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August 16, 2005
Sank the 8-Ball in the Pocket
+15, R, (price-wise; got the 8-ball; 1 main crystalline stalagmite, another vice-mitek, a couple at least dub-size: it was one of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen)
It was really cute. R is embedded. He moves in a very limited radius most of the time most of his life—aside from the occasional to D.C. [see the way-the-fuck-relatively-earlier post on the topic] or the Brooklyn Navy Yard to retrieve the impounded vehicle of his babyMama, he’s pretty much on the block, maybe a street, possibly two off (but only on the western side]. He’s very nice. He’s strict about his hands-off Hebrewism FriNights-SatSundowns. He’s fair. He’s etc., and yet he’s not one you can break through the exterior crust with and get beyond a low, curt and gravelled grumb. It is an even keel, if nothing else. We see each other plenty and there’s none of the chit-joke M and I spin for a moment or two each visit. So—getting to my point—we do the deal and I say, “Well, that’s the last one,” and we do a 2-stage special extended goodbye-mix handshake (I’m terrible at fancy hand jive communication rituals so two’s about my limit.) which that right there was enough for me. I mean, I was all emotional and choking back the tears, feeling sad as hell and empty inside at the thought of how I would miss seeing R everyday/night, but I was also scared shitless at what kind of cruel, sustained ridicule on the low end and severe beating, scarring, and violation I would suffer on the high end should I get caught crying, that it really helped me compose myself and choke back—way back—the tears. “I gotta to get out of here,” I say and he’s like, “Alright,” and we separate. I get a good clip going on so that the cops leaning over the subway railing at the end of the block would get the impression that I was on business, and as I hit my sidewalk stride I hear a call from behind me and I turn. And there’s Mr. Rough Exterior with his corn-rowed beard making his face look like a mask, and his arm stretched way up toward the clouds, waving as he says, “Have a safe trip down!” Then the hang-loose hand comes to the mask, “Call me…” he trails off, and I smile and raise a hand back his way. Awww. I turned back to my course with just a shade more glow. I was touched. Even if maybe the part I didn’t hear was, “…when you get back in town, you know, if you need anything.”
Posted by peligrito at August 16, 2005 10:12 AM
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