I paged D. and because I didn’t have anything better to do, I ended up accompanying him on his afternoon rounds. Sadly, his truck was impounded in March. I feel for him. That shit was bad ass—but not in a played out bling bling kind of way. D. doesn’t front like he’s big pimpin. He’s got a wife and a kid. His ride was what it was—a shiny black pick-up. A gilded workhorse. After 9/11 a plastic american flag flapped wildly on its antenna. I won’t tell you what he drives now except that it’s vastly inferior. Actually, he has several cars as well as an entire collection of bikes, scooters and ATVs. This particular vehicle, however, was lame. I wore my shades and pretended that I was undercover.
hey. i love those movies like donnie brasco and deep cover where the cop goes in all the way down and stays there, trying only to do his job and breathe the air and check the scenery but the situation gets twisted as situations so often do…he makes money, gets girls, befriends the antagonist, that goddamn perfectly cast Lucifer character—the rebel angel so dashing and charming and strong and good looking that everyone’s cunt throbs in and out to the bass beat of the dolby decimals…
In the tradition of grand theater plays, a decision is presented, padded by suspense and chase sequences and an uneven hip-hop soundtrack: Will our hero turn to the dark side and take up a life of financially rewarding crime?
(Or will he kiss his one true love instead? Will he pull her to him and press his chin on her shoulder, his cheek against her hair, taking in the scent of her. Will he get to close his eyes and finally achieve that state of Just Letting Go that’s so often touted in the lyrics of pop songs?)
At some point between clients I stuff my money under the stereo that’s hardly ever on. D. pushed his long hair behind his ears. He fumbled around for a bag, talking about his wife and son, and then about the girls wearing nothing up in his neighborhood.
“One thing I like about the heat—the clothes come off on the la-dies,” he shot me a questioning look as we hooked around and pulled out on the West Side Highway. I think he’s trying to find out if I’m gay.
I don’t mind, he can think and say whatever he wants. As long as he keeps coming up with those next level trees, it's all good.
eight-three-five be smokin the la-la-la
Jennyeah be smokin the la-la-la
anti and whitey be smokin the la-la-la
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