(no subject)

[lwoodbloo]

Paul sat on fire escape on the east side of his building, number 27 east
168th. The metal framework was wearing through the light beige paint,
product of a grant a decade ago to improve an unimprovable neighborhood.
Paul had come in on the tail end, having dropped out of community college.
The classes just swam by in front of him, like seals at the aquarium; he
appreciated that they were there, sure. But It wasn't making a dent.
Somehow, college wasn't anything like he thought it was going to be. So he
tramped it down 17, caught a ride with a trucker on 80 going towards the
city, his only fare an unpleasant evening in the back of the hairy fucker's
truck. He grimaced at the thought. Not having to do that again was a decent
trade for the long walk over the GWB. He had thirty or so nickel bags of
good weed, probably worth more than what he sold them for. Repeat biz was
important to him. No one complained when they were high, he observed more
than once. Having sold all of his product, he found himself with more than
enough cash to get himself a studio up here in spanish harlem. He set up
shop there, not adding much to the place. He didn't feel like he needed
art; the lights of the skyline at night, and the people out the window
providing him with as much amusement as he could stand. He did indulge
himself a high quality futon; with the recent addition of innersprings to
the mattresses, they were infinitely more comfortable. That, and they were
close to the ground. Paul felt like falling out of bed was a chronic
affliction for which there was no cure. Paul stood up, stretched himself,
and took a peek inside his black backpack. Yep, still there. About forty
plastic cases, each with a nice fat piece of good bud. Paul stood up, slung his bag
over his shoulder, and ducked back into his place. the window closed behind him with
a pleasant thud. He took a quick look around, smoothed his short brown hair, and headed out the door. He stopped outside, and smiled to himself. He took out his keys and turned
the new deadbolt on the door. He checked his pager again. That drama group down in the village wanted some good hydro again. It was worth going down there even when he wasn't
dealing. Washington square park was a nice place to spend a spring day like this one. And he might see her.

Her. He didn't know her name. But she sat in WSP some days. Most times, when Paul would wait for people, he'd find a park, pull out a paperback, and throw down some pages. Usually, he'd go with some bad sci fi or fantasy, because in some ways, that's the definition of the genre. But he'd discovered some new authors, courtesy of this frosh from Kansas City with a ridiculous book collection. So, one day, he was sitting there, in washington square, reading Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson. Paul took to carrying a mini websters with him just for this stupid book. But, page by page, he was making headway. And loving every page. And he looked up, smiling to himself about Amy Shaftoe and Randy finally getting it on....and there she was. Dressed in a long black duster, with brown curls spilling over her collar, walking and reading the same book he was. She never once looked up, never once collided with someone or anything. Paul mused to himself at that moment that this was a sign of true divine grace, and that this was someone he wanted to talk to. He looked back to his bag, put the book in the pocket...and she was gone. He cursed that moment. But now. Now he was going downtown to that storefront theater off west fourth, and would wait down there for other biz. He hopped on the D train, bound for Herald Square. He sat back, put the bag next to him, and knocked out for a while.

He woke up a couple of stops from his, and noticed that the car had filled up quite a bit. He pulled the bag to himself and stood up, getting to the door, and readying himself for the walk through the station. It's a big station, the one at west fourth street. You can walk from one side of the street to the other without even getting out of the station. Paul wasn't a believer in interacting with taxis in the city. He believed that he was a taxi magnet, and that to lessen the possibility of becoming road pizza, travelling on the subway would be best. He put his hands in his pockets, and started walking. The day was gorgeous, the sky obstinately old testament blue.

It was funny who you saw in random places in manhattan, especially when you worked in the industry like paul did. He had to laugh at that term. Industry. But yeah. He would see clients every four or five blocks or so. Paul remembered Gavin Rossdale from Bush, musing about weed in an interview once. He talked about it like medication, like prozac or xanax or ambien. When you're on the road in stressful conditions, he advocated, nothing takes the edge off like good hydro. He unconsciously patted his bag. Washington square park came up on his left, and he sighed. The journey was good today. He navigated his way through the narrow streets of the west village and knocked on a nondescript door. Three or four snaps and crackles from the door later, and it opened with a creak. A young woman came to the door, her hair cerulean.

"Are you the guy, with the stuff?"

Paul almost shook his head and left at that. Why did they need to be so fucking cryptic?

"Yeah. That's me."

Paul walked up three flights, exhaling raggedly at each landing. For christ's sake, couldn't these places get ground floor accomodations? Paul figured that those were taken up by brothels and mafia fronted businesses. He figured those were the only people who could afford the rents. The blue haired woman opened the door, and Paul followed in. It was one of those local theater places, with no more than forty or fifty seats, and the stage was just the front of the place. Paul put his bag down and sat in the front row. There weren't more than four or five clients, and Paul was ready to deal. He smiled, and gave his spiel.

"Hi. What would you like? I've got jamaican blue mountain weed, grown in between the coffee plants, hawaiian lava field bud, and some hydro that an old friend farms. It's sixty a box, 110 for two. It doesn't get better than this." And he waited. People were usually kind of suprised at the forthright nature of what he did, and even these drama queens couldn't muster up much to say for a couple of minutes or so. The gent in the back, long hair, one of those ironic mullets...must be from billyburg, paul thought, spoke up.

"Gimme two of the 'dro. Do you have papers?"

Paul always bought a box of Bambu papers at the beginning of the week. It amused him to no end that these high class potheads had not a rolling paper between them. Paul remembered a time up in OC when he had smoked the last of a friend's shake in the sports page of the bergen record. You've come a long way, baby, he mused. Paul dug out a package of papers, two boxes of hydro, and waited for the exchange to occur. The guy with the mullet handed over $110, and got his weed back. The others, spurred by their compatriot's nerve, all started jostling one another, thrusting money at him. Paul put up a hand up, and everyone stopped.

"Everyone's gonna get some. If you stop pushing each other, and jostling me, everyone's gonna get high a lot faster. Now sit down." Paul had this command voice that he could use occasionally, it was his "Future Farmer's Of America" voice, because he was an FFA president in high school. They still had those upstate. Paul took the next person, which was the blue haired young woman who, according to his trained eye, was not wearing a generally necessary undergarment. She jiggled quite fetchingly, and Paul had difficulty not looking. Paul saw himself as a gentleman, but an engorged nipple, obviously pierced, printing itself against a thin white short was a sight to see, and not to be ignored. So you had to be covert as to not look like a pervert. Even if he was. So he looked her in the face, half a smile on his lips. She stepped up, handing him sixty.

"Jamaican. Is it nice and skunky? I like it when you can almost smell it through the box. It's like walking out of your room when you've just gotten laid, you know?"

Stop a moment. Paul received this phrase in his ear, and we're going to analyze what this might mean. It could be an innocent comment. However, Paul is well and aware that she's likely seem him staring at her tits, which he has taken into account. It is entirely likely, then, that this is a litmus test come on. To see if he's (a) interested, (b) not gay, (c) not a eunuch, (d) any combination of the above. Paul may have a command voice, but he's not smooth. And considering that he's likely just been propositioned by a quite fetching young lady with as yet undetermined total number of piercings, which are just up his alley....this could go badly. Let's snap back to the real world.

Paul blinked. Once. Twice. He thought he heard this voice...then dismissed it.

"Yeah, I guess. The Jamaican's good today."

Paul handed over a box. The blue haired girl hesitated, and looked him in the eye.

At this point, let's all shout, "PAUL! YOU DUMB FUCK!"

Paul stumbled and started to talk again, "Um...hey, what are you doing after this?"

She stopped to think. "Nothing much. Was going to go to some dive on seventh and B for beers, but I'm really flexible." She said that last word with a smile on her face that was lascivious at a base, and many many other things.

Paul's heart nearly stopped at that.

"Um, okay, yeah. I'll meet you over there, maybe in front of Manitoba's?" That was Paul's hangout. The Handsome one could pour a beer like no one's business.

She smiled again, this time showing even teeth that had the marks of many years with a retainer.

"Celene." And extended her hand.

"Paul." And extended his. They shook. Paul remarked to himself how much of a dork he was.

Paul took care of the rest of his business there, unaware that Celene was watching him. Paul is Captain Oblivious, and wouldn't know a girl liked him unless whapped in the head with a brick, and handed a note to that effect.

Paul walked out of the theater, his head still ringing with her voice. Paul
remembered a girl like that from when he was in high school, with a smile
you could hear in her voice. He ordered a dog and a welch's from the guy on
the corner, and walked back to the park. He unwrapped the foil and inhaled,
the fresh frank's heady aroma deep in his nose. He found an empty bench and
pulled out a book. He hadn't read more than three or four pages when
another heady aroma drifted across the little cul de sac he'd inserted
himself in....patchouli, only not. One of those other incense scents,
sandalwood, vanilla maybe? He picked his head up slowly, and not ten feet
from him, there she stood. She was leaning up against one of the few elm
trees they hadn't cut down recently, dutch elm disease being the scourge of
the parks in new york. He wasn't one to stare, but he couldn't not look for
another couple of seconds or so. Even in May, as it was now, she was still
wearing that long coat. It almost looked like a cape, except, of course,
capes didn't have sleeves. And, now that she was standing still he could
get a good look at her. She was curvy, not heroin thin like so many of the
women he saw on the streets. Maybe it was that jail time, but he couldn't
resist a firm ass. Actually, Paul thought, I should NEVER EVER think of
that again. Think women, Paul. She had those cupid's bow lips, full too.
Her hair was that auburny brown that came from a bottle, but worked so well
that you didn't concern yourself much with it. Paul shoved himself over
into the corner of the bench and cleared his throat loudly, putting his
head down into his book, but also keeping his eyes out for any approaching
interlopers. This was her seat if she wanted it, and Paul really couldn't
make it more obvious unless he walked over, kissed her, and led her back
here. Why stop here, though? Homeward bound, then! Paul realized that he
was quite getting ahead of himself, after all she wasn't actually....and
Paul's reverie stopped at a pair of black 12 hole Doc Martens stopped in
front of him. Paul slowly looked up into the visage of an angel, his angel.
At least he hoped so.

"Seat taken?"

Paul suddenly had the ability to speak swahili, ancient attic greek, and
castilian. But no english words approximating "Yes, I've been waiting for
you to sit with me for my entire natural life" popped out of his mouth. He
simply gestured to the emply half of scarred up, green painted bench. She
slid down to one end of the bench, brought her entire lower body onto the
bench, stretched her legs, and opened up her book, a ragged trade paper
copy of Cryptonomicon. The cover was matte black and reflected nothing
around it. Paul found himself retreating into his corner, putting his body
between her and his messenger bag. There was an uneasy detente for a while,
her Doc clad feet encroaching on Paul's beat up black jeans. It wasn't that
Paul didn't want to touch her, far from it. He just didn't know what she
was getting at. This seemed more like poking one of the boys in fifth grade
with a pencil than some sort of advance. Paul wasn't sure what the move was
in this case, but then, he rarely did. So he just acted natural-like. He
picked up his welch's and took a long pull. The purple elixir cooled him
down a good bit, and he couldn't stifle a smile as he realized that it was
all good. All of it. What could be bad? He heard an amused giggle from the
other end of the bench. She was watching him! He turned, still smiling, and
said what came natural.

"What you laughing at?"

"You looked so happy with life, I couldn't help but laugh, thinking what
made your life so pleasant. Although, a bit of the welchito is nice, and
Powers is a damned fine writer, and it is springtime in the park, so hey, I
can totally relate."

Paul considered castilian for this next moment, but decided that english
would be his best bet.

"Well, I love living here, especially during the spring. And Welch's is my
favorite soda. And this isn't Powers's best work either. Last Call is much
better than this. This is one of those 'you can read it by itself, and it's
okay, but it's much better if you'd read more of the author's work because
you'd understand it better.' You like Stephenson?

She nodded and smiled.

"I remind me of America Shaftoe, kinda. I too, am flagrantly exotic." She
smiled and laughed at this.

"This I've got to hear. How is this so?"

"Well, I'm a CS major, I read science fiction, and I role play some. The
sorority girls at New Paltz were real surprised when they asked me about my
interests and they didn't involve boys, drinking, and clubs. Although, I
like clubs. They're throwing weapons with a ten foot range increment."

That was a joke. Not just any joke, but a role playing joke. Paul wasn't
quite sure that he'd heard this quite right, and wasn't sure to ask.
Laughing was out of the question. He gave a crooked smile, and the
girl...she had a name, and he'd find out what it was, she was visibly
crestfallen.

"Um. Ten foot range increment, get it? Right?"

Paul's sense of humor suddenly returned from bermuda, informing him that
its arms were tired, and oh! That was a joke, dumbshit. A joke that a
pretty girl told you. Laughing would be appropriate, nay, required in this
case. Get to it, soldier. Paul chuckled, then laughed a little harder as
her face transformed, then started to cry as she started to laugh too.
Apparently, detente had progressed to most favored nation trade status, a
relief to all parties involved. Paul sat up on the bench, then turned so
they were facing one another. There were three or four seconds of silence,
and then Paul sat back, opening to the page he was at, and began to read
aloud. The as yet unnamed femme looked a bit confused.

"What is it that you're doing?"

"Reading to a stranger. Looked like your book was getting boring. You hit
one of the Bobby Shaftoe battle scenes? Those always killed my
concentration. Trust me, this is better."

Paul continued to read about Koot Hoomie Parganas, enjoying the rich
details about his first meeting with Crane, Mavranos, and Diana. Then the
worst possible thing happened, well, besides rain. His pager went off. Paul
sighed.

"You got one of those leashes too? The company I do desktop support for has
me on one of those too. Funny how it gets turned off exactly when I'm in
the shower, right?" She laughed again. Before he left, Paul realized, I do
need to get this girl's name and perhaps some method of communication.

"Can I call you sometime?"

"Well, first off, call me Amy. And my number is 212 587-3802."

Two phone numbers in one day. This was not a typical day. But first, Paul
got going over to a pay phone, and called in to the office.

"S'me."

"Paul! Hadn't heard from ya since that last delivery. How'd it go?"

"It went fine. You got more for me? I got plenty of stuff."

"Yeah, there's one off park avenue south. 27 east 14th street. Nice couple,
they're looking for the nigerian stuff. Make sure to sell them at least an
ounce."

"Yeah, got it."

Paul hated talking to that unctuous fuck. It was like getting mucus on your hands when you sneezed, and it was all you could do to get the shit off you. He tried to be curt and to the point, avoiding the soiled feeling as much as possible. He pakced his shit up, stuffed it in his bag, and faced Amy. Her face had that clotted cream and roses look of one who is rarely touched by the sun. His arm involuntarily jerked upward, the impulse to run a hand across her cheek near uncontrollable. But control it he did, pulling his hand back as if burned on a stove. She smiled.

"So. Off to a call?"

It wasn't lying to say yes. So he did.

The train is no more than three blocks east of washington square park, and Paul covered the distance quickly. He started to smile at the idea of this errand; older people always had cash on hand and didn't haggle about prices. That, and you respected their acumen, in general. They knew their cannabis, and you couldn't mess with the bad stuff. It was always good, clean smoke, no seeds and stems. It reminded Paul of some of the more idyllic summers upstate, the smell of fresh dried bud, crackle of papers, the feeling of a long hard draw of good clean smoke. Yeah. Except, the idea was not quite as exciting. Kind of like watching a movie in black and white that you've always known in color. It had lost its shine, its pizzazz, its....fuck, he didn't know what. But it wasn't there anymore. The train was coming to his stop, and the doors opened, ringing as they did, like announcing the change of the guard at some castle.