Tag Archives: exquisite

StoryTime! …yay!

Its as straight-forward as it sounds. Story Time = a Time for a Story.

On with the show.

02 June 2007…
I don’t know if I’m tired. But I find myself on a cousin of the vinyl/plastic-y comfort of the mats that line all high school gymnasiums. In a certain New York suburban abyss, they were orange; here, I believe they are some sort of navy…. With my scratchy fiber-glass “blanket” that I am instructed to take from one in a series of garbage cans that hold things like scratchy blankets and useless sheets… And so, I feel absolutely exquisite!!!

…if not for the fact that I just ruined my entire life and/or the fact that I now share quarters with crack-addict middle-aged women felons in the felony tank somewhere in Van Nuys. I don’t even know where Van Nuys is. I understand that it is in ‘The Valley” though. A place where, unless required to by a work commitment, or a medical emergency, one really has no reason to be. No reason to travel over the wondrous Hollywood Hills to Burbank or Sherman Oaks. It’s like living in Manhattan and going into Brooklyn or Staten Island . Useless and time consuming.

But for not better, and much much worse, I find myself in the Van Nuys prison. I must side-track a second here and say that I was looking pretty kick-ass. My hair was still passable as awesome [growing out, but still boyish short and adorable at that] and I was wearing this totally unconv-trendy-like almost sea foam green Diesel t-shirt/dress-like, though sweat-shirt material ensem; completely off-the shoulder, it wrapped around just under my collar bone… with black capri leggings; lace at the bottom and ballet flats [this will become useful later].

After a myriad of finger printing and confiscating of bag complete with searching through and itemizing; counting of my cash; removal of all jewelry [rings, earrings, toe-ring, necklace… some of which I never take off]. I am sent to this random room then to holding cell; where I’m first introduced to bed-cots with aforementioned high school gym-mat mattresses while cold cold air blows on me. It is June in California , there is no reason that cold, cold air should blow on anyone. Though it is the valley, I suppose.

I am allowed to keep my jacket. In the holding cell, there are no scratchy blankets or useless sheets; and my exposed shoulders and bottom of legs POP with goosebumps. There is this one other chick in there when I get in. Sort of young like me watching some mind rotting reality-something on this television that is blaring it’s sound from the ceiling with it’s friend the cold, cold air. It’s like I’m on an ecstacy trip gone bad wherein all of my senses are hyper-aware of all that is uncomfortable in my immediate experience of the world and rendered unavoidable. [this is theoretical, mind you, I was not on ecstacy]. And this is also when I stop receiving information about what is presently and will happen to me.

I was arrested in West Hollywood probably a quarter of a mile from my house. The arresting cops were really nice. I dug them. And asked them a lot of questions about themselves. I mean, I was freaking out a bit, this was not part of the night’s plans or anything, but why not make it fun? There was this one rookie cop that was totally fresh off cop academy or whatever. I asked the other guy, seasoned and such if he’d ever killed anyone. He had not.

TO BE CONTINUED.

heh… I always say that.

It’s not a lie unless I die without continuing…

p.s. the fact that I got caught was surprising to me. kiko is above the law, you see. I mean, the rules never applied to me before this relatively ultimately debacle.

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An Ode to the Exquisite

Standing on the corner of La Cienega and Santa Monica, idly waiting for the bus, I look back and realize that, at one point, I was instructed to drive into the most steeply inclined parking lot behind me, to meet the guy that would sell me drugs in a match book. I bought meth from him exactly twice… this guy. I didn’t even know his name. But then again, I don’t think I really ever new my last regular dealer’s name either. Three regular dealers… one dealer agent, if you will (who, incidentally, also sold me the car that is presently impounded and hence, my present situation… the bus (but that’s another story… the impounding not his fault at all))… Two one-offs… All in the span of two years (with the exclusion of one of the one-offs)… A last frolick in Raph’s Ballfield, if you will, a few months ago… This is my California drug experience.

But in New York, there was only one.

…well, I guess I’m lying… there was Washington Heights guy, N and crew. My first regular dealer… but he’s not who I’m talking about. I am talking about reliable, lovely Car Guy… yes, he will be CG from this point on… Maybe two years of coke… The occasional varietal (Mary Jane for T and others, K, etc)… And though I had never dipped my toe into the wonders of meth… I would periodically ask him about it.

Before I’d even seen it in the flesh (in any form anywhere) I knew I needed it and I loved it. And it was me and I was it.

Weird.

But I prodded once or twice… never actually believing I’d see it… because I never had.

Then, one day, when the Coke runneth over… when it was no longer merely boring… when it reached the higher level of completely ineffective and stupid 5 months beforehand and I was content to bop around on ephedrine and caffiene with no trace or yearning for an illegal drug ever, CG calls me out of the blue.

He never calls me… I always page him.

But, on this occasion, he called me. And he had it. I mean, he didn’t even know what he had. A very close cousin… but the cousin that’s ripped, ruggedly handsome and smooth as hell. 4-MAR. And he had if for two years, so my veins pulsed with it for two years. Daily. I would call everyday. $50 everyday. Where ever I was, where ever he was (even as his wife was having his child)… it was okay. I met him by the hospital on 50th or so on the westside at a diner.

Of course there are always one or two-offs somewhere. In the early days, the chicks in the coffee shop (E, weed, other things, I believe), then the cook in the coffee shop (coke). And then visiting friends at school… but I was always the chick that got the drugs. Usually.

But I digress.

This is an ode to CG. Oh, lovely, lovely, exquisite CG. There will always be a little place in my heart for you.

 

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