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that she has a box in her
bathroom. Couldn’t I have
asked instead of taking
off like a bandit in the night?
“Heh-heh, yeah, I suppose
I could have, huh? Sorry for
being so dense, Mom.” I hold
my breath and, lucky me,
she goes for it, hook, line, and
bobber. (I hate sinkers. My
bait always gets stuck in
the muck when I use them.)
Anyway, I shouldn’t waste
a lot of time doing blow
with Grade E. He’s parked
at the far end of the parking
lot. And guess what.
He’s not alone. From
a distance I can see
two guys, bobbing heads.
They’re doing toot, and it
looks to me like they’re
doing it the old-fashioned
way—with a straw and mirror.
Wonder whose crank
they’re snorting. Wonder
how short the ball will
be. [The two-hundred-dollar
price tag makes sense now.
We’re getting street crank,
