The man sitting across from me may have provided your buddy with the bundle that stopped his heart. He may have been the one who sold the pill that was slipped into your sister’s drink. It’s entirely possible that he will one day indirectly contribute to the death of this writer. He didn’t shove the shit down our throats, but his prints are all over the instrument of death.
He is a saavy businessman or a heartless sociopath, depending on who you talk to. To hear him tell it, he’s merely providing a service, a good time, an escape. According to the sobbing mother who unsuccessfully pleaded desperately against his parole, he floods the streets of our city with poison and decay, and should be caged like the animal that he is.
So which is it?
“S’go down to your school dis weekend…goo’a money in Costa-Q’s in colleges,” he says flatly, with a smile. “Frat boys eat dat shit up, eh?”
“I don’t need to fuck around with roofies, man,” I say, plugging one nostril and taking a sniff from the glass bullet cradled in the other hand.
“Wha’s the big deal, eh? You coak a pretty young ting up for de first time, you nail her…das not the same ting? You buy hair juan too many beers. Same.”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.”
“Jah’stafy what you do, damn what you don’t…no?”
“Pretty much…but I still don’t need to fuck around with roofies. No offense.”
“Noan taken.”
Some would think that I’m throwing you a softball here. Let’s face it — this cat is a scumbag. There’s no two ways about it. But maybe that’s why I chose to tell you about him. Forgiving the scumbags is the hardest part, isn’t it? The thing that separates us from the morality of Christ that so many in this country purport to want to achieve? Maybe it’s not as easy as we think or want it to be.
Let’s mix it up a bit — what about the kid from the mill town who sends an Iraqi’s brains across the sand? He killed someone’s kid, someone’s dad, someone’s husband. Is he is just doing his job, serving his country proudly? Or did he just kill a man in cold blood? Which is it?
What about the CEO of the cigarette company? Or the woman who sits in a cubicle and deems your cancer to be a ‘pre-existing condition’? The person who robbed you, who raped you, who broke your heart? Where do they land? What about you?
What about me?
“Jew want to stick aroun’, some girls on de way,” our original subejct says. “Fine tings. We hit the bar, eh, Shakespeah?”
“No roofies,” I say coldly. He laughs.
“Den no booze, no cocaina…no even a cigarette,” he says with a smile. “Es no goo’a for dem.”
The buzzer goes off, and after examining the grainy, black and white security camera, he presses a button to let them into the lobby. They’re Latin girls, in their late teens or early twenties, wearing less clothing than most girls I know wear to bed. They chew their fingernails and shift their legs back and forth, balancing in their heels, unaware that we’re watching them.
“Jess kidding,” he says, slapping me on the shoulder and heading towards the door. “Dee’s ones are so dumb, jew need no pills…only words.”
I’m wrong and I’m sorry.
