Steven Hunley
02-10-2011, 06:38 PM
Mouth Full Black Tar Dreams
By
Steven Hunley
The pavement was still wet from the rain. Above that the threatening clouds were pushing through the sky at an alarming rate. Only black on their bottoms, only grey on their tops. The air smelled of danger. Just as raindrops were forcing circular patterns to flee to the edges of the puddle at my feet I recognized the splash of predatory boot heals on the puddled sidewalk. Raymond was walking toward me as though there was trouble on his back or in his mouth. Around the leather ankle of his boot was a silver bracelet that had once been on a woman’s wrist. Due to her habit, she’d lost it in trade. It featured a piece of blue turquoise surrounded by a silver setting. In contrast, the cuffs of his faded blue jeans were ragged, tattered and stringy.
He had no money. He was often broke. He didn’t spend much on his clothes. Such people’s pocketbooks have other concerns. Illegal substances, which there are laws against possessing or being under the influence of, were of far more importance to him. A man like him had priorities.
His cheeks were sunken. Typical. His eyes were pinned. Typical. He was smoking a cigarette so typical of him. Multiple addictions were his style. If you could use it, he could abuse it. That’s just how he was. Being strapped for cash didn’t bother him either. Soon he would have mine.
You see, my eyes weren’t pinned. They were bright and their pupils normal. My attention was focused. My voice was in the proper register. That’s what was wrong with me. I was much too normal. I needed to adjust something. My consciousness had been screaming,
“Adjust me!”
I suffered from a deadly disease. Normal consciousness is what I called it. I was bored to death. A serious adjustment would be required. I would do it with the substance he was hiding in his mouth. Either you know what I’m talking about or you don’t. If you don’t then keeping reading. You’ll figure it out eventually.
He recognized me. He should of. He’s known me for years.
Out flashed his sinister smile between yellowed irregular teeth. The smile was for free. The dope wasn’t. Depending how sick you were its price was beyond measure yet,
“Twenty or twenty five?” he asked.
“Twenty-five,” I answered, “they’re bigger.”
I loved saying that for more reasons than one.
With all the bags in his mouth it was a wonder he could talk at all. He was a regular Mexican Demosthenes. And why not? He’d had plenty of practice.
He sorted them out with his tongue. That was OK with me. They were double-bagged. One time when he was making local deliveries, he came to the house just after he’d been hassled a few minutes earlier by the man, and said,
“Got a glass of water?”
He took it out back and drank it down. When I returned a few minutes later he was barfing them back up, then searching through the fresh cut green lawn with stubby brown fingers sticky with sputum. Splashes of green cilantro, black greasy carne asada, and red Tapatio sauce littered the lawn like Jackson Pollock. What an artist Raymond would have made. If he’d had to wait much longer they would have slipped farther down into his system. We might have waited days. Still, the stuff was good sh*t, if you know what I mean. It would have been worth the wait. That is, if I could have waited. Usually I couldn’t.
But this was on the street near the bus stop in front of the Union 76 station on Atlantic and Compton Blvd. There’d be none of that here.
I handed him a twenty.
“Here,” I said, “I owe you five.”
“Typical,” he muttered and took it. He always took it no matter what.
He knew I’d spent two bucks on bus fare and more on the payphone. It had taken several calls and three hours of time to get his *** moving. He was slow. Dealers always are. They know you’re not going anywhere.
One time an old timer and I were talking about Hector in San Diego. He was known as The Snail.
“You could get well waiting for Hector.”
Funniest thing I ever heard.
Dealers think part of their job is teaching you patience. Like Maestros. Like Divas of Dealing.
I took the bag, wiped it on my jeans, thanked Levi Strauss for my manners and popped the danger in my mouth to be safe.
He started to leave. But I had one more question. The one I always asked.
“As good as last time?”
“Better,” he cautioned, scratching his nose, “So be careful.”
You had to love the guy. He spoke with concern of himself and you in the same fetid breath.
“Always am,” I answered candidly.
We were closer than brothers. We were partners in crime.
I saw the bus approaching and hopped on when it pulled up.
Even though it was sprinkling and cold, even though it was getting dark outside and damp, even thought the day was doomed to make its end straight out of Edgar Allen Poe, I’d already started to feel warm and comfortable. The adjustment had already began and I wasn’t even home yet. Or maybe I was.
Maybe it took the Devil inside to warm me up.
By
Steven Hunley
The pavement was still wet from the rain. Above that the threatening clouds were pushing through the sky at an alarming rate. Only black on their bottoms, only grey on their tops. The air smelled of danger. Just as raindrops were forcing circular patterns to flee to the edges of the puddle at my feet I recognized the splash of predatory boot heals on the puddled sidewalk. Raymond was walking toward me as though there was trouble on his back or in his mouth. Around the leather ankle of his boot was a silver bracelet that had once been on a woman’s wrist. Due to her habit, she’d lost it in trade. It featured a piece of blue turquoise surrounded by a silver setting. In contrast, the cuffs of his faded blue jeans were ragged, tattered and stringy.
He had no money. He was often broke. He didn’t spend much on his clothes. Such people’s pocketbooks have other concerns. Illegal substances, which there are laws against possessing or being under the influence of, were of far more importance to him. A man like him had priorities.
His cheeks were sunken. Typical. His eyes were pinned. Typical. He was smoking a cigarette so typical of him. Multiple addictions were his style. If you could use it, he could abuse it. That’s just how he was. Being strapped for cash didn’t bother him either. Soon he would have mine.
You see, my eyes weren’t pinned. They were bright and their pupils normal. My attention was focused. My voice was in the proper register. That’s what was wrong with me. I was much too normal. I needed to adjust something. My consciousness had been screaming,
“Adjust me!”
I suffered from a deadly disease. Normal consciousness is what I called it. I was bored to death. A serious adjustment would be required. I would do it with the substance he was hiding in his mouth. Either you know what I’m talking about or you don’t. If you don’t then keeping reading. You’ll figure it out eventually.
He recognized me. He should of. He’s known me for years.
Out flashed his sinister smile between yellowed irregular teeth. The smile was for free. The dope wasn’t. Depending how sick you were its price was beyond measure yet,
“Twenty or twenty five?” he asked.
“Twenty-five,” I answered, “they’re bigger.”
I loved saying that for more reasons than one.
With all the bags in his mouth it was a wonder he could talk at all. He was a regular Mexican Demosthenes. And why not? He’d had plenty of practice.
He sorted them out with his tongue. That was OK with me. They were double-bagged. One time when he was making local deliveries, he came to the house just after he’d been hassled a few minutes earlier by the man, and said,
“Got a glass of water?”
He took it out back and drank it down. When I returned a few minutes later he was barfing them back up, then searching through the fresh cut green lawn with stubby brown fingers sticky with sputum. Splashes of green cilantro, black greasy carne asada, and red Tapatio sauce littered the lawn like Jackson Pollock. What an artist Raymond would have made. If he’d had to wait much longer they would have slipped farther down into his system. We might have waited days. Still, the stuff was good sh*t, if you know what I mean. It would have been worth the wait. That is, if I could have waited. Usually I couldn’t.
But this was on the street near the bus stop in front of the Union 76 station on Atlantic and Compton Blvd. There’d be none of that here.
I handed him a twenty.
“Here,” I said, “I owe you five.”
“Typical,” he muttered and took it. He always took it no matter what.
He knew I’d spent two bucks on bus fare and more on the payphone. It had taken several calls and three hours of time to get his *** moving. He was slow. Dealers always are. They know you’re not going anywhere.
One time an old timer and I were talking about Hector in San Diego. He was known as The Snail.
“You could get well waiting for Hector.”
Funniest thing I ever heard.
Dealers think part of their job is teaching you patience. Like Maestros. Like Divas of Dealing.
I took the bag, wiped it on my jeans, thanked Levi Strauss for my manners and popped the danger in my mouth to be safe.
He started to leave. But I had one more question. The one I always asked.
“As good as last time?”
“Better,” he cautioned, scratching his nose, “So be careful.”
You had to love the guy. He spoke with concern of himself and you in the same fetid breath.
“Always am,” I answered candidly.
We were closer than brothers. We were partners in crime.
I saw the bus approaching and hopped on when it pulled up.
Even though it was sprinkling and cold, even though it was getting dark outside and damp, even thought the day was doomed to make its end straight out of Edgar Allen Poe, I’d already started to feel warm and comfortable. The adjustment had already began and I wasn’t even home yet. Or maybe I was.
Maybe it took the Devil inside to warm me up.