May 29, 2005
Made the Old Woman Cry for god'ssakes
Well, anyway, just
checking in with a Plus Four as I finish it off. Doin’ Dubs…
Everybody was all chatty. Really funny. I could see a stir, almost a frolic down on the block as I walked down Franklin. People out. Moving about. With some quickness and or lightness. Though the big paddywagon and the big generator-powered tower of lights were there and on respectively, there wasn’t a foot patroller/loiterer/spyer (sp? spier?) in sight, and folks were footloose and fancyfree.
One of my boys came on up to me and I handed off forty in the handshake, whatchu got?, I need four. Aoh (like let down), I only got dubs. Give me two, then. [This is a thing that happens with some regularity and a thing that I consistently fail to understand: you ask for a certain quantity, normally meansured in the standard dime units, and they gotta break the bad news to you that they only have double dimes, as if it’d be a deal-breaker or a difficult issue-if-not-impasse. Especially if you specified a multiple of two—four, six, eight—it’s easy as hair pie. And, regardless. I want a certain amount, give or take; the number of bags it comes in is immaterial. Why they don’t just do it automatic, not even say anything, is a little out of my reach of comprehension. But then, it belies—almost smacks of—customer service! They want you to be informed, involved, consenting, and, most of all, satisfied! They care about you! They’ll take that extra time. Defer to you on a seemingly trivial matter, because it might not be so trivial to you. That’s your money. Good money, too. And they know they need to acknowledge that. And they do!] And I sashay up on ahead around the corner. Lit a Winston as he canvased the real dealers. It varies. I’m pretty sure he isn’t just a runner all the time. I think he’s got his own shit, but what do I know. And what do I care?
He’s quick. Approaching. They good size? I inquire. They good size he reassures. Then starts talking about his number and about me calling him and I have to suddenly acknowledge my sudden recognition of the chap; it’s the guy who gave me his business card. I say, too, that when he gave me the thing I asked if he’d come out to P.S., and he’s all Yeah! ‘Splains that Not for two, you got 10, I’m out in the Slopes. Then backs off a bit. You know [worth while blah blah blah], 6, 7, in there.
Then Ritty calls out Yo from his passenger side car windo. He who I’ve called at quite unholy hours. But who haven’t I called at such times? He got his big woman, that skinny tall nigger, drivin’ him around again, what he think he special? No, joke. I’m just a titch touch abashed. And he hits it. You called me at what, 3:50. Yeah, you know how it is, I plan to be ending about that time, but sometimes [always?] you keep going. Sorry. That too late?/You can call me any time./I can call you anytime, you might not be ‘round, but I can call you?/You call me./Coo…I’ll see you later {drifting off along sidewalk}/You straight? [I bought right in front of him.]/Yeah, I’m good, man, thanks. [‘man’ gets employed way too often. Unintentionally. It’s my ghetto talk. Embarrassment verging.]
Another couple first downs up the sidewalk, a little man is buttin’ down on the rail that goes over the subway shuttle viaduct. I’m friendly. What’s up? He sounds good, though a little reserved and mumblish. I get a safe distance past him and he calls up, I got twenties. Oh, I’m good, man, thanks.
I call Marta from G.. Es usted Marta. Si. I need a car…one comes. It’s a man from G. We connect. He lives over in Fort Greene now. We connected on that too. That and peasants being assumed guerrillas. He tells me about how the quality of FG has ebbed and flowed with the drugs. Used to be more drugs. Back further, used to be less… I don’t ask if I can toke on the way…
Posted by peligrito at May 29, 2005 8:07 AM
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