Drug Deal

So a few months back in the middle of summertime I was low on puff so I called up Jose in Rosecrans to score some of that sweet bud he was holding on the side.

No problem bro he says.

Come on down.

"Cool."

Slowly coming down many stories off my forgetful high ~ glassing my head on straight I grabbed my keys and some cash and drove the Beast w/ass fire speed down the 405. Beast is the scratched up, blue on blue '72 Nova – lookin’ cool though.

  Blasting the Doors ~ Strange Days  .  .  .

Bunch of wavering fuckheads out on the road tonight not willing to get committed to the punch of the cock. Barbed wire freeway signs ~ impossible graffiti overpass ~ this yellow street light barely survives but I’m already gone in my Chevy.

LAX planes fly overhead coming back hoping to see it as they left it. Casino on the roof top calling it overtime ~ homeless and dignity break open the wine.

Drug deal going down at 7:00 p.m. right after little league. Seventy miles an hour. Coming up quick on his pad.

So I get there and I slowly and inconspicuously roll up one house past his. I shut the Beast down and I go inside looking over my shoulder on the way in. He’s bench pressing weights right in the middle of his living room; finishing up a set he was, one sofa, one tv, and one incline bench press machine.

How ya livin' baby?, he says to me.

"Cool man, cool."

Alright ~

You got here fast, here . . . have a hit. ~ and he hands me a glass pipe.

"Cool."

And then the usual drug dealer / customer chit chat bullshit goes on for about 5 min. with no meaning and then

"Listen man I gotta split. Got this thing I gotta do w/my girl’s family, you know."

Yeh sure ~ no problems.

"A’right then."

Cool.

Got me a fat sack to go and a choking toke for the road.

  Beatles’ Rubber Soul on the way back . . .

405 North gassing the Beast w/pressing speed against the wind and the solo ~ getting near home I cool the lead foot down. Hawkeye like a motherfucker on the lookout for motorcycle riding pigs. They don’t seem to like my look.

So I catch my off-ramp and I turn the corner at the liquor store and what do I see? ~ but a little 5 footer, shit-faced, high cheek boned, crossed-eyed drunk Central American Indian lookin’ dude pissing into someone's gas tank.

And he's looking around over his shoulder making sure no one's watching his

dumb ass and I’m like ~ What the fuck man?!?.

So I did what I always do when I’m in my car and I catch a guy urinating in public ~

I honked at him.

A long time. Loud Chevy Nova horn.

This fucking idiot then actually turns his whole body around, and he's still pissing but now on the tire, and he has his moment of brilliance ~

Wachu wan meng?

Jew on sumteen?

And I’m thinking ~ what a chunky shoe-wipe this guy sober must be?!?.

I started busting up and just kept on driving 'til I got home. I parked in my spot, shut the music & the engine off and walked up the walk. Stuck the key in the top lock, opened up my white door and stepped inside.

You know, there's nothing like that  .  .  .  welcoming smell of your own home as you step inside. It’s a peaceful thing.

Got me a nice fat sack to get my head on-kilter. Got my music & my pens to write me outta my mind. Not bad for a Monday night that started me out in the dumps.

I guess I will make it after all.

October 1998
Victor Millan