I dread these days. I wake up lonely, I slept like a wild animal, kicking, bucking like a horse….my bed soaked with sweat. I had nightmares, I had hallucinations, I swung my fists and elbows wildly all night. I think I didn’t get to sleep until I cried myself there. The clock was checked every seven to ten minutes, frantic that the morning would come too fast. And now it’s here. What am I going to do with it? I know I don’t want to get high, but I know I don’t have a choice. The searching for ways and means to get money, the desperation, it’s too much to bare. But I know I can’t go back to sleep. That hour and forty five minutes that I was asleep is not going to hold me. I look out the window to see if her car is outside, as my hearing is faulty due to sleep deprivation. I’m disoriented at best. No shower, no teeth brushing. No talking. I gear up, strap on boots, a hoody, baggy jeans, gloves and a bubble vest. Knife in pocket.
On the road, my gas light is on and I am easily disturbed at the glares I get from other cars. My paranoia will not allow me to drive my car to the block anymore and I’m not about to spend this cash I have on gas. There is a burn mark of a tire on my driver’s side front door from a car that tried to run me off the road on Park Heights two weeks ago, they didn’t catch me though…I know that area, the short cuts, the alleys, the dead ends, like the back of my hand. I know where the narcos will be and where the rollers post up. I avoid them like the plague.
So I park at the Metro where I’ll ride the train in. There’s a stop right on my block, Coldspring. Before I board the subway I check to make sure I have everything. Two needles are stashed in my dip (the slot I cut out of either the fold where my zipper is on my jeans, or the flap on the fly of my boxers) I got 18 dollars cash (my boys will take a short, I’ll be fine) I got my knife, a book bag filled with a jacket, a half filled bottle of water and some random trash from days prior.
When I get in town, I cop what I need to get well, pleading with one of the many dope boys I know, and that know me, that if they could just cuff me an extra bag I’ll be back shortly. “Come on dawg, you know me, I’m on this block every mother fuckin day, I always come to you first, and I always come back. And shit son, you still owe me for that PSP I traded you last week, you only gave me ten bags for that and it was supposed to be fifteen. Remember?” He agreed, he gave me three extra bags on top of the two I paid for (one of which was 5 dollars short since I spent 3 to ride the train).
I hike to my boy’s house off Wabash. I scoop enough out of each bag to get well with, but leave enough to still sell the bags. They’ll be dimes to most, but if someone stumbles in to this shooting gallery either stupid or sick, I can sell them as 20’s, claiming that that’s the size of em out there today. “And what yo, you gonna go cop your own? Nah son, you’re not allowed on that block and you definitely ain’t going in the hole where I copped these at. They don’t let white boys in there.” This was true for the most part, they really didn’t. So that’s how my days went a lot. Either hiking or biking back and forth from the shooting gallery to the dope hole and back. Shorting everybody on every sale, and staying high.
Yesterday however, I was not in any dope hole. I was not on any block. I wasn’t on a subway. I wasn’t dirty, desperate or sleep deprived. No body pissed me off on the road and I didn’t need to beg anybody for a favor.
I woke up on time, from an alarm clock, left the house on some personal business picking up someone on the way, got some good news, then I went and picked up my son who spent the night at his cousin’s house. I grabbed both my son and his cousin and went to the pool. It was very nice out. My mom was at the swim club when we got there. I sprayed the boys with sunscreen and relaxed. Watching them, and all the other people. If I slow down, and just observe the people. I see G-d everywhere. Especially in the littlest of children. They are so pure. So we spent a few hours there until my son caught a shot to the mouth from a wayward kick-board in the water. His tooth was already loose but it was bleeding now. I consoled his tears away, down played his agony but still let him know that I felt his pain. Then we left and stopped off to get pizza on the way home.
During dinner I had a blast. It was the best meal I’ve had in a long time, not because of the food, no. Because I was in the moment. I was centered, everyone was laughing. And then it happened. Right in the middle of having a mouth full of pizza while talking, my son stopped mid sentence, “WHERE’S MY TOOTH???”
I hopped up, ready to relieve him of choking on his tooth, when I looked down at the pizza on the plate, and saw his little front tooth jammed in the cheese of the pizza. We all had a good laugh at that. Then we made funny faces at each other and I took the boys on a hike through the woods.
After finding a rabid fox baby, and calling animal control to come get him, I went from being an adult to an 8 year old again, playing and joking in the woods with my son and his raspy voiced cousin. I love that kid’s voice, he sounds like The Godfather but eight years old.
When my son and I got back to the house after dropping off his cuz, we had root beer floats and then went to bed. I played the tooth fairy for the first time in my life. It probably meant more to me, than it did him. But I’ll never tell, not until he has his own child. This morning he was thrilled, and I in turn, went outside, had a Newport, and thanked G-d, feeling just as thrilled as an 8 year old little boy who just scored from the tooth fairy.