love crackheads. Their diversity intrigues me. They might just be the most interesting race of people on the planet.
Flashback to 1999. Harlem, NY, if you will. I was at a friend's party, and I was drunk as a skunk. Yes, I was at a white boy's party in Harlem. They do exist.
I said my goodbye's, and walked out to my car. At this point, I realized my keys were nowhere to be found. I went back in, looked around, and still couldn't find them. I went back to my car, and stood there in a drunken stupor, trying to figure out what to do.
"Pssssssst."
I looked around.
"PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSST"
"Huh?" I said, looking around for the source of the summoning.
"Wanna buy a toaster?"
I squinted, looking in the darkness, trying to discern where the mystery voice was coming from.
"Uuuh, no thanks. I'm locked out of my car, and I need to get in."
"Well, sheeeeet, for 5 bucks I kin get you rollin"
"No, I'm ok. Thanks."
Apparently, in crackese, no means yes. In a flash, this skinny little black man in an oversized wife beater and torn shorts had appeared next to my car, peering in the window.
"Oh sheeeet, you locked out of yo car"
"Yeah, thanks champ, I noticed that."
I blinked, and 1.3 seconds later, my car was swarmed by Gollum-like creatures, crawling all over my 1985 Buick Skylark like the monkeys at a drive-thru safari.
"Whoaaaaaaaa guys, take it easy" I said reluctantly, backing away from the scene that was unfolding before my eyes.
3 black, 2 white, and 1 Spanish crackheads had attacked my car like it was the Holy Grail of Crack.
"Yo, you locked out of yo car?" one of the white crackies asked me.
"Yeah" I sighed resignedly, acquiescing to the situation.
"YO POOOOOKIE" the original crackhead shouted.
No answer.
"HOOOOODEEEEEEEEHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" he shouted.
I stood there in awe of the situation, wondering how I was going to get out of this. Crackheads had invaded my life, and there was no way out.
Enter Pookie.
Pookie walked out of an alley with a gleam in his eye. He was clad only in a towel and a shower cap, wieldiing a drill in his hand and a toothless smile on his face.
"Yo, you need a pofeshunal" Pookie said to me, the grin never leaving his face, swinging the drill around in his hand, as if it was part of his anatomy.
"I guess so. Can you get me into my car?"
"Fo sho!"
"Allright. Ten bucks if you can get me on the road."
Pookie shook my hand as if it was a business deal, turned around, and promptly smashed my driver's side fucking window in with the other side of the drill.
I sat down on the sidewalk, mostly because I didn't know what else to do. Pookie slithered in through the window, his reptilian body apparently immune to the effects of broken glass, and popped the hood. He popped the trunk too for some reason, and I quickly walked to the back of the car and slammed it shut. I went over to the curb, sat down, and let the "pofeshunal" handle the situation.
Crackhead # 1 walked over to me and sat down next to me.
"Hey, you see that guy in the blue shirt?"
"Yeah, I see him" I replied, looking down to the corner of the block, watching a shady looking figure standing there in a blue shirt.
"Watch out fo him. He a crackhead" He said matter-of-factly.
"Yeah. Thanks." I replied, putting my drunken head down in my hands and weeping silently.
I looked up, and 4 crackheads had lifted my hood up, and had CRAWLED INTO MY FUCKING ENGINE. I had given up at this point.
The Crackhead leader that had sat down next to me leaned in real close, smelling like an anchovie's cunt, and whispered in my ear.
"Yo, ah kin getchoo the same car fo 100 dollaz."
"What?" I replied, not understanding what he was getting at.
"This cat down on 159th got the same car. I kin get it fo you fo 100 buckz. Same color too, fo anotha 50. I throw in the keys fo free."
"Yeah, no thanks. I think I'll stick with my car."
I stood up, trying to get away from the malificent odor emanating from the leader's walking corpse, and walked over to my car. Pookie was hanging halfway out of the car, his legs swinging, the towel almost falling off. The other 3 crackheads that had taken up residence in the engine were banging away with their fists as if they knew what they were doing.
About a minute later, I heard my engine revving to life.
Pookie had done it.
Pookie was a pofeshunal.
He climbed back out, bits of glass hanging off of his body, and smiled once again. He stuck his hand out, and I took out my wallet, handing him his 10 dollars. He adjusted his shower cap, the giant toothless grin never leaving his face, and walked away with a slight skip in his step.
I shooed the other 3 crackheads away from my car, handed the original crackhead another 10 dollars for orchestrating the entire ordeal, and got into my car.
I put my car into drive and drove away as swiftly as possible, the breeze from the broken window cooling my drunken face, the screwdriver that was jammed into the ignition giving new stolen life to my 1985 Buick Skylark.
I went home, found the extra set of car keys that I had, and made 10 copies the next day.
Flashback to 1999. Harlem, NY, if you will. I was at a friend's party, and I was drunk as a skunk. Yes, I was at a white boy's party in Harlem. They do exist.
I said my goodbye's, and walked out to my car. At this point, I realized my keys were nowhere to be found. I went back in, looked around, and still couldn't find them. I went back to my car, and stood there in a drunken stupor, trying to figure out what to do.
"Pssssssst."
I looked around.
"PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSST"
"Huh?" I said, looking around for the source of the summoning.
"Wanna buy a toaster?"
I squinted, looking in the darkness, trying to discern where the mystery voice was coming from.
"Uuuh, no thanks. I'm locked out of my car, and I need to get in."
"Well, sheeeeet, for 5 bucks I kin get you rollin"
"No, I'm ok. Thanks."
Apparently, in crackese, no means yes. In a flash, this skinny little black man in an oversized wife beater and torn shorts had appeared next to my car, peering in the window.
"Oh sheeeet, you locked out of yo car"
"Yeah, thanks champ, I noticed that."
I blinked, and 1.3 seconds later, my car was swarmed by Gollum-like creatures, crawling all over my 1985 Buick Skylark like the monkeys at a drive-thru safari.
"Whoaaaaaaaa guys, take it easy" I said reluctantly, backing away from the scene that was unfolding before my eyes.
3 black, 2 white, and 1 Spanish crackheads had attacked my car like it was the Holy Grail of Crack.
"Yo, you locked out of yo car?" one of the white crackies asked me.
"Yeah" I sighed resignedly, acquiescing to the situation.
"YO POOOOOKIE" the original crackhead shouted.
No answer.
"HOOOOODEEEEEEEEHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" he shouted.
I stood there in awe of the situation, wondering how I was going to get out of this. Crackheads had invaded my life, and there was no way out.
Enter Pookie.
Pookie walked out of an alley with a gleam in his eye. He was clad only in a towel and a shower cap, wieldiing a drill in his hand and a toothless smile on his face.
"Yo, you need a pofeshunal" Pookie said to me, the grin never leaving his face, swinging the drill around in his hand, as if it was part of his anatomy.
"I guess so. Can you get me into my car?"
"Fo sho!"
"Allright. Ten bucks if you can get me on the road."
Pookie shook my hand as if it was a business deal, turned around, and promptly smashed my driver's side fucking window in with the other side of the drill.
I sat down on the sidewalk, mostly because I didn't know what else to do. Pookie slithered in through the window, his reptilian body apparently immune to the effects of broken glass, and popped the hood. He popped the trunk too for some reason, and I quickly walked to the back of the car and slammed it shut. I went over to the curb, sat down, and let the "pofeshunal" handle the situation.
Crackhead # 1 walked over to me and sat down next to me.
"Hey, you see that guy in the blue shirt?"
"Yeah, I see him" I replied, looking down to the corner of the block, watching a shady looking figure standing there in a blue shirt.
"Watch out fo him. He a crackhead" He said matter-of-factly.
"Yeah. Thanks." I replied, putting my drunken head down in my hands and weeping silently.
I looked up, and 4 crackheads had lifted my hood up, and had CRAWLED INTO MY FUCKING ENGINE. I had given up at this point.
The Crackhead leader that had sat down next to me leaned in real close, smelling like an anchovie's cunt, and whispered in my ear.
"Yo, ah kin getchoo the same car fo 100 dollaz."
"What?" I replied, not understanding what he was getting at.
"This cat down on 159th got the same car. I kin get it fo you fo 100 buckz. Same color too, fo anotha 50. I throw in the keys fo free."
"Yeah, no thanks. I think I'll stick with my car."
I stood up, trying to get away from the malificent odor emanating from the leader's walking corpse, and walked over to my car. Pookie was hanging halfway out of the car, his legs swinging, the towel almost falling off. The other 3 crackheads that had taken up residence in the engine were banging away with their fists as if they knew what they were doing.
About a minute later, I heard my engine revving to life.
Pookie had done it.
Pookie was a pofeshunal.
He climbed back out, bits of glass hanging off of his body, and smiled once again. He stuck his hand out, and I took out my wallet, handing him his 10 dollars. He adjusted his shower cap, the giant toothless grin never leaving his face, and walked away with a slight skip in his step.
I shooed the other 3 crackheads away from my car, handed the original crackhead another 10 dollars for orchestrating the entire ordeal, and got into my car.
I put my car into drive and drove away as swiftly as possible, the breeze from the broken window cooling my drunken face, the screwdriver that was jammed into the ignition giving new stolen life to my 1985 Buick Skylark.
I went home, found the extra set of car keys that I had, and made 10 copies the next day.
