The Propagation

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May 21, 2005

More 1sts, Lovin Good-Time Camarad

+6

Walkin’ up St.J like I do. Three guys 1/3 back off corner, hear the ksht deep of Nokia walkies. Seems like they’re (or one/a/the leader) is checking clearance, safety up around corner, i.e. no cops coming or looking). They glance up at me as approach, which in that ‘hood—where an innocent friendly how are you, good morning, even hey is often met with silence—means something. One turns, hey, what’s up, how you doin’? You got something for me? Yeah, what you need. Six. Sixty. (keep walking slow, to see how they want to do). Yo, roll up here. One interacting points to one of others who pulls out little zip bag of bags. Hands to me nonchalent, open (got the okay around corner). That six? Yeh. That sixty? Yeh. Interacter puts sly something in hand. Not sure at first but go with. It’s business card.

**1st: dealer’s business card! Love it! Says: “C.E.O. of G.M.E./Raw Roots/or/Mike/(718)-[stet]678-2***/(718)-598-2***”

My number he helpfully explains (somehow my detest for adverbial writing finds exception in crack copping anecdotes where adverbs—especially their wholesome pollyannan control—seem to be a prickly funny contrasting maple syrup grenade of irony) as I look down to the extra goodie passed to my cupped at my military side hand. Oh, yeah, good, —a response from my having just needed such a thing. You come to Park Slope? We’re all cashzj on the surface but these things are a little frantic underneath. White boys don’t chat with the local coloreds. (even were they to want such intercourse, it would likely be roundly rejected) so the whole thing ticks like a timebomb. in that he must think I’m confused or doubtful because he says You know me. You know my face. Lift his hat to prove it somehow/why, yeh, yeah, do you drive? yeah, yeah, cool. i leave.

corner for pipe. they’ve moved my lemon-lime gatorade. as I’m getting my para in a brown bag there’s a guy next to me fiddling with plastic in a newport box and the young (19?) arab boy attendent is telling him not in here, take it outside, and guy is complaining/grumbling that it’s empty. during this his friend, a guy i recognize, turns to me and lights up, throws eyebrows up to hairline and past to the ceiling, & says something like we’re tight, that handshake that you pull in to bump or almost bump shoulders almost like ghetto hug or like tipping of hat version of male too cool hug for the homie, then awkard fingers coming apart & search-wondering if we’re going for final lock, or no,

**1st: big happy phys ghetto greet

he wanders out, I’m choking in my gatorade, he pauses at door, i’m good i say but he’s already asking if I changed my clothes—ah, yes, of course, my new best friend from last night. no, i laugh self-effacingly (!, crack stories with [adverbial] self-effacement rule!). same clothes. different jacket he yells pointing at it/me. nope. something different,the hat or something. yes the hat. yeah. i leave he turns part & raises an expecting look. i’m good. you good? i’m still walking. yeah. he calls out something like I ain’t gonna help my dog, or i’m going to fuck my boy or something beastial or pedo. he’s smiling but bummed about lost business. if it was another situation (i.e. legal) I would have yelled back that he should’ve given me a number when I asked for it. I woulda called. & paid transpo (if asked). I shrug, smile,armsout. and head up and into livery lincoln.

Posted by peligrito at May 21, 2005 12:35 PM

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