"What is that shit you are listening to?!" He rudely interrupts.

Anyone who refers to Queen or anything Queen related in a derogatory fashion is instantly a fucking asshole to me. I don't give a shit how punk rock or how hardcore a motherfucker you think you are, Freddy Mercury was everything to me. Queen is probably too sophisticated for this person. He probably thinks House of Pain is gangster rap.



I hate when people come from the suburbs and try to dictate to me what I must like because I am getting them drugs. I am sorry. Do all junkies only have a few musical choices? Must I be playing "Jane says" "All apologizes" or "I'm waiting for my man" on a loop? Who knows.

Since I spend so much time working people out of their cash, I have become skilled at lumping them into categories. In my mind, there are three kinds of dope fiends.First- There is "I got a job Jason/Jill". He feels superior to everyone because he doesn't have to go out to the streets. He feels as if he isn't really addicted somehow because he has a steady source of income. The dog is fed. He can squeak by at family gatherings. He may even have a girlfriend know as Clueless Cathy. She thinks he just smokes pot and drops bars now and then.Second- there is "I'll quit tomorrow Tom/Tiffany". So many trips to rehab/detox, so little time. They can tell you both the 12 steps and how to get 60 cents on the dollar from any gift card. They bounce from their parents to the apartment of the person the left rehab with a few months back. They don't just relapse, they take hostages. Everyone falls in love with them with that sweet smile and their Innocent drag. They look as if they never used a drug in their life until the day they got you hooked.Finally, there is "I have nothing left to lose Suzie or Sam." You left them middleman for you from time to time unsure if they are going to return with your product. They are the kind of user that mixes benzos with dope every damn time and swears they are sick with the most pinned eyes. They carry syringes in a little kit. They tie of with shoestrings. They no longer have illusions that this train is headed anywhere besides DOWNTOWN. Jobs are a burden. Friends are hard to come by. But dope- dope is the north star that directs their every move in the universe filled with dying lights. That- that was me."How long is it going to take this guy to come?" he asks me as if I really fucking know.Twenty minutes is a lifetime and I am sure it has been twenty minutes. I can see from the crowd that is gathering Flacco, Pablo, Chucho, or whomever is actually going to be here soon. The dealers like to get crowds together in little groups so they don't have to come out more than once.As quickly as I can put together my thought, I see the gray Impala heading down the street."Okay," I tell him "give me your money. I will be right back."He fumbles towards his pockets."Seriously," I tell him "hurry up before he sells out. There are a lot of people waiting."He hesitate "wwwhy can't I meet the guy?" he asks me.Because dumb fuck. That is why I am here."He is going to think you are a cop," I tell him. Duh.Just as we are arguing, two guys get in the back of the car. I wave for the driver to wait. He points and gestures. Five fingers for five minutes. FUCK."See this bullshit Jason," I told him "Now we have to wait. Don't you trust me?"Those words hung in the air like the San Francisco Fog, like the smell of piss in the Tenderloin. Of course, you could trust me because I needed his money to get my boy to give me an extra bag, I thought. Trust is a funny word. Trust is fluid to junkies. Trust is subjective. A real friend, a boyfriend could trust me like 80%. A person I considered a lop or a lame or a mark could generally trust me because I needed them to come back to me again.My train of thought was broken by the sound of car breaks screeching. I saw the same two dudes bailing from the back of the Impala a few blocks down. That was odd, I thought to myself. Drivers generally did not like attention. A few minutes more then I saw the Impala whip around the block. As Pepe or Enrique or Manny, pulled over, I noticed he had some napkins pressed against his neck.Jerk off Jason slapped $60 into my hand as I ran to jump in the car. The door was locked. I pulled on it again. I felt my life flash in front of my eyes. WHY WASN'T HE OPENING THE DOOR? Like a dope sick bad dream. The driver put down the window just a crack."Pinche pendejo. Those fuckers robbed me!", he said. He pulled back the napkin. A small trickle of blood appeared. Then I knew. It was common practice here for junkies to rob dealers with uncapped syringes. They would stick them up to their necks "Give me the chivah or I will give you el cida". Jason's $60 and my come up for the day didn't have a chance. Shit.And then, a miracle of epic proportions.It was if the clouds parted and a balloon appeared. A gift from Junkie Jesus himself.. A small, very underweight, very cut, very stomped on gift was passed out the window. They hadn't gotten everything. "Por gratis." He gestured as if to tell me stay RIGHT HERE. He would be back. I would not.As the Impala drove off, Jason ran up to catch up to me. I was done with him. I threw him his money. I got what I needed."What about meeeeeeeee?" he asked.What about you, I thought."Wait here," I told him "he will be right back". I knew he wouldn't. This driver was done. Some quit. Some got busted. This guy, he was fucking done. That would be his last run, I thought. I never saw him again.I threw my headphones back on. "Can any body find me- some body tooooo love?"