SELF DESTRUCTION

Top Dog and I walked down a set of old railroad tracks, passing under 2 or 3 bridges. We stopped at his cat hole under the 3rd bridge to hide his bike and to get his shooter. A shooter, or a stem, is a glass or metal pipe about 3-4 inches long with brillo packed snuggly in one end to smoke crack. Some people use beer or soda cans to smoke crack by punching small holes in the side of the can with cigarette ashes on top of these holes. “This will take the edge off for the day,” said Top Dog as he often would. Under the bridge there were clothes, blankets, and broken beer and wine bottles. “This is my cat hole and you are welcome any time.”

“Thanks, but let’s go take this fucking edge off. I need a blast.” We walked to this abandoned building. About 15-20 guys were hanging out, drinking and smoking crack around a fire barrel. They were burning anything in site: old furniture, clothes, small tires, etc. I was introduced to 7-8 guys around the barrel, everyone loud and high. Some couldn’t speak because they had the mush mouth. I could understand Flipper better than I could some of these guys.

Someone drew a circle on the ground. If you had money and wanted to drink, you threw it in the circle. This was called pitch in. If you wanted crack, you bought your own. There was a slim guy who said he had no money to throw into the circle. A fat bellied guy called him on it. “You’re bullshitting, man. You made money last night fucking or sucking that pump.”

“You’re crazy as hell,” said Slim.

The big bellied guy said, “That punk drove around several times looking at you.”

I took a drink of my forty and said, “That sounds like a shitty deal to me, man.”

“Who the hell are you, nigger?” said Slim.

I smiled and replied, “Does your momma know you talk to your father like that? I’ll put so much of my foot up your ass, you’ll shit shoelaces for weeks. I’m Lead Dog, mother fucker.”

Top Dog said, “Oh, let that punk ass son of a bitch live.”

“Can’t we all just get along?” said the big bellied man. “Hey, that OJ is a stupid son of a bitch for killing that white woman.”

“How in the hell do you know?” said Slim. “If it was one of us, they would have locked us up for so damn long that if we had gotten out, our clothes would be out of style.”

“Here comes your boyfriend, Slim,” said the big bellied man. As he said this, a big, strong, gay guy walked up. He looked like a lumberjack; a black Paul Bunyon. He had on a long, black wig, make-up on his face, tight blue jeans and a leather jacket. He looked just like the crypt keeper from ‘Tales From The Crypt’.

The crypt walked up to Slim and in a soft feminine voice said, “Where’s my fucking money? You smoked it up, didn’t you!”

Slim said, “I’ll pay you tomorrow.”

“Fuck that! Pay me my way or the highway.”

We all was laughing like hell. Slim said, “Get the hell out my face, bitch!”

The crypt pulled his long hair out of his face and spoke in a deep, manly voice. “We can do this the hard way or the easy way.” Before Slim could speak, the crypt body slammed him to the ground on top of the warm ashes from the fire barrel. Slim jumped up with his shirt smoldering with smoke. The crypt grabbed him by the back of the shirt collar and dragged his smoking ass to his car. I laughed so hard I almost pissed on myself. Slim had this look on his face, like a little puppy who had been beaten with a newspaper. I was crying laughter as they drove away.

The big bellied man said, “I told them fools about trying to sell themselves on that block up the street. Why don’t these so called international tramps go to the Catch Out Corner.”

Still laughing, I asked, “What’s the Catch Out Corner?”

Top Dog said, “The Catch Out Corner is where we sometimes stand to make money by people picking us up for work. You make more money than you would at a labor hall, but sometimes you get bullshitted and won’t get paid.”

“Damn, fuck that,” I said.

“You can always get a panhandlers license downtown for free, I think,” said big belly.

“You can get a panhandlers license? I don’t understand this shit,” I said. “Why give a man a license to beg? Like that old saying, ‘Give a man fish, and he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish, he eats for life.’”

“Speaking of eating, let’s go downtown and eat fellas,” suggested Top Dog.

“Hell no!” said the big bellied man. “I’m tired of eating that same ol’ food. It gives me the shits.”

I said, “It don’t look like you miss many meals.”

“Oh, he’d rather drink a Flat Man,” said Top Dog, referring to a cheap wine. “Let’s blow this joint, and smoke this woo on the way downtown.” A woo is like a blunt. You cut open a cigar, toss out the tobacco and fill it with weed and crack cocaine. “We’ll be good and hungry by the time we get there, so it won’t matter what they’re feeding us.”

When we got down there, the line was very long, but it didn’t matter. We were high as hell. By the time we got our food, I couldn’t even eat.

We walked back to Top Dog’s cat hole to sleep for the night. I’ve camped out many times in the country, but never in the city, not to mention under a damn bridge. I was a little cold, afraid, and a lot of things were going through my mind. I couldn’t sleep.

The next morning Top Dog and I went to the labor hall around 5 AM. I went with him, not to work but to get out of the cold and to wait for my appointment with my probation officer. I met with Ms. Karen Jones at about 10 AM. I told her that I lost my job and that I couldn’t pay the probation fees.

“I understand, Mr. Caldwell, but if you don’t pay your fees and visit me on a regular basis, you will go to prison. You understand, this is a supervised probation. So if I were you, I would pick up beer cans or do whatever to pay these fees.”

“Ms. Jones, you have no idea. I’m already doing time right now on these fucking streets. Give me a couple days to think about it. I just may do the time.”

She looked at me with a sad look because deep down she knew, and so did I. If she was ever to see me again, I would be hand cuffs.

A week later, on a Friday, Top Dog and I whipped up a quarter of an ounce of powder cocaine to sell to make extra money. I had lined up cliental at a local park. We sat around a pick-nick table, selling and smoking crack. I was taking a blast from a can when Top Dog nudged me, giving me warning that a park ranger was heading towards us. I tossed the can, Top Dog hid the crack under his hat and the other guy we had just sold to, hid his crack under his cigarette pack.

The Park Ranger approached us. “You guys are too fucking old to be down here smoking that shit.” Smoke was still coming out of the cans we had thrown on the ground. We denied that we were doing anything. “You’re a damn liar. All of you were smoking like Navaho chiefs. Everyone put your hands on the table.” He began shaking us down, one by one, asking us for ID. He checked our bags, and found a few unopened forties. He picked up the cigarette pack on the table and found the rocks hiding there. He threw the crack on the ground and crushed it with his foot. “Follow me guys, I have something fun for you.”

Once at his cruiser he made us all stand with our hands on the hood while he made a call on his radio. A few minutes later a truck pulled up. “Okay guys, the fun begins now. Grab those trash bags and rakes. Pick up all the trash and make sure you get those damn cans that are still smoking over there!” He told us with a smirk. After picking up all the trash, he said, “Good job, and don’t let me see y’all asses again.”

We started walking down the trail in the opposite direction as the park ranger. The guy whose crack had been found said, “Fuck him! Sell me another fifty, Dog.”

“Didn’t you hear that guy, man?” I said.

“Shit, I’ll sell him another fifty,” said Top Dog. “Hell, and I’ll even break you off good. We need the money.”

The guy went off into the nearby woods to smoke his crack as we continued to walk downtown. Just a few blocks later, to our surprise, we heard a siren and a horn blow. We turned around quickly. It was the park ranger honking his horn and waving at us, pointing to the backseat of his cruiser. In the backseat was that clown who had just left us to smoke his crack in the bushes, pressed up against the window. With a huge grin on his face, the park ranger was letting us know that he wasn’t bullshitting.

“Damn, pop got his ass,” I said. “That was close.”

“How in the hell did that stupid son of a bitch let him get him? I told you this shit is good,” said Tog Dog, referring to the crack. “I cooked it myself. His dumb ass was stuck on stupid.” We smiled and continued to walk downtown.

There was concert going on in the streets, and we partied the rest of the afternoon, drinking and smoking pot, selling twenties of rock here and there. Later on, Top Dog said he was going to the penthouse to party with some other homeless people.

The penthouse was a three story parking deck, our new cat hole. Each Friday and Saturday night, homeless people would party on the second and third floor of the parking deck. This Friday night, I wanted to hang out in the park, but Top Dog advised me to hang with him and go to the parking deck party.

“You go ahead. I’ll stay here and drink and smoke with Michael.”

Top Dog said, “You know that you have that probation shit hanging over your head. Keep six Lead Dog,” letting me know to watch my back. We didn’t quarrel because Top Dog knew that once my mind was made up, that was it, for better or for worse.

I drank heavily with Mike the rest of the night. In the wee hours of the morning I was woken up with a tap on my shoulder. Mike and I had passed out on the stage where the concert was earlier that night. I opened my eyes to two bicycle cops standing over us.

“Hey guys, you can’t sleep here. Have you both been drinking?”

We looked around to see if our wine bottle was still there. I said to myself, “Damn, somebody stole the wine.” But that was the least of my problems. The police officer asked for ID. I was fucked.

Michael was released without a charge. I on the other hand was hauled to jail, and there was no way in the hell I could talk my way out of this one. I was arrested for a probation violation for not meeting with Ms. Karen Jones. As predicted, this dog was back in the pound.

LOVE. HATE. PAIN

Kim at the Sandwich Shop introduced us to the waitress, Big Brenda. Brenda gave us each a forty. After drinking two forties, the restroom was calling me. I staggered to the small, cramped, dirty restroom with a chipped commode. There inside I found a drunk guy lying on the floor, soaked wet with piss. I helped him up, and leaned him against the wall with one hand as I fought to piss with the other hand (guys, this is something you would only try while you were drinking). Afterwards, I helped this guy to a corner in the bar. Top Dog and a few guys were playing cards.

“That fucking Beatle Juice is drunk again!” yelled Top Dog. I pulled up a chair and introduced myself to the group as Lead Dog.

A gentleman named Count, who earned his name with his two teeth, red eyes and light skin, said, “looks like you’re fresh out the pound, Lead Dog.”

“Yeah, more than you know.”

“Keep that to yourself, Lead Dog,” said Top Dog. “You’re talking too much. And Count, you’re talking out the side of your neck, you filthy tramp.”

A girl came over and sat on one of the guy’s laps. Unknown to me, she slipped him not only a kiss but a pocket rocket, a rock of crack cocaine, off of her tongue. One of the guys said, “Bitch, you are into everything besides a casket. Take your dirty dealings to the rest room.”

“Kiss my ass,” she replied. “You smoke so much your two back pockets are touching together. Get a fucking job!”

I looked at Top Dog confused at what just happened and he said, “That shit just went right over your head, you missed it. She just gave him some drugs.”

She turned to me, asking me my name. I almost told her my real name, Ricky, but instead replied, “Lead Dog.”

She asked, “Where are you from?”

If I knew not to give her my real name, I knew not to tell her where I was from. So I told her the first thing that popped in my mind, “Canada.” I proceeded to explain to her that I was French Canadian. “My mother was French Canadian and my father was African American.”

She said, “You have beautiful, smooth black skin. I knew you wasn’t from around here. Can you speak French to me?”

I looked into her eyes and with a deep, romantic accent, said something like, “Le fork le vay, jest te.” The closest I had ever been to France was a damn French fry.

She smiled and asked, “What did you say?”

I could have said, “Your breath smells like stale beer, and you’re uglier than homemade soap,” but instead I chose to give the lady a compliment. “It means you are beautiful.”

After a few more beers and a lot of lines of bullshit, Top Dog and I decided to leave. On our way walking to God knows where, he told me, “That’s pretty smooth the way you handled yourself in there, especially with that chicken head.”

“Thanks, but that’s not where my heart is.”

“I suppose you can leave your heart where you want to, but your ass is on the streets with the rest of us. So if I had to guess, I’d say you loved someone and fucked up. You don’t look like you belong on the streets, so what brought you here?”

I stopped and looked at Top Dog and lit a Newport. I took one deep pull and blew the smoke out slowly, because I knew I would never speak of this again to anyone. A big part of my life had already gone up in smoke, more than you could ever know. I once had that all American dream: a job, a car, a home, a lady and even a pup named Brandy.

I met Lisa late one night at a shot house, a place you can drink after the bars close. She was being harassed by a drunk, so I walked up and gave her hug, but whispered in her ear, “I’m just trying to help save you from this guy.”

“Thanks,” she said. I asked the bartender for a couple of drinks; a Heineken and a double shot of tequila. After a game of pool, she went to the lady’s room to freshen up and I went to the men’s room to freshen up on a few more lines of nose candy. I was shit faced. I asked the bartender for a half pint of vodka to go. She offered to drive me home on the north side of town. I passed out on the ride home in her car.

The next morning I woke up on a couch, wondering how I had gotten there. On the coffee table next to me, I saw a line of cocaine and an empty bottle of vodka. I staggered to turn on the TV, my head throbbing like a tooth ache. Out of nowhere, Lisa came and said, “Let me help you with that. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I’m sorry I passed out.”

She said, “That’s okay, you were a perfect gentleman.”

Lisa was a beautiful lady with pecan brown skin, jet black hair, and a body that was truly a magnificent work of art. She was not the kind of lady you’d expect to meet at a shot house, she was totally out of place. Seven years older than me, she was very intelligent, independent and even had a nice paying job. She was the total package.

After freshening up and drinking some coffee I told her that I must leave. I called a cab to take me back to my car. I asked her if she would like to go out to dinner some time. She said, “What are you doing this Friday?”

“Spending my day with you, I hope.”

She smiled and handed me her number. “I hope to spend my day with you as well.”

Over the next few months, my clothes would slowly accumulate over at her place. Eventually I moved out of my apartment and into hers. We sold coke and crack at our jobs, the local colleges, and to our friends. This took a toll on our relationship, and on our lives in general.

One night at our place, we sat around with our drug buddies sniffing coke, drinking beer and some of my money went missing. I confronted one of her friends. I thought she took it, Lisa thought one of my friends took it, but who knew; we were all high. I asked everyone to leave. Lisa and I began to quarrel, she threw a lamp at me and I threw an ash tray at her. She called the police, and I was arrested.


After 72 hours in jail, I returned home. We kissed and made up, and decided not to go to court, thinking they would drop the charges. I found out the hard way that the charges were not dropped. On a Saturday morning I was robbed by knife and wounded with several cuts on my left arm. I had to go to the hospital, where I told them what happened. They in turn reported this to the police, who showed up and took a report. Unknown to me, there was a warrant out for my arrest for failing to appear in court a month earlier. They put my bandaged wrist in handcuffs and drove my sore ass to jail, where I was placed without bond for the next month and a half. Could this get any worse? -Damn right. I got out on a year of supervised probation. I lost my job, my home, my dog, Lisa decided to move on and I was denied unemployment benefits. Within just a few weeks of staying in hotels looking for work, all my savings were gone. I was on the streets.

I took the last pull of my cigarette, threw the butt on the ground and stomped it out. I think that Top Dog could see I wanted to cry or scream with anger, but with a smile he said, “Tricks are for kids, silly rabbit. Put that shit behind you, because these damn streets can eat you alive, Ricky.”

I took his advice, and that was the last I thought about that part of my life. But the demons and the pain would plague me on the streets more than ever.