Strings Attached

It's Tuesday morning, the day after the 4th of July and the explosions of fireworks have segued into the booms of thunder, as some kind of storm is coming through, with the FM "classic rock" station having their songs that you've heard a thousand times being interrupted by the emergency tones and warnings about possible flash floods.

Brought to you by high fructose corn syrup and caffeine!

There hasn't been much flooding here since they fired some maintenance guy from the DPW, who, it was discovered, had been embezzling funds that had been earmarked for the maintenance of certain pumps that are designed to pump water out of the neighborhoods and into the Mississippi River.

The pumps didn't work during one pretty heavy downpour about 3 years ago now, and it turned out that one in particular had malfunctioned because of a shopping cart being wedged into its mechanics.

That time there was about 3 feet of water surrounding Sacred Heart Apartments and only the seat and handlebars of my bike were visible after I had sallied forth from the place on a mission that a mere 3 feet of water couldn't deter me from; I was probably going out for beer and cigarettes, perhaps some food...

It was Essence Fest in the Quarter the whole weekend and, while I have done OK busking in previous years (mostly by staying with my usual repertoire of songs rather than trying to play "Motown," or other colored music. The people of color seem to have an acute sensitivity to when they are being pandered to. They have pretty good b.s. detectors in general; I have to give them credit for that. While other buskers were having lousy nights after having broken out songs that they were guessing that people of color would like; I stuck to the Tom Petty type of songs and got a lot of tips, often along with comments like: "Not my style of music; but I appreciate the effort," type of thing.

Jr had persuaded me to forego my trip to the music store, after which I planned to busk using the new strings I was going to buy, by giving me some new strings. However, this meant that I was obliged to hang out and keep him company for an amount of time equal to a new set of guitar strings. There were "strings attached," in other words.

I already posted about how he said he would give me 20 dollars in cash Saturday night if I would hang out with him and not go to the Lilly Pad to play for the Essence Fest crowd. But, to quote Frank Zappa: "Only, they wouldn't tell us when..." Sure he said that, if money was the primary reason I was going out to play, then not to worry about that, because of the promised 20 bucks; but I really should have asked him the practical question of: "How long do I have to be your friend in order to get the 20 bucks?" Because, like a bag of McDonald's burgers in a cabinet (see below) there were more strings attached.

But, the residents of Sacred Heart had gotten their monthly checks on Friday and I found myself being asked to run to stores for Jr and Carlos; each one offering me the chance to buy something for myself while there; and both of them telling me I could take a few swigs off the bottles of vodka that were included in their orders.

The first such run was to get Jr a liter of vodka, along with a pound of loose tobacco and 3 boxes of the "tubes" that he uses to roll cigarettes using his machine, and 3 bottles of Arizona Sweet Tea for him to mix with his vodka, He also wanted me to stop at Burger King I decided to stop at Patrick's house, which is right around the corner from the store that Jr was sending me to, to see if he wanted me to grab him anything while I was there. He didn't, as he already had his whiskey and his cigars; but he did pass me a bowl of weed.

It's kind of interesting how I had stopped at his house, thinking that it wasn't too much out of the way and wouldn't add any noticeable amount of time to the trip. I figured Jr could wait another 15 minutes for his stuff, and I wasn't sweating it. But, after smoking the bowl, I started having the distorted sense of time perception which is one of the side effects of weed, along with an increased susceptibility to paranoia; and I started to stress out a bit.

Suddenly, it seemed like my diversion to Patrick's was going to add an inordinate amount of time to the running of the errand; and I began to picture Jr pacing to and fro in his apartment; fearing that I had taken his debit card to Whole Foods and gotten the maximum amount of cash back off it; and was on my way to a nearby corner to purchase 500 dollars worth of crack, and that I was going to return to his place with some kind of far-fetched story about having been grabbed by a large black man and been forced, with a knife at my throat to withdraw 500 bucks out of a nearby ATM, or a similar tale..

Suddenly I became very self-moral (if that's a term) and was feeling kind of ashamed of myself for having made Jr wait extra long. It became hard to judge just how long I had been gone; and I still had to go to the Red Line store for the vodka and tobacco and stuff. It seemed like I was at the foot of an imposing mountain and had barely started the climb.

I went to the Red Line, all baked, and found that a beautiful young lady was behind the register, as the pudgy guy who looks like a foreigner of some kind -the kind that run liquor stores- was milling about, doing sundry little tasks.

I had trouble judging how I should deal with the young lady. Her beauty was being magnified through the lens of Patrick's weed.

I asked her for the liter of vodka, explaining that it was for a friend, and then tried to get the two of them to recall who Jr was, hoping that they would also remember just what kind of vodka and tobacco, and specifically what kind of sweet tea he got to mix it with. I wound up doing my best Jr imitation "I'm sure you've seen the guy in here..." I put as much gravel in my voice and then acted like Jr, complete with showing them "my" injured leg, and running through the spiel about: "I was mowing a lawn and the blade came off the mower and damned near took my whole leg off below the knee!"

"Oh, yeah, I know who you're talking about," said the pudgy foreign looking guy.

"Do you remember what kind of sweet tea he usually gets?"

"Arizona."

They were out of Arizona sweet tea. ...this is why I hesitate to make store runs for other people...It's like Murphey's Law takes effect...

So, I stood at the cooler trying to figure out a substitute sweet tea, for what seemed like a half hour in my addled state of mind.

I finally got out of there, after having had to divert my eyes from the beautiful lady, who might have had some of the same foreign blood in her; I was really self conscious and felt like everything I said was going to be taken for flirting. She did smile at my Jr impression, after all...

Then, as it seemed like the sun would be going down soon, it was time for the Burger King run for "2 doubles..er, 3; get yourself one."

The doors to the dining area were locked, so I didn't have the chance to go inside a Burger King for probably the 2nd time in my life. 

I went around to the drive through thing and asked through the speaker if I could order food on a bike. I had to speak up first, as nobody inside had greeted me in any way. 

The young lady of color actually took the order, but kept pausing for long gaps of time in between barking through the speaker. It wasn't until I had baked under the sun until a car had pulled up behind me: "There's a car behind me; I'm holding them up; I'll just go to the window" that the young overweight girl of color said "You have to have a car," apparently relishing in the pleasure of denying a white guy something.

I didn't even bother to say: "You could have told me that 15 minutes ago..." She would have been whipped regularly and put in that coffin sized box (from the movie Django) countless times, had she been my slave, back in the day...
So, I went to the all black staffed McDonald's next door, and was able to enter.

I explained that I had been trying to get "doubles" from next door and asked the petite girl of color if McDonald's had anything equivalent to the "double" that is sold next door.

"A double burger?" she asked; apparently having been able to connect the dots.

"Yes, just 3 of them, nothing else," I said; trying to underscore the simplicity of the order and encourage them; thinking that they might even have had some already made, since it is probably a commonly ordered item. They gave me a tag with #194 on it. I sat there, amusing myself with the math, while I waited...let's see; they've been open for about 8 hours, and are up to their 194th order; the average order is probably somewhere around 8 bucks; so they've taken in about $1,100 so far; minus the wages of the crew of about a half dozen that are milling about; minus the shrinkage from the boxes of meat patties that the same crew indubitably steal from the cooler and bring home with them ("You can't live off what they paying us; you gotta steal just to survive") and in probably about 10 minutes the 3 doubles were ready, and number 194 was called.

Jr answered his door with an expression on his face like he might have forgotten all about ever sending me to the store. He put the bag of burgers in one of his cabinets and closed it. He was up to his usual trick of making me hang out and keep him company before letting me eat my double, is what I figured. He did manage to divert my attention to his cigarette rolling machine that he went to work on, using his newly acquired pound of loose tobacco. I forgot about the double hamburger as he rolled me a few cigarettes "for going to the store," and then kept me in his company by meting out shots of vodka, one every 15 minutes or so; with the twixt spent regaling me with stories that I've heard a dozen times already; at least he didn't recount his lawn mower blade tragedy...
Then, I suppose after he had gotten his money's worth of company out of me, he produced the bag of hamburgers and, I must say that, even at almost room temperature mine was delicious; almost so much so as to make me suspicious that the thing was loaded with trans fat or something. ...so, if you eat these every day, you will soon need to have a doctor and a pharmacist, and be such an invalid that you will need to send someone else to McDonald's to get them for you...yup...I think so...

Then, it was Carlos who sent me to the store for a liter of vodka and 200 dollars cash back out of the ATM. He was planning upon having a little crack cocaine party that night, and the fact that I declined his offer to join in, goes hand in glove with the whole reason he trusted me with his 200 bucks. If I started smoking crack with him, it would start to undermine his confidence in placing his debit card in my hands and telling me the PIN number. As long as I'm the only guy in Sacred Heart that will actually turn down an offer to get high, I will garner all of the store running business. Now if I can just change my method of payment from a few gulps of vodka and a McDonald's burger; to stuff like toilet paper and kitty litter, I might be on to something....

 

After going out to play on Sunday night and finding myself in what once was the common predicament of being too drunk to play at my best level, or to maintain a positive attitude, I stayed in during the 4th of July night, having fallen prey to Jr, who had been knocking at my door, offering me money to play guitar with him, rather than to go out and busk.

I had overlooked the fact that Jr hadn't mentioned exactly how long I was expected to hang out with him with a 20 dollar bill hanging in front of my nose like a carrot; and in less than an hour I decided that getting away from Jr was worth more than the money.

He is just one of those older drunks whose brain is hard wired and who basically repeats the same day over and over.

Friday, when I had been on my way to the music store to get a string for the guitar, which I planned to put on at the Lilly Pad and then commence to playing there; I happened to mention my plans to Jr, who had knocked at my door, basically offering to purchase my company in the form of liquor and weed and even the cash that I needed in order to be able to take the bus to the plasma place and sell my "life-saving" plasma for 45 bucks. 

Since I needed at least a new string on the guitar and was planning upon using the new string to conjure up the money for taking a potential trip to the plasma place, Jr solved both problems by offering to give me cash, along with the usual vodka and weed, for basically to be his friend for an unspecified amount of time. 

Once I sat down and could feel boredom encroaching upon me instantly; I began to fidget and was thinking about all the time I still had available for playing at the Lilly Pad and making my own money that I wouldn't have to wait an unspecified amount of time to enjoy. I realized that I had made an error by thinking that my prime concern of having enough for bus fare to the plasma place to get 45 bucks, had been addressed by Jr's promise to to give me money, for basically hanging out with him; and that it was a done deal. But then the gravity of my error became apparent as I realized that Jr was going to give me money; but only on my way out the door. He wasn't exactly paying me in advance; and so I felt the crushing weight of being bound to stay there for as long as Jr deemed worth 20 bucks; and I soon found an excuse to leave.

That was that there was still time for me to go out and play and most likely make at least the dollar I needed for the plasma bus, should I decide to do that the next day.

My whole weekend had started with Carlos, my immediate neighbor, asking me to run to the store for him to get a bottle of vodka, along with a substantial amount of cash back. And amount that had "crack smoking" written all over it.

If I were a skeezer, I would intuit this and switch from being Jr's "friend" for the night in exchange of 20 dollars, to being Carlos' friend and having him periodically say "Here you go.." while holding a glass pipe with a hit of crack in it, to me.

None the less, even though I hadn't wanted to hang around for the crack fest (which invariably would have attracted women of color to be hanging around ostensibly trading upon their sexuality, as they might quantify that, like moths to a flame; if the flame is lighting up some crack, that is...)

I wound up getting some new strings on the guitar, but left well before I had stayed for 20 bucks worth, and just figured I might still go out the the Lilly Pad and make the same money without having to jam with Jr. Or, I could go the the Winn Dixie right before midnight and try to trade at least a dollar off my food card with someone in there.

The whole weekend went by without me having busked much at all but with me having gotten drunk a bit and high on weed a bit, and that sheds light on something of a challenge going forward, which is that, every month when a majority of the residents get their checks, there will be a business opportunity for me, in running to stores, and back. I guess I am rare in that they can send me to the store to get 200 dollars cash out of an ATM and I will come back with it. Instead of coming back high on crack and frantically telling a story of having been jumped and having had the 200 dollars stolen, type of thing.