Crack Attack

One interesting corollary effect of the DUI is how good I'm getting at fighting off crackheads. I suppose this is the reawakening of an old skill, because crackhead-smackdowns were pretty frequent in the Dirty Jerz, where they'll just stand around jinglin' coffee cups like pride ain't a thing, but for the past few years, I've been relatively unbothered by street people.

A few weeks ago, I was at the corner of Nebraska and 7th. Sure, that sounds horrible, but I live there, and I had to get to the dry cleaner somehow. I was standing at the light with my clothes all bundled into an oversized gold suede hobo bag. I was wearing suede boots and big gold hoop earrings. I was yammering on my cell phone. None of my accoutrements said crackhead, junkie, prostitute, homeless person, or police officer, so it should have been fairly obvious that no one had any reason whatsoever to speak to me.

Except some crackhead, doing his jittery crackhead dance on the opposite corner, felt compelled to holler, "Hey, Slim! What's that all about? A DUI?"

"Yeah, all right," I hollered back. "You see I'm trying to do my thing."

So, OK, I can be good-natured about it, but if you're that smart, you need to stop smoking crack and get a job.

Then, this morning, I was walking down Franklin St. by the corner of Estelle, trying to hit the library so as to avoid cabin fever, when some dude in a filthy, beat-up, white sedan pulls up and just stops, all staring at me, twitchin' in the driver's seat. He was obviously overdue for his rock.

I turned to him imediately, "Yo, you see I'm walkin' somewhere. Why don't you keep drivin'?"

"Yeah, I see you're walkin' somewhere all right."

"F*ck you. Drive your car, man."

He drove off. I think the Legend, with whom I was on the phone, was fairly appalled, and rightfully so, but there's not much I can do here. I can't stay in my apartment all day long. I'll go f*ckin' nuts.

Then, about two blocks later, I was approaching the corner of Estelle and Tampa St., where all those homeless people chill outside the Azalea. By the way, does anyone remember, like, two years ago when the Azalea was gonna have all these hip, sexy young things lined up there? Of course not, because now it's a homeless people camp. That Robbie Morito was all proud of himself, and then the homeless people just took the place over before it even opened, and Morito had to sell the liquor license at Baker's two blocks down, to boot. That sorta sucked, because I always really, really liked Baker's.

Anyway, the homeless camp at the Azalea is usually pretty easy-going. They say things like, "Hey, bike lady!" to which I'll cheerfully respond, "Hey, homeless people!" Sometimes, they'll request a cigarette, but I always decline, and they're fine with that. For all I know, they probably assume that since I don't have a car, I don't have a cigarette.

Today, however, they had a lady homeless person with them, and she wasn't too happy about me walking past her turf or whatever.

Now, here, I would like to point out that if it's anyone's "turf," - a laughable idea, anyway - it would be mine. I actually pay market rate rent in an apartment on the block that uses the money to subsidize low-income families. I also own property in the neighborhood that generates taxes for the government programs she uses on that corner. Further, I walk or ride my bike past that corner every freaking day now, whereas this b*tch just shows up all feenin' for drugs one morning.

Yet, she has the nerve to say, "All white like that, you gonna get robbed out here."

I chose not to respond to this because I am not ever gonna get into some dialogue with someone like that, but, frankly, b*tches like that need to shut up, because she is not gonna rob me.

I mean, really, what in God's name is she gonna do with my laptop? Start an online business venture that will pull her life back together? Sell it to the other crackheads? No, she'd probably break it, trying to take it off me, and then take it to a pawn shop on Nebraska where they'd tell her they didn't have a market for it. Either that, or I'd put my cigarette out on her face and run like a gazelle past her shoulder, screaming "Fire! Fire!" the whole way.

Seriously. It's important to have a game plan in these instances. To be aware of your surroundings and keep your wits about you. The objective in that kind of scenario is not to beat somebody down, but to disable your attacker's awareness and inspire the interest of potential aid.

I really don't wanna have to do Dirty Jerz II. I moved from there because of various degeneracies like that, but I am just so not lookin' to play when it comes to crackheads.

I really miss the Play Machine.