connection was a guy named Chad. We used to be friends before he went to design school in Rhode Island or wherever it was his parents sent him. Those werethe days when being poor was
en vogue
—Chad played the role to the hilt, then left town. We’d fallen out of touch and gone our separate ways. Now he was back in the neighborhood selling weed. Dope dealers came in many stripes and colors, but I never realized he was in the business. This was an oversight on my part, because I heard he was raking in the bucks.
It was just after one o’clock in the afternoon when we got to Chad’s York Street address. His home was a three-storied Edwardian boasting an ersatz-trendy pastel-blue-green paint job, a color scheme favored by landlords in the Mission. A late-model Saab was parked in the brick-paved driveway. A mandarin orange tree was planted in the front yard. If any house could deflate us, this was it. Eichmann squinched at a bougainvillea vine curling around the marble-topped porch steps. “What a place.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Fancy, huh?”
We stopped at a gold-painted wrought-iron gate. An ivory-carved doorbell was set into a recessed wall, and I pressed it. A second later, we were buzzed inside as Chad swung open a solid oak door and exclaimed, “Doojie! Little brother man! Long time, no see!”
I extended my hand and he slapped my palm. Somehow, it didn’t feel that great. The moment was supposed to be heightened by the thrill of our reunion, but it wasn’t. When I didn’t see someone for a long time, I had to get used to them again. I could see I wasn’t going to get used to Chad at all. He looked pretty much the same as he always did, barefoot in a tai-chi suit with his hair shaved to the scalp, a silver stud in his left earlobe. Chad backpedaled a couple of steps, taking in Eichmann’s fish-scaled complexion. “Who’s the homie?”
“This here is Eichmann. Eichmann, meet Chad.”
We were herded into a room that made my self-esteem drop another notch; it was five times bigger than our garage. The carpet was thick enough to leave an imprint in it like we were walking on sand in the French Riveria. Several unframed canvases hung from the whitewashed walls, paintings the size of a freeway billboard. One wall was dominated by a ten-foot-long leather couch that made Eichmann’s eyes goggle. Without waiting to be asked, he jumped on the cushions, happy as a pig in a mud wallow.
Negotiations for the weed had to begin with a dose of small talk. It wasn’t my forte, but for Chad’s sake, I did it: “It’s been foggy in the last week, huh?”
Chad smiled condescendingly and sat down on the couch with us. We made ourselves comfy, setting the stage for the next scene: Enter the dope. Chad pulled out a red sandstone pipe and stuffed it with an emerald-green bud frosted white with resin. Eichmann was studying our host with a hooded stare. “Nice house you got,” he said, and grinned meanly. Eichmann was so riddled with envy and self-hatred, the way he said it, I got the feeling he wanted to slight Chad with the compliment and take the skin off his back with it.
The dealer turned a deaf ear to him and said to me, “This weed? It comes from Kentucky.”
“Kentucky?”
“Ain’t that a trip? Out there in the boondocks near the federal prison at Lexington. The best weed in America.”
“Is it strong?”
“Like a bulldozer.”
We smoked the pipe, passing it around in a counterclockwise circle. The smoke made my lungs hurt as if I was breathing cyanide pellets in a gas chamber.
Eichmann was badgering Chad, asking him about the couch,wanting to know if he could get one too. “You could have great sex on this thing. How much does it cost? Two thousand? Three thousand?”
Chad said, “You couldn’t afford it. You still want that weed?”
“The Kentucky sinse?”
“You want something else, it’ll cost you more.”
“Yeah, well, see … is the price six thousand for that pound?”
“That’s
en vogue
—Chad played the role to the hilt, then left town. We’d fallen out of touch and gone our separate ways. Now he was back in the neighborhood selling weed. Dope dealers came in many stripes and colors, but I never realized he was in the business. This was an oversight on my part, because I heard he was raking in the bucks.
It was just after one o’clock in the afternoon when we got to Chad’s York Street address. His home was a three-storied Edwardian boasting an ersatz-trendy pastel-blue-green paint job, a color scheme favored by landlords in the Mission. A late-model Saab was parked in the brick-paved driveway. A mandarin orange tree was planted in the front yard. If any house could deflate us, this was it. Eichmann squinched at a bougainvillea vine curling around the marble-topped porch steps. “What a place.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Fancy, huh?”
We stopped at a gold-painted wrought-iron gate. An ivory-carved doorbell was set into a recessed wall, and I pressed it. A second later, we were buzzed inside as Chad swung open a solid oak door and exclaimed, “Doojie! Little brother man! Long time, no see!”
I extended my hand and he slapped my palm. Somehow, it didn’t feel that great. The moment was supposed to be heightened by the thrill of our reunion, but it wasn’t. When I didn’t see someone for a long time, I had to get used to them again. I could see I wasn’t going to get used to Chad at all. He looked pretty much the same as he always did, barefoot in a tai-chi suit with his hair shaved to the scalp, a silver stud in his left earlobe. Chad backpedaled a couple of steps, taking in Eichmann’s fish-scaled complexion. “Who’s the homie?”
“This here is Eichmann. Eichmann, meet Chad.”
We were herded into a room that made my self-esteem drop another notch; it was five times bigger than our garage. The carpet was thick enough to leave an imprint in it like we were walking on sand in the French Riveria. Several unframed canvases hung from the whitewashed walls, paintings the size of a freeway billboard. One wall was dominated by a ten-foot-long leather couch that made Eichmann’s eyes goggle. Without waiting to be asked, he jumped on the cushions, happy as a pig in a mud wallow.
Negotiations for the weed had to begin with a dose of small talk. It wasn’t my forte, but for Chad’s sake, I did it: “It’s been foggy in the last week, huh?”
Chad smiled condescendingly and sat down on the couch with us. We made ourselves comfy, setting the stage for the next scene: Enter the dope. Chad pulled out a red sandstone pipe and stuffed it with an emerald-green bud frosted white with resin. Eichmann was studying our host with a hooded stare. “Nice house you got,” he said, and grinned meanly. Eichmann was so riddled with envy and self-hatred, the way he said it, I got the feeling he wanted to slight Chad with the compliment and take the skin off his back with it.
The dealer turned a deaf ear to him and said to me, “This weed? It comes from Kentucky.”
“Kentucky?”
“Ain’t that a trip? Out there in the boondocks near the federal prison at Lexington. The best weed in America.”
“Is it strong?”
“Like a bulldozer.”
We smoked the pipe, passing it around in a counterclockwise circle. The smoke made my lungs hurt as if I was breathing cyanide pellets in a gas chamber.
Eichmann was badgering Chad, asking him about the couch,wanting to know if he could get one too. “You could have great sex on this thing. How much does it cost? Two thousand? Three thousand?”
Chad said, “You couldn’t afford it. You still want that weed?”
“The Kentucky sinse?”
“You want something else, it’ll cost you more.”
“Yeah, well, see … is the price six thousand for that pound?”
“That’s
Similar Books
