The Bottle o’ Bitch

March 5, 2014 at 10:13 am (Cosmic Encounters, One Particular Angel)

“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…)

Bottle o' Bitch

Bottle o’ Bitch

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.

Heh.

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Analogies: Fire and Tin Foil

February 17, 2014 at 11:11 pm (One Particular Angel, Sweet sticky things)

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…

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Valentines Day Haters Can Suck It

February 14, 2014 at 12:14 pm (One Particular Angel, Sweet sticky things)

Lovetown Waterfront

Lovetown Waterfront

I awoke at 7:28 AM, grabbed my phone and texted, “Having a hard time sleeping, cute girl has me all distracted. Can’t wait to see you.” I took a couple bong hits and laid back down. It was Valentines Day 2014, and if it went as hoped, it would be a day remembered as one of the biggest in my life.

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…

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A Random Sequence of Events

February 13, 2014 at 2:14 am (One Particular Angel, Sweet sticky things)

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.

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Wednesdays with Angel

January 29, 2014 at 12:14 pm (One Particular Angel, Sweet sticky things)

4th ave night“Hows ya day goin?” Angel’s texts are full-on ebonics. I cherished the first text-messaged “Where you at?” from her. It’s still on that phone I quit using in 2009.

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.”

Heh.

“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.

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You Are My Angel…

January 27, 2014 at 9:09 pm (Cosmic Encounters, One Particular Angel, Sweet sticky things)

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?

My Angel…

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A Little Dab’ll Do Ya

December 25, 2013 at 12:10 pm (Cosmic Encounters, One Particular Angel)

Kids these days, with their newfangled contraptions… Smoking weed the old-fashioned way isn’t enough. No, we’ve got to make it better!

Some brilliant mind, undoubtedly horked out of his gourd, decided to use butane to extract THC from marijuana. The resulting goo, which resembles earwax, is a concentrate so strong that smoking a hit the size of a grain of rice can induce hallucinations. (I’m old school. I’ll just take this bong over here into the corner for a couple minutes…)

They say you can’t overdose on marijuana.

Maybe. But I came close…

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Pickle Bread

December 4, 2013 at 11:11 am (Clairissa, One Particular Angel, Sweet sticky things)

How do you make pickle bread?

You start with a dill dough…

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Connections

October 3, 2013 at 2:00 am (One Particular Angel, Sweet sticky things, That's not funny...)

Watching...

Watching…

I never realized how compact downtown seemed until I tried avoiding someone who is always there. After being in constant contact for three years, to go dark must have been a surprise. With few exceptions, we rarely went more than a day without seeing each other, talking or texting. Not that I’m *really* avoiding Rain, but I’m trying to maintain an air of displeasure. I’m still fucking mad, to be honest about it. Not wanting to go off on her, I steer clear.

That doesn’t mean I don’t check up on her. I could cyber-snoop, I have all her internet info. I only did that once, and felt like the lowliest of shitweasels. I trust her more than that now. I’m referring to knowing where she might be, and gazing from a block away to make sure she’s up and around, doing all right. My hard line toward her has softened, though I know things won’t be the same. They might get back to close, but that’s going to take a while.

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Early Birds and Night Angels

September 1, 2013 at 3:35 pm (Cussed Dumbers, One Particular Angel)

Management knows I’m a night-owl. When I saw myself scheduled at 10 AM on a Tuesday, for a four-hour shift, I smelled some sort of payback for an unknown transgression. What did I do to deserve this? I pointed out to both Uncle Cliffy and Grinder that it was akin to scheduling them from 1 AM to 5 AM on a Sunday. “So, when I show up, hair all fucked up, scowling and needing coffee, that’ll be why.” I don’t do mornings. I hate sales reps, and office workers are often cranky. Give me happy crackheads and wandering lost souls any day.

My first lost soul lost out on breakfast. I took away his pilfered candy bar and harangued him out the door. Uncle Cliffy belly-bumped him to the sidewalk. Two co-workers looked on and took turns shouting him down while I “called the police.” I went inside, put on my work shirt, took a deep breath and went back outside. “I called the ‘real’ police. Fuck Clean & Safe.”

Lost Soul started walking. The Real Police could mess up his day.

Uncle Cliffy commented, “You’re awfully chipper considering the hour?”

“Meth is a hell of a drug,” I muttered. “Just kidding!” I said as I saw his brow furrow. “My nose has been powder-free since 1996.”

His brow had only begun to furrow, because just as calm was restoring, in walked Angel. The bosses have yet to figure out that we only behave when unsupervised. The two of us, with authority figures present and co-workers to witness?

Holy poop on a stick…

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