The Propagation

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May 21, 2005

I'll check ya'

The words I wanted to hear. Not I love you. Not how are you. Just I’ll check you. Max’s way of saying, I’ll come swing by your place with your medicine. I got your prescription on file. I know just what you need. I’ve got it in stock. Relief is on it’s way.

But he didn’t answer.

My other delivery guy’s number gives way to the recorded voice of a soulless woman who tells me over and over without a hint of irritation or impatience that the customer I am trying to reach is unavailable at this time…and that time…and this time… But she’s wrong. I am the customer.

Rich doesn’t answer.

I say I told you so about the guy who sold me earlier, said he should give his number, then when asked, said next time.

I want more because I feel like I got a little cheated out of my fun with it, working as I was through mostmostmost of it on the MT migration. Now I want fun.

And I don’t want to walk. I’m spoiled these days. Used to be I’d go and wander streets for hours to find a friendly face and a pain-in-the-ass hook-up. Now even a direct go-and-get is too much. I want it delivered. But now! Not so slowly, man. No dilly dallying. Can you come now. I’ll make it 80, tell me, ‘cuz if not, I’ll go to Crown Heights. But I don’t get that opportunity to be demanding bitchy joneser client.

I bide my time, tell myself I should sleep—that 9:30 is a great time to go to sleep, get to bed, still make my plans with C. later on (who I think may be feeling neglected, and whom I feel should be a more utilized friend), that more will just be first more, will get endless at least into tonight late—keep myself occupied with ridiculously pathetic new lows in futile desperation (this is not a trivial occupational achievement)::

It starts with the pulling of the mesh roll, putting it on the wire held in one hand, glass held in teeth and lips, lighter in other hand well below partially unraveled screen. This, as is sometimes the case, is effective in unleashing the last bunkered-down, clingy enclave of billowing goodness which I Hoover up detachedly, and which conventional methods fail to accomplish. But success depends on several factors, which I know, and which are not likely to exist in any significant way in present trash-heap potentials. I proceed regardless. Heedless, even.

What that means in real terms is my taking out of every old crapilicious pipe, extracating the already charcoaled nub(bin), pulling open same to release black dust upon fingers, pants, and bed at least, sometimes catching it on fire, sometimes respirating black brackish smoke, often getting nothing nowhere, couple times getting excitement and signals I can’t keep up with or get all, and ending up with a mess. All while, specks usually and previously poo-pooh pshawed are picked and loaded. This is a long enough process whose dividends barely, if not quite questionably, stand-up to the drain. (see relevant numbs in following post) As if

that wasn’t enough, I loosely rolled back against the grain, pinched, and twisted the crustiered among the grills, stuffed them back in the gummiered/chalkiered/residoodyered of the stems, and smoked again. This, as the story goes, most often produced harsh effects and feelings at the back of my throat, and G-Force coughs to raise the floorboards and Jericho the walls to a passed out prone around me. One brought a loogie-loafette to my mouth, and not wanting it there, I spit it on my bed. On my bed. My own bed. At the very foot, opposite end of my sitting, mind out—I thought it out split-secondy like—but still.

I smoke my shit down to beyond nothing in the first place. Here I double recycled. This is an extreme sport. (Sport as in psychosis. You know.) Finally it’s, as if never it was before, time to hit the sidewalk. Hail me a cab and maybe a Mary for good measure.

Posted by peligrito at May 21, 2005 11:32 AM

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