Verily decent neighborhood, the ours. No harassment from cops, nopes, no patrol car will ever take risks to get in if alone. Its only in the all-out posse, with the sirens a-wailing so as to uphold their own courage. But theres always a chance to run into an M2 if not into some of cheap machine guns made in China. The question of karma and stuff, you know.
Not much of industries in the hood either. A score or there about of Northern Koreans day and night rattling their sewing machines in the basement opposite the bar Youll Get It. A no never mind production line. Samely dispensable as those posterity of the Jamaican delegation to the International Forum of Youth and Students Organizations of the World, on the sixth floor in the tower-block where they keep packing coke for Don. Completely quiet, decent, and no trouble at all society members.
No, yeah, though, last week one of their team took a dive from the window. Exactly as I was passing by at the lunch break, he plummeted a-singing his parting aria of the Lonesome Swan if you know what Im about. High alt up to B-flat in the second octave, full and steady, and no shit.
In the right chosen moment too. No one got damaged, of those uninvolved. With quite a tolerable precision value, in the sidewalk sh-plumps! And keeps the classical supine position, the eyes plumb-up into the sky. Maybe, with the pinch of reproach, a kind of.
Youd never think the dude was a Jamaican brat. Sooner might be taken for a native from some state in southern India, by his looks.
And those two brothels too, under Thai Massage signboards, yet the nurses in the business are not so too tiny after all, same pods peas, each and every from the Middle Russia regions, not for nothing we've scrambled so frantically to join the lined crowd of chip implanting globalization.
Not even a regular slot machine hall around, just a couple of underground rat holes for local gamblers in Three-Card Brag and Black Jack. Stagnating backwater, in short.
As regards those sporadic reports at night, its just youngsters trifling with their handguns. All in all, the hood's weekly output rarely overshoots a couple of farting-bags with stiffs, on average.
And as for my nirvana where could it be from a couple of minutes before the second slim?
Moderation and consideration, in keeping with good homeopathic manners, thats my approach to pot. Two slims in the morning and two in the afternoon, after the lunch.
Not that I need much really, politely landed in the corner will graze a package of chips, I, or maybe a hot-dog, two at most. Cutie critters them those doggies, do not bite back. Then the spill of a cup of something from coff-or-coa line, atop thats my lunch in a whole day, and back I goes to my bench to watch the pulse of the business activities, while enjoying my third slim, and the full-fledged blunt's turn comes at night, code-named night-cap gasper.
So, no way I would omit him any moment back buthere you are!out of nowhere appeared this feathered wonder. Pelage a-bristle, hair style in the vogue of 60s when children of flowers kept a-stirring their cultural revolution in the sands of Californian beaches.
The jeans severed at knee-length to make them into shorts, yes, you could see it at a glance not cut but severed, when he had put them on a boulder and chiseled off with a flat tool stone like an inadequate Neanderthal man. And that befuddled glare, you know, from his bugged-out eyes in all directions. In short, the famous lost-and-found picture by Rembrandt A Hick at the Fare or the New Mark to Fuck Up.
Then, naturally, I lit up to enjoying the free show in full.
After gaping for awhile he veers to my side.
"Where am I?" sez the wacko.
And its quite OK by me, shortly after a fresh slim Im always ready for a chat.
"Welcome back to the planet of your likes, alien," sez I. "And since getting the answer to your 'where?' you'll certainly go over to testing the waters about your squadron's landing spot, why not to contact Dr. Serafimovich then, with your rickety questions directly?"
"And it's winter or summer now?" sez he. He did soar high that fucking hippie.
"It depends," sez I, "on the Tropic you are in. And where are you from?"
"Island of Freedom."
"Wow! Amigo marijuanisto! Cuba si! Yanks no! How is compañero Fidel over there? When is his exhumation scheduled for?"
To which he pinched his beard under the lower lip, jerked his head sideways and landed on the bench next to me:
"Most likely on Friday," sez he, and plumbed into a deep meditation.
That moment Mulatto Maya strolled along the sidewalk, a cherry babe in her sweet 16.
Paraded herself, in fact, and in an unmistakably motivated way, its not a walk but embellished writing. The chick performed a nice version of stylish striding at which they write the eternity sign with their buttocks, you know, outlining a direct hint and promise, Maya was, and well addressed too. I wonder whats that hairy yobbo touched her soft spot with, eh? She never attempts at such calligraphy when passing by two of us, the bench and me.
The addressee gave her a dimmed look.
"Well, well," thought I to myself, "the case is not quite hopeless, the unconditioned reflex is in its place, nimble and spritely."
"Take my friendly advice, tanned paleface, you'd better not horse around that young squaw whose Daddy earns his living at the Youll Get It bar embracing the position of a bouncer. And if youre looking for a place to stable your erection in, why, choose a ripe lady from the Thai Salon across the street."
"Like I were saying or doing a thing at all," answers he and falls back into his thoughtfulness, like a kinda model for Rodins Thinker sporting a mountaineer beard to his naked abdomen.
This moment, quite western-like, a sharp shadow drops across our communication. And no need to look up, I know whose it is. A niggas from the young blades in the neighborhood, thats whose.
They are Dons hands, not directly 2Bsure. His henchmen pass them dope, they push it and get some commission percentage. And all of them keep calling each other nigga.
Fucking Hollywood has fucking spoiled all fucking kids.
So there he stands demonstrating his skills at chewing the gum with his mouth open for three-quarters, in the process, and never less. 'Cause of his being so fucking cool! 'Cause the other day he spotted some downy growth in his soft scrotum!
Those niggas, they dont hang out together in the street. Each one has the areal of his own, and his own retinue small fry errand boys to push the goods in retail trade in the school yards and rest rooms. Yet, they keep a peeled eye on each other and seeing the next one leaves his anchorage in obviously cruising speed, they also cast off to follow.
Its like those vultures in the Nevada desert who congregate on the same carrion from ten miles around. When my tube was alive The Wild Life As Is was my favorite.
Ha! See what I mean? One more is nearing, and now there are two serrated shadows cast together upon our bench. And what for? This here hippie hick is a barren ground, in toto, no need for a spyglass to see theres nothing to rip off. Just his beard and the mutilated jeans. While targeting me is out of the question, the street is fully aware that Im a nasty mastermind, you push me around and soon enough there happens an accident, and if its just a brick from the roof onto your dummy dome be thankful to your lucky star 'cause a quarrel with coot Chris goes for a bad omen, unopposed, about this here neighborhood.
"Hey, nigga," sez I, "whats the message in your Whats up? If there are doubts about my interlocutor then his papers are clean, the guys on the AWOL from Santa-Monica."