Verily decent neighborhood, the ours. No harassment from cops, nopes, no patrol car will ever take risks to get in if alone. It’s only in the all-out posse, with the sirens a-wailing so as to uphold their own courage. But there’s always a chance to run into an M2 or else into some of cheap China machine guns. The question of karma and stuff, you know.
Not much of manufactories here either. A score or there about of Northern Koreans day and night rattling their sewing machines in the basement opposite the bar You’ll Get It. A no never mind production line. Samely dispensable as those posterity of the Jamaica’s delegation to the International Forum of Youth and Students Organizations of the World, on the sixth floor in the tower-block where they keep packing coke for Don. Completely quiet, decent, and no trouble at all society members.
Well, yes though, last week one of their team took a dive from the window. Exactly as I was passing by for the lunch break, he plummeted a-singing his parting aria of the Lonesome Swan if you know what I’m about. High alt up to B-flat in the second octave and no doubt.
And in the right moment too. No one got damaged, of those uninvolved. With quite a tolerable precision value, in the sidewalk – sh-plumps! And keeps the classical supine position, the eyes plumb-up into the sky. Maybe, with a pinch of kinda reproach.
You’d never think the dude was a Jamaican brat. Sooner might be taken for a native from some state in southern India, by his looks.
And those two brothels too, under Thai Massage signboards, yet the nurses in the business are not so too tiny after all, same pod’s peas, each and every from the Middle Russia regions, not for nothing we have striven after joining the crowd of chip implanting globalization.
Not even a regular slot machine hall around, just a couple of clandestine rat holes for local gamblers in Three-Card Brag and Black Jack. Backwater, in short.
As regards those sporadic reports at night, it’s just youngsters trifling with their handguns. All in all, the hood weekly output rarely overshoots a couple of farting-bags with stiffs, on average.
And as for my nirvana where could it be from two minutes before the second slim?
Moderation and consideration, in keeping with good homeopathic manners, that’s my approach to pot. Two slims in the morning and two in the afternoon, after the lunch.
Not that I need much really, politely landed in the corner will graze a package of chips, I, or maybe a hot-dog, two at most. Cutie critters them those doggies, do not bite back. Then the spill of a cup of something from coffocoa line, atop – that’s my lunch in a whole day, and back I goes to my bench to watch the pulse of the business activities, while enjoying my third slim, and as for the wholesome joint its turn comes at night, code named “night-cap gasper”.
So, no way I would omit him any moment back but—here you are!—out of nowhere this feathered wonder, pelage a-bristle, hair style in the vogue of 60’s when children of flowers kept a-stirring their cultural revolution in the California beaches.
The jeans severed as knee-long shorts, yes, you could see it at a glance – not cut but severed, when he had put them on a boulder and chiseled off with a flat tool stone like an inadequate Neanderthal man. And from his bugged-out eyes befuddled looks in all directions. In short the famous lost picture by Rembrandt “A Hick at the Fare or Come and Fuck Up the Mark”.
Then, naturally, I lit up enjoying the free show.
After gaping for awhile he steers to my side.
"Where am I?" sez the wacko.
And it’s quite OK by me, shortly after a fresh slim I’m always ready for a chat.
"Welcome back to the planet of your likes, alien," sez I. "Yet getting the answer to your 'where?' you'll certainly go over to testing the waters about your squadron's landing spot, so why not to contact Dr. Serafimovich with your rickety questions directly?"
"And it's winter or summer now?" sez he. He did soar high that fucking hippie.
"It depends," sez I, "on the Tropic you are in. And where are you from?"
"Island of Freedom."
"Wow! Amigo marijuanisto! Cuba – si! Yanks – no! How is compañero Fidel over there? When is his exhumation scheduled for?"
To which he pinched his beard under the lower lip, jerked his head sideways and landed on the bench next to me:
"Most likely on Friday," sez he, and plumbed into a deep meditation.
That moment Mulatto Maya strolled along the sidewalk, a cherry babe in her sweet 16.
Paraded herself, in fact, and in an unmistakably motivated way, it’s not a walk but embellished writing. The chick used walking to write the eternity sign with her buttocks, conveying an open hint and promise, and well addressed too. I wonder what’s that hairy yobbo touched her soft spot with, eh? She never attempts at such calligraphy when passing by us two, the bench and me.
He gave her a dimmed look.
"Well, well," thought I to myself, "the case is not quite hopeless 'cause of the unconditioned reflex is in its right place."
"Take my friendly advice, tanned paleface, you'd better not horse around that young squaw whose Daddy earns his living in the You’ll Get It bar at the position of a bouncer. And if you’re looking for a place to stable your erection in, why, choose a ripe lady from the Thai Salon across the street."
"Like I were saying or doing a thing at all," answers he and falls back into his thoughtfulness, like a kinda model for Rodin’s Thinker sporting a full beard to his abdomen.
This moment, quite western-like, a sharp shadow drops across our communication. And no need to look up, I know whose it is. A nigga’s from the young blades in the neighborhood, that’s whose.
They are Don’s hands, not directly 2Bsure. His henchmen pass them dope, they push it and get some commission percentage. And all of them keep calling each other “nigga”.
The fucking Hollywood has fucking spoiled the fucking kids.
So there he stands demonstrating his skills at chewing the gum with his mouth open for three-quarters in the process, and never less. 'Cause of he’s so fucking cool! 'Cause of the day before he spotted some downy growth in his soft scrotum!
Those niggas they don’t hang out together in the street. Each one has the areal of his own, and his own henchmen – small fry errand boys to push the goods in retail trade in the school yards and rest rooms. Yet they keep a peeled eye on each other and seeing the next one leaves his anchorage in obviously cruising speed, they also cast off to follow.
It’s like those vultures in the Nevada desert in congregation on the same carrion from ten miles around. When my tube was alive The Wild Life As Is was my favorite.
Ha! See what I mean? One more is nearing, and now there are two shadows already cast together upon our bench. And what for? This here hippie hick is a barren ground, in toto, no need for a spyglass to see there’s nothing to rip off. Just his beard and the mutilated jeans. While about me, the street is fully aware that I’m a nasty mastermind, you push me around and soon enough there happens an accident, and if it’s just a brick from the roof onto your dummy dome be thankful to your lucky star 'cause of a quarrel with coot Chris goes for a bad omen, uncontroversial, about this here neighborhood.
