Sofia: August, 1995
We sit in the car and wait.
On the corner of Drake and Iowa time is not just elastic; it is liquid. On the corner the language of waiting is understood blood-deep by the passing legions.
If the security man, standing near the alley, tells you “make the block”, you’ve got at least five minutes of making yourself scarce before the spot opens up again. If he tells you “one minute”, it’s probably closer to ten. “Five minutes” means twenty; “ten minutes” and you might as well go home.
We never go home; we always wait.
This day we have been waiting for what seems like a little too long, but that’s probably to be expected; the police have been swarming, nagging all the spots right out of business. From any other spot we might have let ourselves be chased away, but right now the three of us—JP, Lou, and me—are in complete agreement: there is no finer spot we know. The junk here is just perfect; reliable, strong, with no drama outside of the usual.
And after twenty minutes of driving around, the man on the corner has finally given us the signal, telling us to park. So we sit in the car and wait.
I am the driver. I am always the driver. JP has no license and I don’t know Lou well enough to trust him with my car. JP rides shotgun and plays radio pilot; Lou rides in the back and points out spots that don’t exist. JP and I indulge Lou because he can play guitar, and because he’s the strangest redneck we’ve ever met.
A girl walks along Iowa, tall and slim and white and obvious, and walks up to JP’s window. “Hey,,” she says. “Can I get in? The cops are really hot today, and…”
“Sure,” JP says. I feel a momentary pang of jealousy as she climbs in next to Lou—this girl is really beautiful, and I’ve grown accustomed to being the alpha female of the group. In the rearview mirror I notice Lou eyeing her already.
“Mama on C.P!” comes the cry from behind us, and instantly we are gone. “Mama” is the police; “C.P” is Central Park, the street just west of where we are. The spot, in the middle of opening up, shuts back down again, and it will be another fifteen minutes, thirty minutes, maybe longer.
“So what’s your name?” JP asks her.
“Sofia,” she says. “So do you all get high, or…”
“Yeah,” JP says. “That’s Lou back there with you, and I’m JP, and that’s Gladys.”
“’sup,” she says, and her reflection nods at me in the mirror. “I figured you guys were probably safe—you know, black guy, white girl, white guy—I mean, I figured you were okay.”
We drive around. Once we score, Sofia comes back with us to the house, sprawls across our bed reading my books. And now there are four.
On the corner of Drake and Iowa time is not just elastic; it is liquid. On the corner the language of waiting is understood blood-deep by the passing legions.
If the security man, standing near the alley, tells you “make the block”, you’ve got at least five minutes of making yourself scarce before the spot opens up again. If he tells you “one minute”, it’s probably closer to ten. “Five minutes” means twenty; “ten minutes” and you might as well go home.
We never go home; we always wait.
This day we have been waiting for what seems like a little too long, but that’s probably to be expected; the police have been swarming, nagging all the spots right out of business. From any other spot we might have let ourselves be chased away, but right now the three of us—JP, Lou, and me—are in complete agreement: there is no finer spot we know. The junk here is just perfect; reliable, strong, with no drama outside of the usual.
And after twenty minutes of driving around, the man on the corner has finally given us the signal, telling us to park. So we sit in the car and wait.
I am the driver. I am always the driver. JP has no license and I don’t know Lou well enough to trust him with my car. JP rides shotgun and plays radio pilot; Lou rides in the back and points out spots that don’t exist. JP and I indulge Lou because he can play guitar, and because he’s the strangest redneck we’ve ever met.
A girl walks along Iowa, tall and slim and white and obvious, and walks up to JP’s window. “Hey,,” she says. “Can I get in? The cops are really hot today, and…”
“Sure,” JP says. I feel a momentary pang of jealousy as she climbs in next to Lou—this girl is really beautiful, and I’ve grown accustomed to being the alpha female of the group. In the rearview mirror I notice Lou eyeing her already.
“Mama on C.P!” comes the cry from behind us, and instantly we are gone. “Mama” is the police; “C.P” is Central Park, the street just west of where we are. The spot, in the middle of opening up, shuts back down again, and it will be another fifteen minutes, thirty minutes, maybe longer.
“So what’s your name?” JP asks her.
“Sofia,” she says. “So do you all get high, or…”
“Yeah,” JP says. “That’s Lou back there with you, and I’m JP, and that’s Gladys.”
“’sup,” she says, and her reflection nods at me in the mirror. “I figured you guys were probably safe—you know, black guy, white girl, white guy—I mean, I figured you were okay.”
We drive around. Once we score, Sofia comes back with us to the house, sprawls across our bed reading my books. And now there are four.
posted by GJC at 8:11 PM
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