“I’m kinda low on green. Would you bring me some flowers?” Angel is always so polite.
“How much you want? I can hit the dispensary before work.”
“Damn, I only got a twenty. Can you go small?”
“Heh.” I made it sound dirty. She smiled. “I got an idea. Keep your $20 and I’ll just bring you something.”
I’ve been around weed for nearly four decades now. I’ve never been into marketing; I sell groceries for a living, and all the pot dealers I knew ended up hating their clientele. I love my friends, and don’t want to see them like that, so I just don’t deal. But I’m also the guy who will go score you some, because I’m a sucker for a pretty face and I hate seeing anyone crabby.
Angel is getting girlfriend benefits, whether she realizes it or not. The sacks get fatter, I’ll slip things into her purse, etc… When she sends me to the dispensary, she has specific requests. I oblige those requests, but I also am a frugal weed-hustling SOB, so I kick in a little to get better deals. And I tax her, just like everybody else.
Except I keep her taxes, until a rainy day, then rain down on her the benefits of my squirrely ways. Much like the State of Oregon, I decide when you get your tax return.
Angel and I have been sharing little gifts, a medicated cookie here, a box of Girl Scout cookies there. (However, if her birth control pills are shaped like Fred Flintstone, I’m gonna have to bail…)For Christmas, Angel gave me an airtight bottle for storage of the green. “I thought about one with just a leaf on top, but then I saw The Hot Bitch and decided my guy needs a hot bitch. So there ya go!” The lid of the jar has a Playboy Bunny (blonde) on top. (Don’t tell Angel, but I’m going to superimpose her picture atop the bunny.) Of course, it became my immediate prized possession, and sits on my desk, showcasing only the finest sativa buds. Okay, maybe a hybrid or an Indica might sneak in there, but mostly I keep the peppiest upbeatest finest buds on display.
It’s also Angel’s bottle. Her “taxes” go in there, and when she only has a $20? Daddy can slip her enough blown-mind to keep her squinty and grinning until payday. And when she becomes a regular in my room? She can tap the stash without worrying, because it is hers. Her previous boyfriend once called her a “bag of bitches”. (I don’t see it, personally.) But since I have so much fun with that information, I have dubbed her stash container the Bottle ‘o Bitch.
When it came time to cross paths, she was walking with a co-worker. “Imma cutter.”
“That sounds like a major mental health issue. May I recommend a tranquilizer?” I was smiling, Angel wasn’t. “I’m a cutter” slowed down translates into “I’m going to cut her.” One of Angel’s underlings was being a handful.
“Why, hello sir! A pleasant day!” We shook hands, palming. Her eyes got wide when she felt the heft of her $20 bud. “Are you sure?” She lost the anger, but didn’t break character in front of her associate.
“You can hang on to the money a couple days, and I can reload then,” I said.
“NO.” She slipped the bill in my pocket, and gave my butt a squeeze. Man, I love it when she does that. I didn’t argue. I mentally filed the $20, it would go into a future bag, buying big so we can keep it small.
“Hey buddy, my phone is turned off. Just got your email. I’m broke as a joke today. If you still need some hair love write me back please? I need ten bucks to turn my phone back on.”
A typical note from Rain? Nope.
It was Clairissa. It just so happened that I had the day off, and I had ten bucks. And then some…
“We need to talk.”
From my tone, I doubted she would show. When she walked in, all smiles, I nodded to her and told her to make a cup of coffee while I cleared out the store. I didn’t want a bunch of witnesses if things turned ugly.
After everyone left, I met with her in front of the porno rack, where we first started conversing five years ago. I gave her a hug, and said, “I’ve got something to tell you. Things have changed, and there’s someone else in the picture now.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means that I’m devoting all my energy to chasing her and not going to be seeing anyone else.”
“What does that MEAN?” she asked again, giving me the eye signal that usually has us pantsless within a couple minutes. There was no mischievous smile. Thank god. She’s still just as beautiful, and I am weak.
“It means we won’t be doing it anymore.”
“We still friends?”
“Of course. I still love you, I always will. Three years is a long time to be with someone. I am happy and excited and I hope you understand I’m getting something I’ve been wanting for a long time.”
Rain finally smiled. “You got ya someone, huh? Is it the cute little black girl from work? You guys seem to be hitting it off lately…”
“Yeah…” I didn’t belabor the point. “You and I? We cool.” I smiled. I didn’t need to remind Rain that she once babysat my new love interest.
“Okay, I’ll get my stuff out. Can I come next weekend, after I get paid? I’ll put it in storage, I guess.”
“Thank you. Um, call first?…”
There has been a lot of introspection of late. I’ve spent the past few days, actually weeks now, riding the bus and trying to figure out what I want to do.
I’ve put a lot on Angel’s shoulders. She’s a sweet woman with problems of her own, but she has taken time to ease me down from mine. While sharing horror stories, she gave this analogy: “I feel like a ball of tin foil. If you just throw away the ball of tin foil, how you gonna know if anything good was inside? You peel it back, you might just find something awesome.”
I cook with tin foil all the time. I buy the big roll, and have gotten pretty good at unrolling and unballing. I’m more than happy to search for the prize.
But first I need to put out some small fires. There’s been too much dysfunction, too many half-truths, untruths and downright lies. I want to relax with my partner. I want to tell her all, instead of holding back anything that might be used against me. I need to get away from that.
Angel reminded me what it’s like to be close to someone without the need for emotional body armor. She’s a sweet woman, a smart woman. And she knows we both need a lot of repair.
If we put out the small fires, we might be able to build a huge bonfire.
I’m gonna need some fire-proof underwear…
Nothing right back. She’s at work, but gets a break about 10. She’ll text me then.
When I awoke the second time, at 11:28, still no text message. At 11:30, my wristwatch alarm went off. The gut started to churn, that sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach began to grow. Stood up again? Angel isn’t typically like that. She’s not quite as bad at reading a clock as Rain; she will text me if she’s running late, but it’s usually a few minutes, not a few hours. Still, I’m walking on oily glass here. Can a fella get a break?
I showered, got all prettied up. Brushed my teeth twice. Trimmed the odd hairs next to my mouth, made sure sure there were no guitar strings coming out of my nose that could put an eye out. Gave myself the once over twice, took a deep breath, and was ready to go off in search of love.
I checked my phone out of habit.
One new message, from Angel.
Another deep breath.
Canceling? Gonna be late? Her boyfriend’s back and we’re gonna be in trouble?
One last deep breath.
“Hey mister, can’t wait for our date. We so on.”
The pressure in my head deflated like a flappy balloon. Like Popeye with a fistful of spinach, duh-dee-dee-dee-dum-DEE DEE! I walked out of my house like I was swinging the biggest cock in the world.
I have a Valentines Day date with an Angel. Onward to Lovetown…
It started out as a simple plan. Hop the bus twenty blocks to the store, to get chocolate milk while it’s on sale. Monday morning, no problem, right?
Sold out of milk. Really? But, no biggie, I get a raincheck good for sixty days, so I can buy milk without waiting for the magic day. Plus, I still have the coupon, and there’s another Freddy’s fifteen minutes away on my bus line.
As I watched the bus sail past… sigh. I went to the bus stop. All the seats were occupied by teens and old people with walker/chairs. I saw the bus back to my house approaching, and traffic on 82nd & Foster had its twice-yearly-parting-of-the-sea. I jaywalked diagonally and caught the bus. I can take the Green Line to Gateway and get milk there.
As I plugged in the Skullcandy earbuds, I got a call from Meg, begging me to run an important errand. “I’ll pay you!”
The farther I travel, the cheaper the milk gets. I rolled on.
I got downtown, and a connecting train was passing. I could ride two stops and say hi to Dr T. We’re at the bottom of the Master P gossip food-chain; likely one of us has some news.
I rolled in, gave a casual wave to Dr T. Melony was about to start her shift. As I began to speak, someone grabbed my butt.
My first thought? God, I hope it’s not a dude.
I’ve gotten pretty good at gauging my reactions. I held steady, poker-faced.Then the big ol’ twinkly smile from beneath the hoodie gave it away. Any thoughts of homophobic homicidal mayhem flew out the window.
It was Angel grabbing my butt.
I was surprised to hear from her. She said we should talk, but we haven’t. Because she’s nice, she is checking up on me. Aww. “I’m okay. Gearing up to do night lunches.”
I didn’t want to tell her I’d spent the whole weekend riding the bus, getting high as hell and listening to music, all the while thinking, planning, fantasizing about her.
“Thank u for bein u. Ur the sweetest.”
Well, now. All of a sudden Mister Chipper is back in town!
I went forth on my rounds, sending random thoughts and sharing funny moments only a co-worker or co-conspirator would appreciate. Angel hid a bag of hot chocolate in my private locker area months ago, and I’ve joked about it numerous times.
I pulled out my phone and began typing, “I could resist no longer, the temptation was too great. I had to taste your cocoa. Got all into it, in fact. So sorry. But DAMN TASTY!”
“Lolol. Happy sippin, mister.”
“Laying in bed, spending last minutes of my weekend.”
I slept well, awoke early. Smoked the half-joint I’d passed out on, and crawled back into bed. As I lay there, thinking about Angel, I pulled out the phone.
“I wish you were here, with your head on my shoulder. In a way, it feels like you are. Have a great day off, hon. Buzz if you need anything.”
She buzzed right back. “Aww smiles. I sure will. Haven’t moved all day, just watching movies. How r u?”
“Okay. Daughter had tonsils out, on way home already. It took like four hours. Technology. Well, I gotta start moving soon. But hey! I still got some Wednesday with you!” Wednesdays Angel would give me lunch. I wouldn’t go anywhere, just clock out and sit with her. That stopped months ago.
“When & where r u moving?”
“My ass outta bed and to work.” She’s been contemplating a move for months. I can see how it’d be on her mind.
“Oh. LOL. DUD. I mean duh.”
I shot right back, “If I were relocating residence, we might be having a whole other level of discussion. I’m trying not to come on too strong. See, I’ve found that I like you a LOT! I ain’t going anywhere. I like being your friend. Use me like Kleenex. I’m okay with that!”
“Well, I like you too. Thousands.”
And that, my friends, is why I have a big dumb grin on my face today.
I’ve been listening to Massive Attack’s Mezzanine album, an album great for late-night bus rides. It opens with a song called Angel. Since I have an Angel in my life, I thought I’d see how the video compared to what I’d imagined.
Okay, nothing like I’d imagined. I figured there would be a hot girl singing, not a bunch of dudes chasing each other. It reminded me of how I feel the last two hours of my work week, when everyone seems to come to collect their pound of flesh. Run away!
The one person who hasn’t had her hand out, who doesn’t want something every time she calls? The one whose smile has my heart breakdancing inside my chest every time she kisses me goodbye?
“I keep believing that you mean what you say. Be my tomorrow, now tomorrow’s today…”
We still have six cats. Fortunately the family has agreed that as they die off we won’t rush to replace them. Kevin, the oldest, is at least twelve years old and has been at this house as long as we have. He’s a cranky old bastard, but we tolerate each others existence. There are three other “useless” cats; Scaredy, a tiny whitish thing that scatters every time I enter the room, even after three years. Then there are Jennifer the Second and Bagel. We call her Bagel because she’s denser than a doughnut.
I used to be allergic to cats. There was a time when sitting in the same room would send me into sneezing fits, a hive-bursting snot-a-thon of misery. I could pet, as long as I walked directly to the sink and washed before touching my face. The cats, of course, noticed my snobbery and returned the favor in kind. I didn’t take it too personally when I’d come out of the bathroom and find them licking their asshole. Touche!
Meg has a beloved cat, Sugar. Sugar looks like the lovely sister of my cat, Django. (We named him that years before the Unchained movie, after the musician and the used record store that used to sit at 11th & SW Stark in beautiful downtown Portland.) Sugar is my buddy. She comes to nestle my hand with her head, and give me a tongue-bath all about the knuckles and forearm. She’s particularly fond of Meg’s eyebrows.
There has been some rustling in kittytown. When I dropped in for my lunch break a few nights back, the back of the chair moved, then I saw the most intense eyes staring back. What what what? And where is Sugar?
“I’m taking care of a friend’s cat. He’s homeless, so this might go on for a while. Meet Misty.”
“Misty? Sorry, but a cat this beautiful shouldn’t have the same name as a stripper from Estacada.”
After I found out she was somewhere between nine and twelve years old, my suggestions of Cicely and Mother Jefferson were shot down with scathing glances of disapproval. “How about Eartha Kitty?”
Unbeknownst to me at the time we were having this discussion, it was Eartha Kitt’s birthday. Still, the girls nixed it.
They decided to call her Granny.
Now, I must have a way with the old girl, because she snaps right to attention when I come into the room. She sits over my shoulder, to the right side, or the left side, on the edge of my easy chair. It’s like a pirate and his bird, only not as messy.
Granny/Misty is showing her age. She doesn’t meow so much as squeak. But if *I* scratch her butt just so? She squeaks and twitches and rubs the top of her head against anything of mine she can find.
Sugar? She still comes out to play, She gets her ears scratched, but mostly she sits on Mama’s chair, or on Mama’s pillow. We all know whose house it it. Sugar just lets us live there. But for now, she’s keeping a low profile…