Waiting For My Man: June 1995
All right, where is he? It’s been almost two hours and it never takes this long and it looks like it’s gonna rain, besides; oh god, where is he?
Okay. Shhh, babygirl, it’s okay. It’s always been okay so far, hasn’t it? I mean, he’s done this a million times at least, and he’s always been fine before so he’ll be okay this time, right?
It never takes this long, though. He should be home by now. Maybe nobody was open. Maybe he had to wait. Maybe the cops were out today. Maybe somebody fucked him over and we’ll have to go sick because that was the last money we’ve got til payday. Maybe he got shot and he’s lying in a pool of….
All right. That’s just ridiculous. Now cut it out. You’re not gonna go sick, either, so quit thinking about it. You’re not. You’re not shivering; that’s just the air conditioner. No it isn’t either; I’m starting to go sick. Fuck fuck fuck.
Wait. I think I saved back a couple of cottons from the other night. No…shit. We shot those Sunday afternoon. Damn junkies and their instant-gratification thing, anyway…oh, man, does this suck.
Okay…so we’ve got to quit anyway, right? so we might as well start now. That’s it. Stretch out on the bed and brace yourself, Gladys baby; this is gonna be one motherfucker of a weekend. And then we can go back to it, if we want, but only once in a while. Once we get this habit off, that’s it. No more habits. It just complicates things.
Oh shit. What if he got caught? That would be fuckin’ great, wouldn’t it—me with no car and not a dollar to my name, trying to figure out a way to get his junkie butt out of jail while meanwhile I’m so dopesick I can barely stand up…oh, yeah, that would be fuckin’ priceless. And now it’s raining, too. Fuck.
Okay, okay. Slow down, Gladys. He’ll call if there’s a problem. And if there’s not a problem he’ll be home soon, and even if he doesn’t have anything when he gets home at least I’ll knowhe’s okay and we can try again later. That’s all that matters, right? that he’s okay? Wait…is that…
JP walks in the door, sheets of rain pouring down behind him. He is soaked to the skin, and as he steps into the living room he kicks off his sodden shoes. He hands me four foil packets as I unbutton his dripping flannel shirt.
I was worried about you, I tell him.
Okay. Shhh, babygirl, it’s okay. It’s always been okay so far, hasn’t it? I mean, he’s done this a million times at least, and he’s always been fine before so he’ll be okay this time, right?
It never takes this long, though. He should be home by now. Maybe nobody was open. Maybe he had to wait. Maybe the cops were out today. Maybe somebody fucked him over and we’ll have to go sick because that was the last money we’ve got til payday. Maybe he got shot and he’s lying in a pool of….
All right. That’s just ridiculous. Now cut it out. You’re not gonna go sick, either, so quit thinking about it. You’re not. You’re not shivering; that’s just the air conditioner. No it isn’t either; I’m starting to go sick. Fuck fuck fuck.
Wait. I think I saved back a couple of cottons from the other night. No…shit. We shot those Sunday afternoon. Damn junkies and their instant-gratification thing, anyway…oh, man, does this suck.
Okay…so we’ve got to quit anyway, right? so we might as well start now. That’s it. Stretch out on the bed and brace yourself, Gladys baby; this is gonna be one motherfucker of a weekend. And then we can go back to it, if we want, but only once in a while. Once we get this habit off, that’s it. No more habits. It just complicates things.
Oh shit. What if he got caught? That would be fuckin’ great, wouldn’t it—me with no car and not a dollar to my name, trying to figure out a way to get his junkie butt out of jail while meanwhile I’m so dopesick I can barely stand up…oh, yeah, that would be fuckin’ priceless. And now it’s raining, too. Fuck.
Okay, okay. Slow down, Gladys. He’ll call if there’s a problem. And if there’s not a problem he’ll be home soon, and even if he doesn’t have anything when he gets home at least I’ll knowhe’s okay and we can try again later. That’s all that matters, right? that he’s okay? Wait…is that…
JP walks in the door, sheets of rain pouring down behind him. He is soaked to the skin, and as he steps into the living room he kicks off his sodden shoes. He hands me four foil packets as I unbutton his dripping flannel shirt.
I was worried about you, I tell him.
posted by GJC at 12:24 AM
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