The Propagation

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May 22, 2005

Parkway Pals

+6
(Of course it turned into this. Don’t know why I still don’t either just plan on it or do some serious self-intervention to prevent it. Instead, I look forward to a natural wind down that never comes, while the marathon keeps creepin’ along.)

Have car drop me at Classon and Lincoln as usual so doesn’t look bad and can canvas St. John’s on way to corner. Lots of bidness gets taken care of in that stretch. But it’s like 5:30a. Quiet. Round corn and next to bodega window is a tall helper type (not sure if officially—though like Cuban prostitutes, it seems more often opportunistic than official—but at least to me, historically). I hit him up, he’s like what you need, I’m like “Dimes” with slight “duh” in voice, like what he think? But he says “1?” And I shoot back almost like “you’ve got to be kidding me, I’m too tired for these kinds of games”—almost—“No, six,” I say.

Okay, maybe I was stupid for not hearing ‘how many’ in his original question but damn, 1? But here’s the thing with me and this scene. I have no idea what the norms are, what the extremes and averages are; I need some goddamn benchmarks here, people! I am pretty really curious to know whether that I go through in a night is typical or atypical. High or low. Maybe just middlin’ mediocre.

I don’t know if he says 1 because:
- that’s a common buying pattern based on consumption patterns
- that’s a common buying pattern based on economic limitations/hardships/realities
- I’m white and assummed a light-weight
- or…?

Sometimes I get a slight sense—maybe because I want to—that six is a decent buy, mostly when people want to give me their card/phone number after, or are extra chummy like I’m their boy, or they mine—the case three times with me today. Besides, based on appearances along (or mostly), sixty bucks I imagine to be a respectable, chunkable outlay for the ‘hoodites of Crown Heights.

Stretch says there was just a guy out, damn where he go? stepping out and craning neck. I buy the traditional Gatorade (Go Gators!) and ask during change phase, you think he’ll be back, but stretch slides out and onward mumbling something that might as well have been Navajo. This is a (yes, capital P) Phenomenon with the CH crew. I rarely understand them well. Often I understand them quite terribly to not at all. As I’m wrapping up and pullng away from bode, I ask if I should wait, but that was just rhetorical and self-directed wonderment.

I go up to Eastern Parkway and sit on a park bench, drinking my ‘ade and smoking a Winstonian light king filter tobacco cigarette. I look over longingly at the activity hub around the bodega across the way. So close and yet a whole other microcosm unto itself, and for me another world, more hostile. Same basic deal as the St. John’s Bod but they don’t know me over there and I havne’t had good luck breaking in. Once got beat. Other time was threatened,told to get the fuck out,etc. but that, i think, was mosty this young, fancy SUV driving, doin-business dude that I ran into super late /early at other corner then again at other other corner, and he was paranoid about it, as little sense as that made. I did, for first time, wonder if a gun might be pulled on me. I wouldn’t have been surprised. Maybe I wrote the full episode out, or outline of it, in a book somewhere. Look for it. Hey, do a search here when all that keyed in!

After I while I walk back down to SJ and slowy around corner. It’s ghost town. I despair, but check my self, feeling okay. All right. But just around corner there’s a nice, black SUV with motor running. Windows too tinted to see that anybody in there so lucky I caught a wisp of exhaust out the corner of… I look over meaningfully. Do a micronod, pull up into loiter position, as guy’s looking out window at me: this could go either way:: like night I just mentioned, where he doin his thang and don’t like nobody, especially dapper white boys with cherubic faces and rosy cheeks., watching him, and he was going to let me know in no uncertain terms (well, quite likely terms whose individual meaning individually would certainly be uncertain to me, but collectively, I would surely get the message; the bottom line would not escape me). It looked like that a little, but I nothing to fear. I was just a poor strung out sap wanting to do some shopping. Get it done early in the day while it’s still cool and the crowds are away.

He stepped out and walked over, all hip-hopped out in white and red. Yo, what’s up—the superficially innocuous and innocent sounding (and norming acting) phrase that gets pregnant in a hurry in particular situations, like an unstable woman desperate to keep her husband from leaving her and believes that news of a pending baby willl halt the course of their estrangement…or, not really like that at all, but more like something else…). heh Anyway, I say six, he repeats six, starts back for truck thing, waves me to follow, we go around to drivers side where sits a woman whom is presumably his bitch/ho/girl/woman/baby momma. He tells her to give him six, & as she does he asks me if I live up on the parkway. Damn. Cuz I don’t really recognize him, but then I always mix ‘em up, stressful and fleeting as our encounters are. Used to. Aowh, yeah, cuz i seen you before up there, and around here. Why don’t you take my number. I immediately think that I don’t need that. As in I have several numbers and hookups for one. But I’m supposed to be stopping for two, so I really don’t need that kind of enabling easifying shit in my life. But I want to call this nice man, maybe say hello to the little lady, use his name, which is Ritty, which is a great name, a name that he spelled out for me readily, automatically as if he’s been playing Speak ‘n’ Spell (does that spelling-specializing educational product really misspell ‘and’ in their brand like that? Bizarre.) in introductions all his life. And I would like to hear him use my name—“say my name, say my name” says Beyonce, irresistibly. I would like Ritty to say what up D. like Max does, that little pretty boy four-eyes bitch at my beckon call—because I gave my name to Mr. Ritty of the dark van so that he’d know who was calling when I called, and I believe strongly that he will remember it. He gives it—the num—to me as I punch it right in the mobile cellular device, name and all. He’s a nice guy—a little less aloof and stand-off-ish than your average hustler. A trusting chap. But rightly so, no? I’m a good kid, in my own right and fairly high to stand-outing on the trustability scale. I’m harmless. Shit, I may smoke a bargeload of crack, but I do it in my own home—in my own room, no farther—and sit around typing. That’s it. Maybe look at Casual Encounters on Craigslist. I’m a doormouse, babyhoney. No fighting. No fucking, even.

I walk back slopeward hoping to get a car/cab on the way. Like said, not feeling all that needy (more like why not?) but hell, then I was freshly flush with sparkle and fade, crunchables, a half dozen pouchettes of white diamond, crusty sweet pearls. So I pulled out and loaded up walking down the sidewalk in the morning daylight. A one point a guy came bounding out of a building just in front of where I had paused to light up and he looked over at me but what’s he going to do, call the cops? Even if he did, would they come? Even if they did, could they catch me? Still, we flinch at getting seen/caught like that. Or most people do. I have long held the belief—and acted on/by that belief as a preaching practitioner or practicing preacher or maybe just a parishoner possessing paltry levels of prudishness in the pantry of his person(ality)—that obviousness can be the least noticeable, most DL. And it was funny to me in a little way the voice I took on in self-chit-chat and secret smalltalk as soon as I pulled the first melter and held it past 3 or 4 seconds: why I feel on top of the world, I observed.

I finally get my Lincoln at the mouth of the park, chat in Spanish to the Dominican driving it, and well, here I am longwinded as ever. And not sure how to spend most wisely my remaining 4 baguettes. Laundry is crucial since never able to do during week and only have week’s worth of clothes. Dishes and trash disgusting. Think I’ll crack out on that. But really want to get broadband going here, look at options, sign up. Be nice to work a touch on Makiva’s story. Could & should work on MT migration but think I’ve done enough on the ol’ blogs today—will put aside when done here—but then again, that’s most important, & interesting thing on my proverbial plate (really more metaphorical than proverbial, isn’t it? my bad. but people don’t think about such distinctions much.) Should email family, and a million other people, such as hoffenatorman, euskeres, my once suicidal and still struggling friend, for her sake, lord. And should I download that new(est/to me) PJ Harvey? I was (knowingly) foolish enough to download the iTunes special sampler/greatest hits, only for the interstitial talking done by that godgodgoddes. I just really needed to hear her voice again. Only a couple of the songs I ddidn’t already have. Okay, well, in any case and whatever I do, I’ve got to get to it while I can.

Posted by peligrito at May 22, 2005 6:51 AM

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