The Propagation

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June 7, 2005

The Daily Crack Count & Cop Report or "Copping & the Cop at the Copping Corner"

+6/7 (was the 100th customer?)

Straight from work to the bar to chill and unwind a bit from the crazy fast-paced, multi-tasking, hi-demand, kickinlicious day I had and of course I begin to drunk dial.

Well, I don’t even think I was buzzed; I’d been debating the buy-or-not-buy dilemma all day. And as sometimes happens, I’m impatient and go on down the list and then a couple people come through at the same time and then I’ve been flaky, and demanding, and head-fakey, and an asshole, and pathetic. I told Rich I’d come over to the block (he said he already had the “work” for me, proactive as he is, you know) and was en route when Max said he’d “come through for [me]” within a half hour, he was coming from Queens and would come straight to my place. He got back soon enough and was putting me first, and well, any excuse’s as good as another so, I stuttered a stanza and then said sure, and continued on to Rich’s. I’d buy from both.

Walking up the block I run into Ritty who greets me like an old friend in front of his little possee. He wants to help me. I say I’m meeting my boy up on the corner. He’s quick with the “who?” (I want it to be conversational but it’s probably more competitive). Then he tells me cops is out on the corner, so I correct and say I go to his house, which is close enough. I can’t be getting into explanations.

I round the bend and hear Yo from behind. Rich is with a bulldog and a buddy leaning on the train railing. He calls me into “the chicken spot” right there and we trade he on one side of the threshhold and me the other. I see him ahead of me take the bags out of his mouth where he’d kept them for safe keeping. I don’t have them well concealed just quit yet as I turn around and see that there’s a cop in front of me—not in my face, but up like 20 yards—and he’s looking at me or us or damn close. Bits of shiny plasticized white was poking out but small enough—but the interaction couldn’t have looked natural or any more give away, really.

There was no slick, smooth way out so I opted for a course reveral back into the chicken shack, try to make it look like I stepped outside while waiting for my order, how ever briefly or skittishly. I even ordered some fries for added verisimilitude and to give me an opportunity to stuff the stem in my sock and stash the little fragile gems—hardly dry of Rich’s saliva—in my mouth. Such a thing—unthinkable among you civilians—might cause a split-second of recognition and regret, if that; it’s par for the course, part of the job. I was a bit nervous about what at that moment suddenly seemed the inevitable bust. But the copper turned out to be either indolent or inobservant or maybe unintelligent. I then go park myself around the corner in front of the other cop while I flag down livery cars to shuttle me back to where I once belonged.

I pulled up right behind Maxyboy with that, my, impeccable timing, and leaned up into the window from behind with a clipped, brusque greeting, and scared the living African shit out of both those brothers, each by his own heart-clutching admission.

I add those two to the previous four in my shirt pocket and once upstairs and desemboweling my pockets, discover an extra Max style micro-mini-Ziploc, though Rich gets work packed like that from time to time. It was a bonafide mystery to me there for a while, but now it doesn’t seem so pregnant with possibility (I was wondering if a packett made it through my end of night pathetic pat-down and pocket-policing procedure and on through the washing and drying and processing and workaday wearing just to happen to be there in the highly unlikely same spot as the others I stored today. Who cares? Bonus. I guess. Make it a +7 up there!

So having two different batches at the same time was fairly novel and gave me the exciting idea to do a taste test, again, following on from yesterday’s topics and temas. What was once the famouso Pepsi Challenge became the Coke Challenge. Results were not surprising. Richie’s, which I have always deemed of more noble and unsullied pedigree, had less taste, even less body, which I think is due at least in part to the numbing it effects more readily.

Posted by peligrito at June 7, 2005 9:28 PM

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