Saturday, July 19, 2014

they’re all thieves

6:37am. Young, cholo type tweeker bops into the café acting as tweekers do. Basic urban hip hop gear draped over a stocky, toned frame. He swaggers with that macho walk that heats me pants every time. Fiddles incessantly with various tubes and containers on the condiment table. He uses the mensroom to go smooth himself out. Turns baseball cap backwards before entering. Before lighting up. Before sucking that glass pipe dry. Old, flabby queen sashays in with tea-cup chihuahua on a leash. Bangs on the bathroom door because the tweeker is taking too damn long. Fuck, man, let him take his medicine. It’s a horrible world out there, he needs to prepare. Tweeker bursts out, flashes me a wonderful smile with that macho handsome Latino face.
   “Don’t want no problems, chief”, He says to the snooty queen in passing.
   Tweeker ping pongs around the largely empty café plucking up bits of discarded paper, straightening chairs, swaying to the jazzy-jazz warbling over the speakers before dashing out into the post dawn nothing of the still sleeping city.
   I scribble annotations into my little notebook. I have drafted two or three more chapters to be incorporated into current novel. Much needed and am pleased with what I wrote. Romantic dealings and heartbreak let downs on a homeless level. Yeah, gay hobos need lovin’ too.
   I order my second large mug of house coffee, check my Facebook - boring - check my Tumblr - funny - check my e-mail - ghastly. I am biding time. Waiting to make my next move. What that move is at this point is a complete mystery. However, I am sure when revealed it will be both beautiful and strange.
   Two hours pass and I write. Think. Contemplate. Young cholo tweeker bursts back into the café, walks up to my booth and places his bag in the adjoining chair.
   “You gonna be here a bit?” He asks.
   “Yes, for another thirty minutes or so.” I croak.
   “Can you watch my stuff while I’m in the bathroom?” (He pronounces it baffroom).
   “Certainly.” I manage a smile.
   Clandestinely, he removes his charred glass stem pipe from his backpack and enters the mensroom, confiding, “I don’t trust the people who work here. They’re all thieves.” He enters the mensroom and locks it before I have time to answer.
   The clock on the wall ticks. I write. The sun curves up in the sky. The city slowly wakes.

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