No. 2 - My Friend, the Crack Addict
You make jokes about crack addicts all the time, but have you ever met one?
I go to the same deli every day. It’s right around the corner from the restaurant where I answer phones, and it is the only place I have time to visit in the mornings. I usually get chicken cutlet on a roll with provolone. That has nothing to do with anything. I am trying to switch to turkey because its healthier, but that has nothing to do with anything either.
This particular day it was business as usual. I came up the stairs of the 1/9 station and made my way into the deli, but this time I immediately came face to face with a white man who smelled worse than the pickled intestine of a horse that been dead for three years.
“Hey, you got a dollar?” he rasped.
He was trying to buy beer, and was having a hard time of it. I walked past him and was about to respond when his hand made a direct reach for my back pocket and my dependably empty wallet. I knocked the hand away and said the first thing that popped into my head:
“Get the outta here, ***hole!”
I went around to the ordering station and realized that the man was pissed.
“Hey, you banged into me, ******!” He said. Total lie.
“You tried to steal my wallet, idiot!” I shot back.
“Hey, **** you, you fat ****!” and he tried to run at me. The deli man behind the counter jumped out from behind it and got in his way, holding him back. He had been trying to get him out of the place since he made a play for my dependably empty wallet.
“Fat *****! Crash into me! I’m yo customa too, man!” he was really pissed now. I didn’t move away. With the deli guy holding him back, I felt empowered. I walked over to him and got in his face.
“Nyah whahahahaha nyah nah nah customa, nyah!” Total gibberish, but incredibly mocking gibberish. And very loud. The guy was shaking with rage, probably because I was making fun of him to his face.
“Don’t you do that at me! I’m like fifteen pounds *****, you know why? I SMOKE CRACK.” He was dead serious.
I didn’t know what to say. Was he just realizing this now? Was it supposed to be important to me? I couldn’t believe that this was actually happening. How many times had I gone into this deli and done the same thing? How many months now, going in there with no changes at all? It was like a knife in a grapefruit….a round orb of yellow gouged with a metal stick of violence. You know what that’s like.
The guy kept on ranting and raving as the deli man continued to try and get rid of him. He was continuing to curse at me, and I continued to smile at him. I threw some parting gibberish at him thinking he was almost gone, but when I did this he pushed forward, furious.
“Go smoke your damn crack, jerk.” I said.
“Go smoke your FATHER’S DICK.” He screamed back, and he stalked out of the deli. I looked at the deli man.
“How would one go about doing that?” I asked. He didn’t know.
I looked for the guy when I left the deli, expecting him to be waiting for me. I had my keys in my hand and I was ready to jam them into his neck if he tried to attack me…but he wasn’t there. So much the better!
This little bit of summertime danger had me at alert for the rest of the day. Whereas previously I had gone about my days at work on complete auto-pilot, I was now very attuned to everything going on around me.
Theatre has the dangerous power to jar anyone into a new state of attention, and that is part of what makes it such a powerful art form. That is what makes the government try to shut some of them down.
When you have real, live people in front of you demanding that attention must be paid, you tend to give it to them. Shock value in theatre can heighten this effect, but only when it is used well in the context of the play. If it isn’t, then its just Halloween and it sucks.
Theatre is like a crack addict….it gets your attention, but it may try to steal your money.
A few weeks after that infamous day in the deli, I found myself back again ordering the same thing, business as usual. And the crack addict returned.
He looked calm and reserved, though. He approached the counter with a cheap juice of some sort and found that he was twenty cents short. Seeing this, I pushed a quarter his way and he accepted it. He thanked me and left.
I seriously doubt he remembered me. In any case, I consider that friendship mended.
This particular day it was business as usual. I came up the stairs of the 1/9 station and made my way into the deli, but this time I immediately came face to face with a white man who smelled worse than the pickled intestine of a horse that been dead for three years.
“Hey, you got a dollar?” he rasped.
He was trying to buy beer, and was having a hard time of it. I walked past him and was about to respond when his hand made a direct reach for my back pocket and my dependably empty wallet. I knocked the hand away and said the first thing that popped into my head:
“Get the outta here, ***hole!”
I went around to the ordering station and realized that the man was pissed.
“Hey, you banged into me, ******!” He said. Total lie.
“You tried to steal my wallet, idiot!” I shot back.
“Hey, **** you, you fat ****!” and he tried to run at me. The deli man behind the counter jumped out from behind it and got in his way, holding him back. He had been trying to get him out of the place since he made a play for my dependably empty wallet.
“Fat *****! Crash into me! I’m yo customa too, man!” he was really pissed now. I didn’t move away. With the deli guy holding him back, I felt empowered. I walked over to him and got in his face.
“Nyah whahahahaha nyah nah nah customa, nyah!” Total gibberish, but incredibly mocking gibberish. And very loud. The guy was shaking with rage, probably because I was making fun of him to his face.
“Don’t you do that at me! I’m like fifteen pounds *****, you know why? I SMOKE CRACK.” He was dead serious.
I didn’t know what to say. Was he just realizing this now? Was it supposed to be important to me? I couldn’t believe that this was actually happening. How many times had I gone into this deli and done the same thing? How many months now, going in there with no changes at all? It was like a knife in a grapefruit….a round orb of yellow gouged with a metal stick of violence. You know what that’s like.
The guy kept on ranting and raving as the deli man continued to try and get rid of him. He was continuing to curse at me, and I continued to smile at him. I threw some parting gibberish at him thinking he was almost gone, but when I did this he pushed forward, furious.
“Go smoke your damn crack, jerk.” I said.
“Go smoke your FATHER’S DICK.” He screamed back, and he stalked out of the deli. I looked at the deli man.
“How would one go about doing that?” I asked. He didn’t know.
I looked for the guy when I left the deli, expecting him to be waiting for me. I had my keys in my hand and I was ready to jam them into his neck if he tried to attack me…but he wasn’t there. So much the better!
This little bit of summertime danger had me at alert for the rest of the day. Whereas previously I had gone about my days at work on complete auto-pilot, I was now very attuned to everything going on around me.
Theatre has the dangerous power to jar anyone into a new state of attention, and that is part of what makes it such a powerful art form. That is what makes the government try to shut some of them down.
When you have real, live people in front of you demanding that attention must be paid, you tend to give it to them. Shock value in theatre can heighten this effect, but only when it is used well in the context of the play. If it isn’t, then its just Halloween and it sucks.
Theatre is like a crack addict….it gets your attention, but it may try to steal your money.
A few weeks after that infamous day in the deli, I found myself back again ordering the same thing, business as usual. And the crack addict returned.
He looked calm and reserved, though. He approached the counter with a cheap juice of some sort and found that he was twenty cents short. Seeing this, I pushed a quarter his way and he accepted it. He thanked me and left.
I seriously doubt he remembered me. In any case, I consider that friendship mended.
To the ends of the earth and back,
-Brian
Poor Brian’s Almanac