A Less Than Fictional Account of the Previous Nights Events

When this city gets cold and rainy it seems to stick for a few days. I always love it. Everyone I know complains, but I love the cold and the way it forces my hands into my pockets and squeezes my eyes into a hardened stare. I wouldn’t tell anyone else this but, sometimes, I like to imagine I’m walking through New York in the fifties. I look tough and I know it. So, with my hands driven hardily into my pockets, lips pursed, and my legs moving in a quick yet rhythmic stride I made my way across the parking lot to the slap of my feet against the wet ground and the distant thump of “tha bass in tha trunk”. I don’t live in the best neighborhood around here and I definitely don’t live in the worst...the consensus I’ve come to is “questionable”. I’ve heard stories of people getting robbed near here but I have a feeling that was less the neighborhood and more of a people being where they shouldn’t be situation. That’s right, I blame the victim in this scenario. Most people that have sewn their tales of danger from these parts begin their story with “Well, me and so-and-so were buying some pot…” thus discrediting any real grit and causing more of a “what did you think would happen?” reaction from me. I guess my message is this: “Kids, don’t judge a neighborhood by its criminal element if you’re feeding that same criminal element.” But, if only to get myself back on topic and lead this someplace closer to something other than rambling, I ran into said criminal element in said neighborhood and I fed. Technically I watered.

“Say, man.”

I kept walking. No one talks to me in this complex unless it has something to do with how I’m white, a “faggot”, or both.

“Eyyo…dude.”

I got in my truck, still assuming someone out of my peripheral vision was being spoken to, but my rear-view mirror told a different story. One of a large black man and his friend moving toward my window. I did what any half-stoned and paranoid, suburban-raised white kid would do in this situation and I locked my door. At this point, I forgot to mention, he was already at my door and requesting for me to roll the window down, which I did in the same motion as locking the door in a meager attempt to distract from my ignorant instinct.

“Is dee-dee there?”

I had no idea who he was talking about so, of course, I asked.

“Dee-dee, man, the dude that lives there too...blonde dude.”

I knew who he was talking about almost as soon as he started the sentence. My roommate (who shall remain nameless for the time being) sometimes tells people his name is “DD” or “Double D” in an effort, one can only assume, to seem a little more “hip to their jive”. I told the man I would soon find out is named “Bud” (how ironic, I wonder if his parent’s knew of his future profession…) that my roommate wasn’t home and that I was just about to leave.

“Ah, that’s cool then, tell him to hit me up when he gets home. I’m Bud. Hit this.”

At this point I’d like to omit what is a seemingly large and, honestly, the most interesting portion of this story for to sole reason of protecting myself. Just know that I, indeed, “hit it” and, after getting our new friend’s contact information, made your basic small-talk. The weather, business fluctuations around the holidays, the lack of quality girls around these parts and, when he sensed I was trying to leave, he told me to call him later.

I love a good businessman.