You've Probably Never Heard Of Us
It was going to be a busy day.
First, I want to go to Fells Point and fuck little miss marybelle before her mom gets home at five o’clock. Then, I have to get to the warehouse and get fronted a quarter pound of weed and bring it back to junkie house and hide it from Dave before he gets home at seven o’clock. Then, I have to swing by pussy house, get $500 in cash out of the safe in my closet, and drive all the way to Columbia, to the house of a philosophy undergrad at George Washington University, who has 5 sheets, that’s 500 hits, of blotter acid, waiting for me tucked away in a Bible on his bookshelf.
But I have no car. So it’s the bus from pussy house to Fells Point to meet little miss marybelle, and bring the five hundred dollars with me, in my socks. I’ll walk three blocks over to MLK and take the 31 line down to Inner Harbor, then transfer to the Fells Point bus, then walk six blocks along the water to the park to little miss marybelle’s mom’s house. I’ll be there by 3:30, which gives us an hour to fuck. Little miss marybelle is just super hot, and afterwards I take a shower and use her mom’s pink soap, so I’m coming out of the shower smelling kind of like a fresh, clean version of little miss marybelle herself, which she finds terribly hilarious. I kiss her and smack her little ass, making her giggle, and say goodbye. Then, walk back up Eastern, take the Fells Point bus back to the Inner Harbor, then take the Charles Street bus to the warehouse.
The warehouse does, in fact, have some sort of legitimate use as a warehouse and delivery for something or other, but for us the warehouse was the tenth floor, which housed a state of the art recording studio, completely wasted on terrible, shitty punk rock bands, and a large room for shows, also wasted on crappy, shitty “hardcore” music. Just underneath, on the ninth floor, was some sort of flophouse for teenage runaway girls, teenage runaway boys, junkies, potheads, various freaks, and some sort of tribe of polyamorous goths.
Anyway, the ninth floor was where I was getting fronted a quarter pound of hydroponically grown “kind bud” as we used to say back in the day to distinguish it from “brick” the sort of shitty brown Mexican outdoor grown stuff that we could get from the Negroes or beaners – if, and only if, we had to.
But carrying around a quarter pound of really smelly bud in my backpack on a public bus is not a good idea as the smell would give me away not only to any cops that happened by, but any gangstas that might rough me up on the street corner. So, I take a cab back down Charles to junkie house, use my key to get in. Dave is not at home so I stash the quarter pound in the closet, in the wall, through a hole in the drywall resting on a horizontal stud between two vertical studs, right behind the sheet of drywall. It’s perfect.
So I roll a joint and wait for Dave to get back. When he gets back, we smoke a joint then get ready for the trip to Colombia. I tell him, make sure there is nothing at all in the car, no junkie fixins, no roaches in the ashtray, in fact no lighters, only matches for cigarettes. He’s parked three blocks down Lombard, so we walk down and while he’s squinting in the sun I’m detailing his car, looking for anything that would give a cop an excuse to fuck with us and search the car. He walks down to the corner store to get a coke.
I take the opportunity to empty his car of all sorts of nasty, smelly trash, leftover Chinese food boxes, empty soda bottles (what the hell is it with junkies and soda anyway?) and that sort of thing. I declare the car safe, light up a smoke, and watch Dave coming out of the corner store with two bottles of coke and a pack of Camel lights. He Dave gets behind the wheel, starts the car, lights a camel, declares “alright on the road dude” and as he’ll pulling out and heading west to the beltway, I fumble with the radio and tune it to 99.1, WHFS, the hipster radio station.
So far, so good, but things rarely go according to plan.