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Friday, August 26, 2005

Kaleidoscopic Narcotic

Here's one from my archives. I wrote this on August 16th, 2002. It was my 3rd writing effort. I changed the title and fixed an error or two. It reads sloppy to me, but that's to be expected. This was from before I strayed into fiction.

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 into your car, swaggering gangbangers in tank tops yelling "Smoke! Rocks! Blows!," and huge swarms of teenagers standing in the streets, vying for their peers' attention, trying to talk louder than the next.

We bought a couple dimebags, and then decided to get some heroin 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. Nobody gets inside. All the cigarettes and Pepsi have to go through the sliding bin under the thick, bulletproof glass. Invariably there are 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 some smoke. 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 a 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 soundtrack 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 and watched a baseball game. The Cubs lost.
10:00 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm

13 Comments:

August 26, 2005 11:24 AM, Blogger Dave Morris said...

Some dislike archive stuff, I love it. It's fascinating to peek into the window and see what blogger friends were doing or writing about a few years ago.

 
August 26, 2005 12:20 PM, Anonymous red said...

i hope the heroin part is fiction, steve. Pretty soul shaking picture on the cover of today's Boston Herald (aug. 26, 2005).

 
August 26, 2005 12:31 PM, Blogger Lightning Bug's Butt said...

dope and a sauna. sound like heaven.

 
August 26, 2005 12:35 PM, Blogger Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm said...

It's true, Red, but it was merely a shortlived dalliance. I learned that I don't like heroin. Also, I never used a needle. I snorted it.

 
August 26, 2005 1:06 PM, Blogger Kerouaced said...

That was an interesting story and well written though I think you've definitely carved yourself a more unique voice since you wrote this piece...

 
August 26, 2005 5:30 PM, Blogger ty bluesmith said...

nice.

and, anyway, you can always tell the cops you're looking for weed when the catch you in the hood.

works every time

 
August 27, 2005 7:58 PM, Blogger The Everglades said...

After reading an archive of yours I went back and looked at some of mine--and they aren't too pretty. It took me like seven/eight months to get a single random comment. My blog is still subpar and I normally don't like my posts, but you are really creative and even this journal-type entry is entertaining.

Blake

 
August 28, 2005 7:16 AM, Blogger Wino McHackenpuke said...

So you're slowing down as I'm planning to speed things up?

That's a neat little story. I plan to name the cat I'm going to get Steve, by the way. No particular reason. I just think it's a really layed back name.

"Hey Steve!"

"Meow."

"Right on, Steve!

Maybe I'll get him to snort heroin with me too?

 
August 29, 2005 9:11 AM, Blogger karen gsteiger said...

Since I'm a relatively new reader, all the archive stuff is new to me!

I'm glad that you don't like heroin...a friend of mine said the same thing...he said it just made him really nauseated...

 
August 30, 2005 1:37 PM, Blogger You've Got What I Need... said...

That's a donkey punch of a tale, steve.

 
August 31, 2005 8:00 PM, Blogger Bobby said...

"In the buttocks."
- - Forrest Gump

 
October 02, 2005 10:22 PM, Blogger jon said...

I am trying to find roofing philadelphia people and found your blog while searching. I totally agree with that...

 
October 04, 2005 8:06 AM, Blogger Quit Smoking said...

I found you while surfing for interesting blogs. I like it, good content. I've left an invitation to you to visit me if you are into ebooks - Thanks, Neil

 

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