::"... pothead..."::
... the cashier, a thin guy, 40-ish, seedy-looking; looking down to avoid looking at me, and muttering softly. Frankly, he resembled any number of drug dealers I visited back then on a regular basis. But here he was, the one cashier in a second-rate grocery store, willing to drag himself from whatever the hell it was he'd rather be doing, to mosey on over and sell me a 40 Oz. Here he was, subtly shaking his head side-to-side, *tsk tsk* fashion, judging me, me. Motherfucker.
He must have thought I was too high to notice, or maybe he looked into me and realized I was in such a condition that I'd rather buy the 40 and go drink myself silly than crack his shiny, balding, insolent skull. Helluva gamble, for that neighborhood. Oh, yeah... we were under surveillance, but you just don't make assumptions like that when transacting with a junkie, I mean, you don't want to set 'em off, or do you?
He'd made snide remarks to me before, like calling me "Superfly", presumably because of the $100 shades I sported. "Here's your change, Superfly." or "Do you want a bag for those Zig Zags, Superfly?"
That grocery store went out of business and the large section of strip mall it occupied has been vacant since '99. The entire strip is dilapidated, skaters shit in the bushes, homeless panhandle next to the bus stop. On some level, I feel... well, I guess I feel nothing. I don't look out of place when I pass through. A lot's changed. I'm not a junkie. The world acts like a junkie now. Nothing's changed.
... the cashier, a thin guy, 40-ish, seedy-looking; looking down to avoid looking at me, and muttering softly. Frankly, he resembled any number of drug dealers I visited back then on a regular basis. But here he was, the one cashier in a second-rate grocery store, willing to drag himself from whatever the hell it was he'd rather be doing, to mosey on over and sell me a 40 Oz. Here he was, subtly shaking his head side-to-side, *tsk tsk* fashion, judging me, me. Motherfucker.
He must have thought I was too high to notice, or maybe he looked into me and realized I was in such a condition that I'd rather buy the 40 and go drink myself silly than crack his shiny, balding, insolent skull. Helluva gamble, for that neighborhood. Oh, yeah... we were under surveillance, but you just don't make assumptions like that when transacting with a junkie, I mean, you don't want to set 'em off, or do you?
He'd made snide remarks to me before, like calling me "Superfly", presumably because of the $100 shades I sported. "Here's your change, Superfly." or "Do you want a bag for those Zig Zags, Superfly?"
That grocery store went out of business and the large section of strip mall it occupied has been vacant since '99. The entire strip is dilapidated, skaters shit in the bushes, homeless panhandle next to the bus stop. On some level, I feel... well, I guess I feel nothing. I don't look out of place when I pass through. A lot's changed. I'm not a junkie. The world acts like a junkie now. Nothing's changed.