(true story)

We all have our addictions. Mine just happens to be caffeine. I wake up from a post-work nap and groan. I had hoped to rid myself of this headache with sleep, but it didn’t leave and in fact, has been joined with a cousin headache that tells me it’s time for caffeine, no negotiations. I push an old mesh Cubs hat over my bedhead and stagger out of my townhouse, trying to decide where to find some food and cure at least one headache with an accompanying cola beverage. Across the courtyard and down the steps I walk. I start to turn right and am sorting through my options when I hear someone yelling at me from my left, near the dumpsters. I walk closer so I can hear the man. A black baseball cap, bearing the logo from the popular television show “Friends,” perches awkwardly on his head. The brim casts shadows over tired eyes, but their contrast to his dark skin betrays them as bloodshot.
“Hey, you wanna smoke?”
Knowing he wants more than a smoke, I say no, thanks. He tells me he like to smoke with people. I refuse again and tell him I just don’t really dig cigarettes.
“I ain’t talkin’ cigarettes. I got pot, dude, I give you a joint.”
“Nah, I’m not really in the mood right now. Thanks, though.”
“What do you like?” he inquires, then begins listing off what he can find for us to indulge in, everything from mushrooms to acid. After failing to interest me in any of the choices, he cocks his nappy head and assumes the tone of a salesman who has encountered a connoisseur. “I know…you like cocaine, don’ya?”
I tell him no, thank you, one more time. He gets the message, lights a cigarette, and gets to his real intention. He tells me a sad story about a car being out of gas and parked in a place where the property owner has threatened to have the vehicle towed if it isn’t moved soon. Of course, in order to use a gas can at the gas station he needs a $5 deposit but he doesn’t have enough money. I’m pretty sure he’s lying, but I give him a dollar anyway.
“This man at the gas station, he don’t like me. He don’t trust me. I need you to come with me so he believe me.”
By now I know another person who doesn’t believe him, but I’m curious as to where this might go, so I agree while reminding him that I am supposed to be meeting a friend soon so don’t have very long. He says that’s cool and points out that now he and I are friends and it’s hard to find good friends like me. I have half a notion of what’s probably coming next…and it does.
Nine times out of ten, when someone asks you for money and has more than 2 seconds to do so, he’ll play the religion card. My new friend, sure enough, tells me he’s a Christian and asks if I am one.
“Well…I try to be.”
“I knew it! I knew I could trust you. God wanted us to meet. He knows I’m in need and He sent me a friend.” The man of faith glances at me, his lip curling up to reveal a gapped smile. I can’t quote what he asks next. I consider telling him that I like that part of the woman’s body as much as any other part but figure the comment would be lost on him. I instead mumble something about how yes, I guess so, and my religious psychic friend exclaims that he knew that, too.
We walk down the cobblestone alley, not the quickest route to the gas station. I ask him why we’re going this way and he explains that he has to tell “this Mexican guy” that he got help. We never do meet up with the guy, but instead walk into the local Latino grocery store, where he buys $1.80 worth of greasy chicken, bumming another buck off me in the process. At this point, I know he’s a liar, but like a young buy in a video arcade or a pervert at a peep show, I keep feeding quarters into the adventure to keep it going.
After leaving the store, we cut through yards, and he says he wants to get to know his new friend. I lie about my name, tell him I’m from Chicago, and remind him I need to meet my friend soon. I’m interested to see what’s going to happen, but it’s essential I maintain control.
Eventually we wind up going up back stairs at an apartment building. I know somehow I’ll end up inside, but need to let him know it’s his privilege and that I’m no dummy, so I balk a few times, maintaining “I don’t go in houses, man.” He says he needs to go in and call the guy about the car and rest for a minute and that this is his apartment. I make sure the door is left open a bit, sit down in a power position and observe my potential defense options should he get crazy.
He dials a number (of course he has the number of the gas station or whoever he was pretending to call memorized) and conducts a fake conversation, then sits down. I tell him we need to get going and he insists on sitting and resting, then lights another smoke, bringing up his spirituality again.
As he pontificates on his faith and God’s sovereignty in making our fledgling friendship feasible, my Christian companion fidgets. Finally he digs in his pocket and pulls out a clear hollow tube of several inches long and a small baggie containing a couple small white lumps.
“This isn’t drugs. I have asthma. Do you have asthma?”
“No, not really.”
I know he’s going to offer me a pull and he does. I say no, that’s all right. He becomes insistent and autocratic, asking repeatedly and becoming frustrated at my refusals. There are a lot of things I have no problem with, but crack scares me. Our exchange reaches its climax when he demands that I take a puff to prove I’m not a cop. I tell him to hold on a second, back off, I trust him enough to come in his house, he’s gotta trust that I’m not a narc. He slaps on a big gappy grin and grabs my hand.
“Yeah, you right, you my brutha, I trust you. You all right.”
We all have our addictions. Thank God mine is only caffeine.