Making my way from the Powell's technical bookstore on Broadway to Ground Kontrol (the locale hosting the celebration of Brian's 29th birthday) I feel the unexpected pressure of an arm across my shoulders. The arm belongs to someone I have never seen before, someone who must have slipped behind me while I was absentmindedly dreaming of places where lovers have wings, and as I remove the earbuds blasting white hot krautrock into my skullspace, this gentleman casually forces a tinfoil packet into my unoccupied hand.
Keep in mind that I had not said a single word to this individual. I hadn't even noticed him until his arm was on my person. Something about my obliviousness or my manner of dress attracted this fellow to me, and perhaps he believed that while I'd intended all along to score some rock that evening, I was too timid to approach a dealer myself. Surely, he'd note to himself, once the drugs were in my possession I'd be eternally thankful for his forthrightness in the matter.
Still a little befuddled, I look at my new friend and say something like "uh, hey there?"
Arm coiled 'round my body, he says (these ar "it's premium fucking shit, man. That's gonna fucking send you to the fucking moon, ya know?"
The best I muster is a monotone "Ok." There had been some doubt before that moment as to what, exactly, was going on, but I was now certain the tinfoil in my hand was not holstering some Orbitz gum. Still, I was unclear as to what illicit substance was being forcefully sold to me -- not marijuana, I'd surmised, so most likely bogus LSD?
"30, man, just 30 for that," he says, grinning like a machine designed only to grin and sling rock.
At this moment, he half takes the package out of my hand and begins to unwrap it, making sure the shit's still partially in my possession so I can't just bolt from his presence. Inside, three slightly yellow, misshapen objects of varying sizes gleam underneath streetlamp light.
Now, I've listened to a whole lot of Raekown's "Only Built For Cuban Linx," both parts I and II. The brothers Clipse have told me that, after you've added the Pyrex and watched it gel with the cocaine, a kitchen counter top can remind you of the first Noel. But now I am confronted with real crack cocaine outside the rap milieu, and I feel rather perturbed by it. I gently push the packet towards my pusher, but he's having none of that.
"C'mon, you want this. Just hold it. Hold it and tell me you don't want it." The drugs are fully in my possession now. The fight-or-flight response kicks in, along with a patently batshit crazy idea to run like hell with the dope, because, hey, free drugs. I didn't really want to use them myself (although I'm deluding myself to think I wouldn't have smoked that rock, having no willpower and a great enjoyment of cocaine), but surely I could use this fellow's aggressive technique on another sucker. That's 100% profit. This crack could be the Troubled Assets bit in a personal TARP fund.
Luckily, I notice a phalanx of my pusher's companions nearby - running now would surely result in a ruthless ass kicking, at the very least. Still, I wasn't going to buy fucking crack cocaine on the goddamn street. If nothing else, Street Fighter III Third Strike needs my money more than this dope slinger, and I have exactly 15 dollars in my wallet.
"You know what?" I say. "I'm not spending 30 bucks for drugs tonight." The words are too ambivalent and I deliver them sheepishly into my chest. This is taken not as an outright rejection, but rather an opportunity to barter. The price drops to 15. It dawns on me that I cannot expurgate myself from this without parting with something, be it money, cigarettes, or my "getting hit in the face by strangers" virginity, so I take out the three loose dollars in my jacket pocket and hand them over.
So that was weird.
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