to put the other book in, son?” But even as the words are escaping his lips the three year old slips out of dad’s embrace only to ground once more, wary as he backs away. His head almost violently shakes in disapproval but, alas, not a word he speaks… Intuitively, dad reassures him, “You want to give that one to the librarian yourself, son?” The boy’s head bobs certainly just as the library doors open and he leaps to the front of the line then disappears around the corner.
Part 7 The Gremlin
T’was twilight, about a week ago I guess. I’d stepped out of the neighbor’s pad after having achieved a pleasant drunk… needed some fresh air. Walked down to the parking lot from the third floor when from the darkness I heard a whimperish, desperate voice. She was slumped over, holding her stomach like an old world Gaelic gremlin lurking in the shadows, “Can you get any heroin?” she blithered from beneath a disheveled mass of blond hair. “Heroin,” I repeated, “nope, no heroin here.” Actually, its come to my attention that the shit is everywhere but I avoid it like the plague.
That might have been the end of our interaction… might have been, but it wasn’t. “Well, do you have a smoke?” she asked. “You’re in luck lady, for I have not one but two smokes for you.” I pulled out the half empty pack of marlboro’s and partitioned a couple to her and lit one for me-self. A few minutes of introductory drivel followed, a few minutes wherein she asked me another four times for some tar in between her hunching over and trying not to vomit. Seeing that she wasn’t the fuzz and seeing that she was about to have a hell of a ride (withdrawal, it’s a heartless bitch-mistress,) I kicked her a couple more smokes for the karma.
“Listen, Nicole,” said I, “I can’t help you with heroin… but I got a some herb I’ll puff with you… won’t help your come down but it might dull the edge for a moment or two.” I’m sort of a sucker for good deeds and giving that she wasn’t sporting a purse big enough to steal anything that I care about, that and she wasn’t crawling with literal bugs of any kind, I invited up to my humble abode, twisted a couple roots to blaze and threw on a lecture series about the High Middle Ages. Figured that’d run her off quick. But…
She passed out after about two puffs and, well, having nothing better to do than veg out to my lecture series and babysit a decrepit junkie I put a blanket on her and posted up on the far end of my wrap-around futon couch. About half way through joint number two my neighbor knocked on my door. I stepped out to smoke a cig with him and he says point blank, “There was a narco chick around her about twenty minutes ago that asked me for heroin,” he whispers, “I blew her off and walked away but I think she might still be around here.” Not a good read on people, obviously. “About five foot two, blond hair, hunched over like she’s dying of gut-rot?” He nods, “Yeah, that’s the one. Undercover cop.” Chivalry, its a dying courtesy. “Dude, she’s strung out and sick as fuck… she also just passed out on my couch.”
“Oh, well she’s obviously not a cop then… she wouldn’t have gone up to your apartment if she was.” No shit, Sherlock “Yeah, and I wouldn’t have invited her up if I hadn’t recognized her situation. Do me a solid and hang out with me till she leaves, I’d feel a lot more comfortable.” Actually, I needn’t have asked because he was caught up in his own drama and subsequently needed a bit of carpet to sleep on for the night. I’ve grown unaccustomed to guests over the past few years and suddenly I’m running a flop-house. But as I’m trying to re-familiarize myself to being around people I was obliged to accommodate.
That first night was rough for all of us… what with Nicole running a marathon on my couch, intermittently between praying to God for a fix and crying out in agonizing pain. The neighbor, well, he was still lamenting his own sitch what with the girl he’d been staying with “playing on my heart strings.” I couldn’t explain it to you if I wanted to, but my door got more knocks that night than I care to remember and as for poor Nicole, every time the door opened she squeegeed, “Heroin?” I eventually resolved to explain the cold hard facts… “Nicole, your safe here, there’s food in the fridge and I’ll even cook some of it for you but, alas, you need to come to terms with the fact that ain’t no heroin coming through this door… not now, now ten minutes from now, not ten hours from now… all you’re doing is torturing yourself by holding out hope.”
Morning came and the neighbor went and eventually Nicole crashed and burned. She’d wake up every hour or so, just long enough to ascertain that the lecture series I was digging hadn’t reached its conclusion; toss and turn, scream and froth, pray to God for a miraculous bag of sympathy dope, realize he wasn’t answering those prayers today and then toss back to sleep. That sums up the first day and a half. Then suddenly she levitates off the couch clutching her butt-hole as she skirmished to the bathroom… I gingerly yet curtly stated to her, “Nicole, dear, if you blast a dookie on my couch I won’t kick you out, no but no, I’ll throw you out and then post a blog about you on my notorious facebook wall of shame.”
She managed a disingenuous laugh while giving me a Go To Hell look but then cut a sincere grin and said, “Zach, my body hurts so bad… but I like you and I’m grateful that you’re letting me chill here for the time being.” Indeed, “Don’t mention it doll, I’ve been in your shoes… and you happened to catch me with a couple days off, but don’t get too comfortable, we’ll both have to face reality again in a couple days.” I can’t testify to the truthfulness of her predicament but what she proclaimed was that she’d left Arizona and was making her way to Texas… she didn’t divulge anything more and so I didn’t bother probing for further intel. I knew enough and besides, a good deed is a good deed regardless.
T’was about midday I guess, following two days of hell for her and three soiled pairs of pajamas of mine but to her credit she managed to reach the bathroom without shitting on my couch or carpet (I’m pretty sure that at least once she only made it by plugging a finger up her rear,) (and so I don’t care too much about tossing out the funky pj bottoms she’d ruined….) “Zach,” she says, “I can’t stay here much longer… hurting like this and shitting myself.” You readmy mind, love, “Yeah, I was having similar thoughts of my own.” She sprawled back out on the far side of the couch, back down for about another hour and then jumped up and stated, “I have to grab something from my car.” She rolled a cig from a pack of Top she pulled from her purse, walked out the front door in my favorite pair of pj’s and never came back. I hope she made it to wherever she was going.
Part 8 Untouchables
There’s a little epilogue to my tale of sadness. It’s part of my nature you know, giving alms, picking up hitchhikers, bumming out smokes, parting with loose change. I can’t help it. Seeing a stranger in need provokes this response… to a fault. I’m homeless too, remember. Homeless, in a foriegn desert where standing at every street corner is another unfortanate; an untouchable just as lowly as myself, no, even moreso. Every time I step out of my car I encounter someone needing something. I see a transient and give them a little of whatever I have. I see the next one and I share a little of whatever I’ve got. Look, there’s someone who needs a cig, hey that guy needs a burger, oh, this poor lady, she needs…. I’m the Good Samaratan, and all the while I’m thinking, “Zach, stop it you fool, you’re just as poor as they are!”
The Good Samaratan gives alms; to the needy, the downtrodden, as often as he can and then one day stops and asks himself, “Why are there so many in Need?” A question, for ametuears. I however find myself not asking but now saying, “I have nothing.” Nothing. Nothing left to give. I’ve reached the end of the rope. I don’t mean this figuratively, no, I mean I literally have nothing left. No more smokes, no more loose change. You see, I have a paticular habbit of intermitent smoking, that is, I never smoke more than three of four puffs from a cigarette at any given time. And while I’m sure it makes me smell like an ash trey it also means I’ve always got a re-frie, somewhere. On the road they get partitioned into a designated hardboxed cigarette pack, for emergencies. Well, I had two re-fries left as the sun was setting in the parking lot where I stoyed away last evening when a fellow walked up and he said, “I suppose… ‘er, you’ve got cig from the look of your clothes.” Damn it…
I’ve never stood at a corner and spanged for change, never sat anywhere and begged with a sign. Not because of pride mind you, I be not proud. No, not pride but because I’ve always had pair of strong legs and a willing back. I’ve never held an empty palm out to a stranger, in hope, no… but I have held it out with humilty and accepted the alms of a close friend. I’ve never slept under a cardboard box in front of a public library nor at a public park but I have more than once slept in the back of an empty Pensky truck during a frigidly cold Colorado winter. I know what its like to sleep under the brigde at the overpass with one eye open (if you call that shit sleeping,) only to shuffle around a bit before mustering up at the butt-crack of dawn only to wonder aimlessy as you gradually build up enough resolve to bother questing for the next temporarily safe-ish bit of concrete with a corner to lean against.
I need a cig, oh wait… I shared my last two re-fries with that drifter last evening…. damn it, Zach! And I need a job but now I’ve wasted all of my gas driving around to places that required an in-person and on-site hiring process; three of which offered me the job on the spot only to blow me off the next days when I shopwed up ten minutes early, to work. I need my quaint little lousy Nokia computer that I left behind accidently while someone was screaming at me, “You’re not leaving fast enough!” But despite my numerous requests (parlayed through 3rd parties because Mumsy and I can’t interact amicably,) I’m still awaiting for it and let’s face it, trying to land a job when you’re in a new state, fresh off the turnip truck without a cell phone, GPS or an actual residency where you can daily bathe , well. Whereas I wasn’t white enough there in Coloful Colrado I find myself too white for the desert.
Part 9 Questions for a Leo
Summer, 2019. New Mexico, Land of Enchantments: I suppose the first question is, do you ever run out of anything to say?
Nope, and yet I still often repeat myself.
And you have a story for everything, don’t you?
What can I say, these fingers have been in many pies.
Does that ever get old?
You have no idea…
Would you care to elaborate?
Dare that I would.
Touche, so where to begin?
Where, indeed.
Let’s start with your personality, shall we?
Oh, let’s do.
I understand that you’re a Leo?
True.
And which characteristic best defines you as a Leo?
Pet me for a minute, then leave me be.
Is this characteristic of all Leos?
Absolutely…
Does the universe accommodate such luxury?
Rarely.
They say you exhibit symptoms of histrionic poly substance abuse.
They do like to talk, don’t they?
Is it true?
From a certain point a view.
So, it’s never been a problem for you?
It’s never gotten me into any… imperial entanglements.
And how about physically?
“Even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.”
Are you on anything now?
If I were, do you think I’d be talking with you?
I understand you’ve been married, twice?
Happily… married, twice… thank you.
Yes, and what happened with the first marriage?
She was too good for me.
And the second?
I was too good for her.
It’s as simple as that?
It’s simple enough.
Shall we delve deeper here?
No, it’ll be in the book.
I understand that you’re a fan of irony?
Aren’t you?
It has it’s moments.
As do we all.
Do you believe in coincidence?
As a rule, not on your life.
They say you’re a conspiracy theorist.
Them again… Well, yes, that is what conspirators would say.
Hard to argue with that logic.
I’m pleased you agree.
Do you believe in luck?
Nope.
Why not?
The decks are always stacked.
Do you believe in God?
Yes sir, I do.
Are you going to heaven?
Yes I am.
You seem certain…
Consider it a matter of faith.
What about family, you do have family?
Don’t we all?
And where are they now?
Somewhere… elusive.
Do they love you?
Mustn’t they?
And do you love them?
Mustn’t I?
So you’ve grown distant from them?
Not distant enough.
You have a sister, have you not?
I reckon I do… and allegedly two.
There’s a story there.
None worth mentioning…
Not very close you two, I presume?
How very observant you are.
And the reason for that?
Reasons; plural, and they’re aplenty but in summery she never could get over the fact that the world doesn’t owe her a damned thing.
Is that likely to change?
Not in this lifetime.
Political views?
None you could use… nor quote.
What say you about the current political environment?
Don’t blame me… I voted for Jesus.
But if you had to choose, left or right?
Neither, make no mistake… they’ve both sold you out.
Is that cynicism I detect?
Need you have asked?
No, I suppose not, but tell me…Why so cynical?
What can I say, I’ve been hurt before.
Care to elaborate?
Sure, scratch the surface of any cynic and you’ll find a disappointed idealist.
Let’s touch on your childhood.
You wouldn’t be the first.
Wow, I’m sure there’s a story there.
A story for another day, perhaps.
So it wasn’t a happy one?
My childhood? Overall, no… it wasn’t, but it had its moments.
As do they all, nehspa?
I should like to think so.
So, will it be in the book?
Maybe so, maybe no. I guess you’ll have to buy a copy when it comes out.
So, being a Leo… are you much into Astrology; taro, palm-reading, fortune-telling?
Nope… its all witchcraft to me, and Jesus.
Part 10 These Tears, They’re Medicine
Summer, 2019. Albuquerque New Mexico. She was just standing there in the middle of the road, daring anyone to run her over. She was tall, tall for a female, swimming in a dingy green hoody with an over-sized stitched hemp purse slung over her shoulder, her lanky pale white legs cascading downwards from a pair of kaki brown shorts. Her coffee was trying desperately to remain stationary in its McDonnald’s paper cup as she flailed her arms around in her rage. In no hurry and, while not fully understanding her own rage but having conquered my own, I let her be just as the driver on the other side of the street was doing. She gradually meandered across the road cursing and yelling at no one in particular and I pulled into McDonnald’s parking lot and cracked the windows… it was already peaking 75 degrees and it wasn’t yet 8am.
I stepped out of my car and turned around and she was already standing there, waiting to make eye contact so as to vent her anger not at me, but to me. “That bitch stole my money and refused to give my Gawd Damn Mcgriddle because she doesn’t give a fuck about homeless people,” she proclaimed and would have continued had I not calmly interrupted her. “You’re hungry miss?” I asked, simply trying to get her to focus herself momentarily. “I’m starving!” she waled, but again I interrupted her, “It’s okay, c’mon, I’ll buy you a McGriddle, let’s go.” She stopped walking then and said, “I can’t go back in there or they’ll call the police on me that stupid bit…” but I raised a hand and again said, “It’s okay, stay here and I’ll be right back.” Internally I’m thinking to myself , well, you’re acting a fool lady, it’s no wonder they don’t want you back in there.
I’m first in line and patiently standing there, watching as the staff is struggling to manage the drive-thru customers while discussing what exactly to do with the young woman outside. As a plump elderly lady in her manager’s cap comes up to the counter to ask for my order her eyes turned towards the parking lot and instinctively my gaze follows. “Oh no, she’s coming back, wha…” she lamented but before she could finish her sentence the woman bursts through the front door, still raging but her voice wasn’t as loud as it had been moments ago. “I want my Gawd Damn money back and I want my McGriddle and want my fucking coffee you dumb bitch!” I pull my glasses half way down the bridge of my nose and give her a, “Seriously? I told you to wait in the parking lot,” glance which she noticed and then she threw her empty cup at the old woman and spouts like a dim-whitted tart, “I’ll come back here with a knife and stab you in the throat you dumb bitch!” and walked out of the building, back across the street.
Whatever, I’d said I’d get her something to eat and so I did; a Mcgriddle for her and a ham & cheese Mcmuffin for yours truly. The manager turns to a fry cook and says, “That’s enough, call the police and let them deal with her.” About that time number 167 was called (that’s me,) and I grabbed the bag and casually walked outside, back to my car. From across the street she begins cursing and yelling again at my direction and again I raised a hand. “Stay there, I’ll drive over to you,” but she obviously wasn’t having any of that and crossed the road, once more holding up traffic on the increasingly busy side street. What a dip shit, I’m thinking to myself but I reached for her sandwich and offered it openly to her. She snatches it from me, still pissing and moaning about whatever injustice she believes herself victim to; no gratitude, no humility, not even a sarcastically shitty, “Thanks dude,” nothing. Nothing but her endless pissing and moaning, her anger, her bloated sense of entitlement.
Again, whatever. I hadn’t bought her some food for her gratitude or for anything else other than for a genuine desire to help another in whatever way I could, small though it may be. Without opening it and again without a thank you she barks, “I need a couple a bucks and my gawd damn coffee!” Growing steadily disinterested in further intervention with this… chick, I calmly say to her, “I wouldn’t stick around here if I were you, they’ve called the police and they’re on their way, ” as I got in my car and cranked the engine. Now just ignoring her rants I poked my head out of the window and said, “Good luck, miss.” I pulled out of the parking lot but kept an eye on her as I was stopped at a red light and to my amazement I watched as she opened up her sandwich and threw it at the window of the McDonnald’s lobby.
As I drove away my thoughts were fleeting, scattering like a kaleidoscope as I slowed with the rest of the traffic at the next red light where I saw standing on the pavement curb at the intersection another homeless woman, perhaps in her mid thirties holding a ragged, worn-out card board sign. The words written on it were too faded to read but I knew what it said all the same. Three lanes separated her from me and not wanting to yell at her I gave a whistle. She looked around for its source from beneath an old sun visor and I whistled again, this time catching her attention. I pulled the last few dollars from my billfold, everything I had left, and reached my hand out toward her and with five feet still between us she began crying as she closed the gap and accepted it and whispered sincerely, “Thank you so much mister, God Bless You.” It wasn’t until I had reached the next block that the tears began streaming uncontrollably down my face and even now, as I sit here at the public library recalling these events from this morning the tears are beginning to fall again.
Part 11 A Good Day Regardless
6:12 am, Saturday: I woke this morning to a charlie horse as big as a tennis ball in my left calf, 50 cents in nickles and pennies and the backwash from a three day old bottle of water which, while I wasn’t desperate enough to drink from, I did make fine use of moistening my toothbrush before lathering it up with Colgate .
After ten minutes of walking around the TSA to get rid of the knot I then gracifully walked through their front door just prior to landing a dead solid perfect face-plant into their second front door; instant karma, for every bird I’ve ever scoffed at for doing the same damn thing. The big greasy smear left by my forehead well, that’ll learn someone for buffing those windows to such a high glossy sheen.
I’m sitting on just under a quarter tank of gas, just over it if I park facing downhill. Oh, an interesting side note; I mentioned finding the safest parkling in the desert, (flashback) remember? Well, turns out I’ve been squatting in my car, parked between two decommissioned city utility trucks right behind the county’s police department… prime real estate as far as I’m concerned. No wonder the parkinglot is so safe.
Admittedly, I awoke this morning feeling less than pleasant, hell bent on today being a lowsy day. But, and I know its cliche at best to say so in our society, the Lord Works in Mysterious Ways. By good fortune I’d found an unopened pack of Camel Filters stuffed into the back of a singular cascading shelf previously unnoticed in my glove compartment and with a deeply sincere, “Oh thank you Jesus,” I smoked two on the spot before starting my car to get some heat.
Clinging to my 50 cents in pennies and nickles I head out of the TSA looking for the Motel 6 among the Holiday Inns and Hiltons on this side of town, my reasoning being that they owe me a continnental breakfast for the one I didn’t get in Commerce City (flashback.) I’ve only dined and dashed once in the whole of my miserable life and that was both many moons ago and only because I was starving.
Again to my bewilderment I caught an electronic billboard up ahead which read WENDY’S 50 cent Smoothies…too good to last. Alright, I can re-hydrate a little and put something solid-ish on my belly at the same time. You haven’t defeated me yet, cruel cruel world. Sitting in the car relishing the thick, thick, thickishly creamy chocolate smoothie it dawns on me that the library I frequent, my newfound home away from home, doesn’t open untill 1pm on Satudays but even before I can utter a silent curse word it dawns on me yet again that there are a dozen other libraries listed on a print out I’d collected yesterday.
I believe in miracles. Not grandiose, flashy parting of the red sea miracles (I believe in those too, mind you,) but the small, subtle miracles that replenish your soul just enough to make you endure. Eyeballing the map printout with grave suspicion I look at the cross street signs to realize that … according to this map, there’s a library right behind me. Welletsy, with not the gas to spare and utter disillusionment at this nation’s map inaccuracies of late I cross the street afoot in search of said book repository.
In truth, before finding the pack of smokes and the deliciousness of a chocolate smoothie, I wouldn’t have been the least bit interested in the impressive city flower garden I was approaching, after all, you can’t submit an online job application through an award winning, thorny green-stemmed, red-peddled Ruby My Dear, now can you? But now I’m feeling refreshed and mildy replenished and so I greedily shoved my nose into that award winning rose and breathed deeply. Ah, sweet sweet splendor it was too, but I was being gifted with not one but almost two dozen separate gardens each with their own beautiful appearances and aromas.
And once more to my delight, tucked away and hidden behind the walls of flowers, low and behold! A quaint little friendly public library. Clearly the drifters and drunks down at the Ferguson spot know nothing of this little treasure and again to my delight they open at 10am… twenty minutes from now. I smoke another camel and polish of the chocolate goodness just as the front door opens and the librarian that greeted me was the Hallmark calling card of the environmentally Conscientious, earthy peace-loving mid-sixties radical grandmother in a blue denim button-front long sleeved shirt with long, thick silvery hair pulled back into a single pony-tale.
Perhaps it was simply my look, or maybe my smell (just kidding, I “spit-bathe” at least in the sink of whatever establish I hit first every mornig,) but whatever it was she walked away to her desk and approached me about five minutes later at the computer where I now sit and handed to me a printout of local churches that offer food baskets and with stealth unmatched by even Sean Connery’s James Bond she slips ten dollars into the palm of my hand. Teary eyed I whimper a humble, “God bless you and thank you so mu…” but she kindly interjects, “I got paid yesterday, go grab someting to eat.” Yes, mysterious ways indeed.
Thank you Lord, I know I don’t desere it.
Your stubborn severvant,
Zachy-pooh
Part 12 Here Man, Its On the House
Friday, June 7, 2019 This day just keeps getting better and better. Haven’t gone home yet because I’m not ready to kiss some ass so instead I’m here at the library doing research on how to squeeze blood from a turnip. No closer to that than anyone else and while I did manage to squeeze a quarter so hard that a booger came out of George Washington’s nose I haven’t managed to squeeze another quarter out of it yet, so…
Whatever, I stepped out for a smoke a few minutes ago and some punk walked up to me and asked me if I wanted some tar. “No man, I haven’t touched that shit in twenty years and I’m not looking to start again now.” Some people don’t take no for answer. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Yes, I’m sure and besides, I don’t have the cash to buy it even if I did want it.” Cut and dry; no money, no dope. That’s how the drug market works, right?
That should have been the end of our interaction… I got no money to buy his wares, nor any interest in it either. No, but no, this fucking idiot is both opportunist and entrepreneur and being such he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a chunk of junk the size of jaw-breaker and says to me, “Here man, you can have it, the first week it’s on the house but then after that you gotta start paying for it… here, take it.” Chivalrous, indeed.
Again, I declined with great diplomacy, “No thanks man, got enough pokers in the fire as it is.” I already don’t like this guy for approaching me in the first place, like him even less for pressing the issue but I still held my tongue and kept my resolve despite the temptation even after his sales pitch and the promotional free sample. You see, it only takes shooting up that shit one time to become hooked (it only took me a week to kick it cold turkey and it nearly killed me… and that was only possible because I was so scared shitless at the realization that I was about to become a father,) and this fucking douche-bag is offering it for free for the first week because he knows that I’ll be robbing and stealing for it while paying his bills over the next five years.
“C’mon man, this stuff is the best shit in the state and I have it all the time, you should try it. Here, it’s yours.” Now, I’m not having a good day. I’m tired, greasy and my back is killing me. I got things on my mind and this dipstick is really starting to irritate me but, I’m still being diplomatic. “I appreciate the offer, really, but I’m not interested in it buddy.” This fucking stupid asshole!. “Okay man, well, why don’t I give you my number just in case you change your mind.” Jeez, what an asshole. I’ve said no to him three times to no avail so I cut right to the chase. “I see diplomacy has failed,” I says to him, “so I have a better idea dude; why don’t you get the fuck away from me right fucking now before I stab you in the guts.”
He understood that shit well enough… fucking little bitch.
Part 13