Sleeps Thoreau
01-19-07, 12:21 AM
breeze blows
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Carlos’ line of sight was stalking two officers gone to converge with some partners on the corner. Keith halted affront the Pioneer supermarket, reaching into his pocket before entering. Noticing him at the crosswalk, Carlos waited to catch his eyes from the traffic. Startled by a pack of rowdy youth whizzing by behind him Keith shot his chin over his shoulder before discovering Carlos the short background distance, joining his index and middle finger at his forehead in an easy solute. He hadn’t been able to find Carlos’ number and it was weeks, or three parties, since the Zoot Suit Riot. At glance in their welcoming exchange, Keith was signaled to couple with Carlos down the avenue.
“Hey man, where’ve you been? I lost your number man. I have this party,”
“I got’chu!” Carlos interposed, trading an embrace of the hands. “Same as last?”
“Cool. Yea, yea, that’ll be fine. Hey, you should really come through to the party man. It’s going to be bananas. You can network too, I’ll introduce you to my gang. ‘Fukking aye, this is Carlos, my dealer’,” he laughed “Make some contacts, you know.”
The proposition was tempting. Up until that point Carlos had just wanted to know what he needed and shuffle him off, give him his number again and arrange for the drop off, then be back to his business. He was no drug dealer, that wasn’t his hustle; but he could get you what you needed, and would in a heartbeat to put some security in the fridge till next paycheck. One evening Keith caught up with Carlos, coming out of the subway. He had felt safe enough to solicit, having seen Carlos traveling home in his Security Guard uniform often around the same time. He was also the guy Keith spotted pollying with this set of apparent goons on several occasions, so he trusted he could get him to plug.
“EXCUSE ME?” Carlos initially reacted to his request that day with blood in his eye. As if it hadn’t been enough that he was obviously a hard working, law abiding citizen who grew up seeing the youth perish like beads of rain on a down coat; some of those very youth, dear family still soaking in memory. For forty three years he walked these South Bronx streets, a latchkey kid, native son, brother in the Zulu nation, father, compai, church goer, keeper of it’s dignity… he wouldn’t allow such an interaction get his head low. Who was this yuppy son of a b1tch? He asked behind pulsing temples …But just as quick he realized it could be an opportunity. Keith was too scrawny and soft around the eye sockets to be a cop.
breeze blows
“Anyway, I was just headed to do some shopping. Come by with that when you can between now and Friday. And come upstairs, chill out. I know you‘re a good guy,” Keith concluded, hand on Carlos’ arm.
Carlos nodded him off less conscious than he was just a minute earlier. He came to in the cool evening breeze, to watch Keith off. “Bet!” he exclaimed under his voice, before strolling back. His keys jangled off his knuckles.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Carlos’ line of sight was stalking two officers gone to converge with some partners on the corner. Keith halted affront the Pioneer supermarket, reaching into his pocket before entering. Noticing him at the crosswalk, Carlos waited to catch his eyes from the traffic. Startled by a pack of rowdy youth whizzing by behind him Keith shot his chin over his shoulder before discovering Carlos the short background distance, joining his index and middle finger at his forehead in an easy solute. He hadn’t been able to find Carlos’ number and it was weeks, or three parties, since the Zoot Suit Riot. At glance in their welcoming exchange, Keith was signaled to couple with Carlos down the avenue.
“Hey man, where’ve you been? I lost your number man. I have this party,”
“I got’chu!” Carlos interposed, trading an embrace of the hands. “Same as last?”
“Cool. Yea, yea, that’ll be fine. Hey, you should really come through to the party man. It’s going to be bananas. You can network too, I’ll introduce you to my gang. ‘Fukking aye, this is Carlos, my dealer’,” he laughed “Make some contacts, you know.”
The proposition was tempting. Up until that point Carlos had just wanted to know what he needed and shuffle him off, give him his number again and arrange for the drop off, then be back to his business. He was no drug dealer, that wasn’t his hustle; but he could get you what you needed, and would in a heartbeat to put some security in the fridge till next paycheck. One evening Keith caught up with Carlos, coming out of the subway. He had felt safe enough to solicit, having seen Carlos traveling home in his Security Guard uniform often around the same time. He was also the guy Keith spotted pollying with this set of apparent goons on several occasions, so he trusted he could get him to plug.
“EXCUSE ME?” Carlos initially reacted to his request that day with blood in his eye. As if it hadn’t been enough that he was obviously a hard working, law abiding citizen who grew up seeing the youth perish like beads of rain on a down coat; some of those very youth, dear family still soaking in memory. For forty three years he walked these South Bronx streets, a latchkey kid, native son, brother in the Zulu nation, father, compai, church goer, keeper of it’s dignity… he wouldn’t allow such an interaction get his head low. Who was this yuppy son of a b1tch? He asked behind pulsing temples …But just as quick he realized it could be an opportunity. Keith was too scrawny and soft around the eye sockets to be a cop.
breeze blows
“Anyway, I was just headed to do some shopping. Come by with that when you can between now and Friday. And come upstairs, chill out. I know you‘re a good guy,” Keith concluded, hand on Carlos’ arm.
Carlos nodded him off less conscious than he was just a minute earlier. He came to in the cool evening breeze, to watch Keith off. “Bet!” he exclaimed under his voice, before strolling back. His keys jangled off his knuckles.
.
.
.