One of my good friends has the same name as mine, Steve. The two of us decided three weeks ago, on a Saturday night, to go score some weed on the west side. We drove around Augusta and Cicero, which is basically a poor black neighborhood. I should feel guilty for supporting drug dealers in this community, but they provide a valuable service to lowdown degenerates like me. It's cheap, too, which is something the folks with the good stuff downtown cannot claim. I am poor, so my decision is easy.

While you drive slowly down a dimly lit oneway, you'll see hypes trying to get in your car, swaggering gangbangers in tank tops yelling "Smoke! Rocks! Blows!", and huge swarms of teenagers standing in the streets, vying for their peers' attentions and trying to talk louder than the next.

We bought a couple dimebags, and then decided to get some blows to top that off. We went from gas station to station, trying to find a cash machine. At night, these places are locked up tight, and nobody gets inside. All the cigarettes and Pepsi have to go through the sliding bin under the thick, bulletproof glass. Invariably there's a few old men and hobos outside, asking for smokes and change.

When the cops pulled us over, the other Steve put the bags where the sun doesn't shine. The cops didn't like me lying to them. "You're lost? Bullshit. Hands on the hood. Now." After a pat down they put me in the squad car's back seat. My enterprising friend, however, took a more direct approach, telling the officers that the north side is dry, and that we're trying to score. He also fed them a line about his uncle dying in the line of duty, and dropped a name he picked up off the news last year. It worked. They pulled me out, and the cop said "Get your weed and get out of here without getting shot, alright?"

Okay. You got it, officer.

We finally found heroin dealer, which took a little while since the cops were thick. We went back to Steve's place, listening to the oldies on the way. Smokey Robinson provided the soudtrack for Steve's finger-spelunking. The car smelled like shit when he fished out the dimebags. Thankfully I had napkins. Tears Of A Clown indeed.

Steve has no air conditioning, and it was very hot and humid that night. We had bottled water in the fridge, and we drank lots of it. We stayed up until 5 or 6 in the morning, snorting heroin and smoking weed. Once I couldn't discern the difference between a joint and one of Steve's Top brand menthol homerolleds, I went outside to catch some breeze. Steve was nodding out and breathing raggedly, so I shook him out of it and brought him some water.

I felt very clean the next day. All that sweating had detoxified me. I went home and curled up with a book. The Cubs lost, too. 7:00 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm