Note: Santa Rosa is a town an hour north of san francisco. This story takes place in SF though. Thanks for reading!
Necessity
I ‘m supposed to meet L. near Leavenworth and Jones, on Eddy. But I keep getting lost, and I’m calling his phone a couple of times too many. He’s impatient and testy, keeps hanging up without any see-you-laters or similar niceties. I enter the heart of the city and shiver a little as the sun sets behind the buildings, so steep and mechanical grey.
I’m a ghost here, one that everyone sees, my skin a milken hue that bleaches out the other white boys, the ones who make full time work of it all. There’s always that tanned filth about them, letting you know they spend their youth, like me, trying to hustle another day’s habit until nightfall and heavy sleep. A new day jolts them to the reality of another foggy dawn in the slums. They wear a tan the color of earth, like they shower under a nozzle of dust, but the sweat provides a coat and a cake to sooth their sad little souls.
But I never deal with the white boys, financially speaking, cause most of ‘em are middle men, strung-out, untrustworthy, and it seems best to me to hire dealers in the biz who’re just trying to make rent out in Oakland.
So I find the corner and it’s quarter after six, the sun already dropped behind the steel and glass, and everything takes on the icy slant of an early spring chill. I park parallel to a sidewalk, slouching down as I take stock of the surroundings. From the top of the hill, I gaze down to the next city block, and to the corner store where L.’s supposed to be. I’m calling him again and scanning through the people in front of the market. A 220-pound, five-foot-nine man answers his phone. He’s a brother, wearing a green camouflage bomber jacket—puffy and shiny: a plastic based textile that makes scratching noises as he walks by. He wears it every time we meet.
“Hey—El, it’s JJ. I just got here,” I say and then realize the ridiculousness of my self-christened street name. JJ…it just doesn’t seem to quite have it, that toughness...I mean sure, yeah, you might want to have it be kinda cute, like if your young and it’s something like TJ…yeah, that would be better than fucking Jay-Jay—how faggy it sounds...
“Alright-alright—…I’m coming up right now—” and he closes his flip phone and climbs up towards me, I watching it all. Can’t help to think how strange it is, to watch people talk to you from afar; and here I am: voyeur, philosopher, drug-seeker. Don’t think I don’t notice the way he darts his eyes around, him watching the cars and buses and cabs all fly by: back and forth and back and forth—ping pong eyes. Like a devious afterthought, a quick gloss of the tongue on chapped lips came to him. A ponder.
And now I slink further into my seat—my greasy body odor, my high BPM a’thumpin’—I think about this jungle which considers me dinner. I’m sweaty too, don’t-’cha-know, my stomach full of nervous bile, a narcotic emptiness. Dope-sick and parked on the left-hand side of a one-way street, and there’s L., walking counter-traffic, up-hill, on the other side.
And what’s this? A thin old man with a cane and limp is trailing behind L., wearing a cheap leather jacket. It fits loose and his hair’s lamb’s wool—a puff of clouds above an oily face. I see L.’s lagging in time with him, to wait up, and small clusters of scraggly pedestrians walk the curb around them. Who is this old dude?
I get out of the truck and try to stand upright, I try to broaden my shoulders, and my ass is soggy from the long drive. I’ve been lying in bed most the day but I now wear a lumberjack flannel and a ball cap from the pathetic job I work: 1-800-Got-Junk? No time for irony, you have to be real tuff here, I’m telling myself this, so I button up my shirt and pull down my hat to cover my eyes. I cross the street and catch up with L. and the old man.
“Yo—you just parked in front the PO-lice department,” he tells me.
I say oh shit, and he introduces me to his uncle. “This is uncle Charles, he’s gonna be helping you out tonight,” L. informs me. I’m assuming this man is somewhat of a front, as men this old aren’t usually hustling; and a cop’s gonna be a real dick to shake down an old timer. He rests his cane on his hip and outstretches his hand for a shake—Uncle Tom, shit-eating grin. Not only am I embarrassed, but I’ve grown suspicious of such accommodation. But we go on, and climb up to a corner building that houses the post office, and I’m trailing them about 15 yards to avoid association. Steve Chicago taught me this.
“You ready?” the uncle asks, and he means do I have the money prepared for transaction. We’re sort of hiding behind a mailbox, one of those four-foot tall, blue-painted bullets with the hinge-mouths for drop offs. And I know that this is the verge of the bone-chilling Tenderloin nightfall, and the assorted streetwalkers and hustlers are unassumingly encircled around me. Fish out of water metaphor an understatement, I swear everyone takes double when they see me. I tell him that I am indeed ready, but I’m playing it cool as I think of Hollywood stick-ups, plans gone to horror. Yet semi-relieved, though to my disgust, he reaches into the back of his slacks, pulling a plastic baggie out of his buttocked crevasse. There’s no time to cringe, and I give him the sum of over one hundred dollars, only to look to the dope and realize I’ve been significantly shorted. And to boot, what the fuck am I really gonna do about it?
I mutter an unnecessary thank you and head back to my truck, power-walking, and it’s twilight now, the cars rushing by with proverbial side-blinders on the driver’s peripheries; they’ll never make eye contact at all, not at this present hour. The outsiders are out: only bums and dealers, cons and tweakers. And there’s me.
So I finally cross the street, but now there’s yelling, and I can’t understand what’s being said; it’s booming, soul-sick aggressive. It’s calling on me. I just focus down on the pavement, burying my hands in my pocket, and feel my heart thumping in panic. I realize my dealer is yelling at me, and I can feel the whole seedy crowd watching this weird scene…the money is real!, the money is real!, and I never make short on the paper…I should be yelling at you, mother fucker…And I jam my key in the lock as fast as possible, I’m centered on survival, each movement precise with Buddha clarity.
I’m lurched into the cabin, simultaneously igniting the engine and reaching the handle to close the door, and right before I’m slamming it shut, I hear that voice again, insistent, knowing its power:
“Hey—look out for me…call me up!”—And I’m thinking, does he really think I have dealers in Santa Rosa?
Necessity
I ‘m supposed to meet L. near Leavenworth and Jones, on Eddy. But I keep getting lost, and I’m calling his phone a couple of times too many. He’s impatient and testy, keeps hanging up without any see-you-laters or similar niceties. I enter the heart of the city and shiver a little as the sun sets behind the buildings, so steep and mechanical grey.
I’m a ghost here, one that everyone sees, my skin a milken hue that bleaches out the other white boys, the ones who make full time work of it all. There’s always that tanned filth about them, letting you know they spend their youth, like me, trying to hustle another day’s habit until nightfall and heavy sleep. A new day jolts them to the reality of another foggy dawn in the slums. They wear a tan the color of earth, like they shower under a nozzle of dust, but the sweat provides a coat and a cake to sooth their sad little souls.
But I never deal with the white boys, financially speaking, cause most of ‘em are middle men, strung-out, untrustworthy, and it seems best to me to hire dealers in the biz who’re just trying to make rent out in Oakland.
So I find the corner and it’s quarter after six, the sun already dropped behind the steel and glass, and everything takes on the icy slant of an early spring chill. I park parallel to a sidewalk, slouching down as I take stock of the surroundings. From the top of the hill, I gaze down to the next city block, and to the corner store where L.’s supposed to be. I’m calling him again and scanning through the people in front of the market. A 220-pound, five-foot-nine man answers his phone. He’s a brother, wearing a green camouflage bomber jacket—puffy and shiny: a plastic based textile that makes scratching noises as he walks by. He wears it every time we meet.
“Hey—El, it’s JJ. I just got here,” I say and then realize the ridiculousness of my self-christened street name. JJ…it just doesn’t seem to quite have it, that toughness...I mean sure, yeah, you might want to have it be kinda cute, like if your young and it’s something like TJ…yeah, that would be better than fucking Jay-Jay—how faggy it sounds...
“Alright-alright—…I’m coming up right now—” and he closes his flip phone and climbs up towards me, I watching it all. Can’t help to think how strange it is, to watch people talk to you from afar; and here I am: voyeur, philosopher, drug-seeker. Don’t think I don’t notice the way he darts his eyes around, him watching the cars and buses and cabs all fly by: back and forth and back and forth—ping pong eyes. Like a devious afterthought, a quick gloss of the tongue on chapped lips came to him. A ponder.
And now I slink further into my seat—my greasy body odor, my high BPM a’thumpin’—I think about this jungle which considers me dinner. I’m sweaty too, don’t-’cha-know, my stomach full of nervous bile, a narcotic emptiness. Dope-sick and parked on the left-hand side of a one-way street, and there’s L., walking counter-traffic, up-hill, on the other side.
And what’s this? A thin old man with a cane and limp is trailing behind L., wearing a cheap leather jacket. It fits loose and his hair’s lamb’s wool—a puff of clouds above an oily face. I see L.’s lagging in time with him, to wait up, and small clusters of scraggly pedestrians walk the curb around them. Who is this old dude?
I get out of the truck and try to stand upright, I try to broaden my shoulders, and my ass is soggy from the long drive. I’ve been lying in bed most the day but I now wear a lumberjack flannel and a ball cap from the pathetic job I work: 1-800-Got-Junk? No time for irony, you have to be real tuff here, I’m telling myself this, so I button up my shirt and pull down my hat to cover my eyes. I cross the street and catch up with L. and the old man.
“Yo—you just parked in front the PO-lice department,” he tells me.
I say oh shit, and he introduces me to his uncle. “This is uncle Charles, he’s gonna be helping you out tonight,” L. informs me. I’m assuming this man is somewhat of a front, as men this old aren’t usually hustling; and a cop’s gonna be a real dick to shake down an old timer. He rests his cane on his hip and outstretches his hand for a shake—Uncle Tom, shit-eating grin. Not only am I embarrassed, but I’ve grown suspicious of such accommodation. But we go on, and climb up to a corner building that houses the post office, and I’m trailing them about 15 yards to avoid association. Steve Chicago taught me this.
“You ready?” the uncle asks, and he means do I have the money prepared for transaction. We’re sort of hiding behind a mailbox, one of those four-foot tall, blue-painted bullets with the hinge-mouths for drop offs. And I know that this is the verge of the bone-chilling Tenderloin nightfall, and the assorted streetwalkers and hustlers are unassumingly encircled around me. Fish out of water metaphor an understatement, I swear everyone takes double when they see me. I tell him that I am indeed ready, but I’m playing it cool as I think of Hollywood stick-ups, plans gone to horror. Yet semi-relieved, though to my disgust, he reaches into the back of his slacks, pulling a plastic baggie out of his buttocked crevasse. There’s no time to cringe, and I give him the sum of over one hundred dollars, only to look to the dope and realize I’ve been significantly shorted. And to boot, what the fuck am I really gonna do about it?
I mutter an unnecessary thank you and head back to my truck, power-walking, and it’s twilight now, the cars rushing by with proverbial side-blinders on the driver’s peripheries; they’ll never make eye contact at all, not at this present hour. The outsiders are out: only bums and dealers, cons and tweakers. And there’s me.
So I finally cross the street, but now there’s yelling, and I can’t understand what’s being said; it’s booming, soul-sick aggressive. It’s calling on me. I just focus down on the pavement, burying my hands in my pocket, and feel my heart thumping in panic. I realize my dealer is yelling at me, and I can feel the whole seedy crowd watching this weird scene…the money is real!, the money is real!, and I never make short on the paper…I should be yelling at you, mother fucker…And I jam my key in the lock as fast as possible, I’m centered on survival, each movement precise with Buddha clarity.
I’m lurched into the cabin, simultaneously igniting the engine and reaching the handle to close the door, and right before I’m slamming it shut, I hear that voice again, insistent, knowing its power:
“Hey—look out for me…call me up!”—And I’m thinking, does he really think I have dealers in Santa Rosa?
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