justnick's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Justnick's sordid past There isn't very much I miss about the west island, to tell you the truth. I know that I'm supposed to miss the place where I grew up, but I've never really been a nostalgic person. One thing that the suburbs do better than anywhere else, though, is the fine art of the house party. The projects throw the best block parties, the strip will always have the best bars, but no one will ever beat the suburbs when it comes to cramming a bunch of people with only the vaguest sense of who how they know each other into a house. Back in the day, all you had to do was say 'party,' and within the hour, you'd have fifty people, a keg, enough marijuana to start a cartel, and various alliances would be forming in regards to who was allowed to hit on whose cousins and ex girlfriends, and what they expected in return. The best part was, everyone knew their roles. By the end of high school, we were a well oiled machine. Someone would have a place to go, and we all scrambled. Adam would be in charge of finding women--who were about as precious a commodity in the suburbs as they will be come the next ice age--Seb would scour the neighborhood for most trustworthy drug dealer available, Tom would start calling people, Steve would get the music, Mike would bring the guitars, and Tom, Gareth and I would be in charge of the alcohol. Beer for the boys, except Adam, who wanted Berry, and liquor for the girls. The host was in charge of mixer and food. One time I forgot to provide snacks, and they ate my parents taco shells. Try explaining that one. (if it's any comfort, mom, you busted me for that one) The girls who couldn't siphon from their parents would need us to go to the liquor store for them, that was always more complicated than the beer. But we had a system for everything. First was the beer. We would pick a dep (that's corner store to you, yank) and go in one by one. If one was carded, send in the next. Luckily, we all looked older than we were. If that one didn't work, you go to the second closest dep. Generally, you would only have three within walking distance from your house. Failing that, you ask a guy who looks like e just hit thirty to buy it for you. People trying to deny the aging process will generally do anything for the praise of adolescents. If we can't find anyone, you went to the dep beside the McDonalds. The trainee cops loved busting us in that parking lot--you weren't a real westy unless you had cut through a few back yards and hopped a few fences to outrun the pubes--so it was a last resort. But the guy who worked there hated his job, and he'd turn off the camera in the beer fridge if you slipped him a twenty or a couple grams of semi decent weed. He would sell to you too, of course, but his stuff was always shit. Another good trick was getting to know how to read the guys who worked there. Tom, Gareth, and I were the masters of the beer run for just that reason. We could always tell when someone genuinely wanted to see your ID, or if they just needed to look at some card for the sake of the camera over their shoulder. There is no more satisfying feeling than knowing fifty people are depending on you being a smooth talking con man, handing the guy at the counter a bus pass, and having him smile and ask for the cash. It was like a magic trick. People were always impressed you had the guts to even try it. You also had to know where you could cut yards and where you couldn't. What neighborhood had the student officers, and what neighborhood had the disgruntled old men who had never managed to pass the exam to be a real cop. Generally, the police tech students would be cool. Give me half your beer, give me that joint, turn the music down, and I'll tell them you all left. Those old guys, though, man did they hate life. And black people. Every white kid would get sent home with a stern lecture if they had to come out to someone's house on a noise complaint, but God forbid they saw a brown guy. Then they weren't leaving all damn night. You had to know, for instance, that DDO is the only neighborhood in the city where the pubes have guns. And that the houses in Timberlea have fences that will fuck your shit up. And which houses have big fucking dogs. Of course, it was all trial and error at first, which made it that much more exciting, but we were certainly a sight to behold right before we all turned 18. Young enough that it was still illegal and exciting, but old enough that we had it down to a science. OK, I'll shut up now, but first, one more story. My former dealer, who it should be noted is now stationed in Afghanistan, had an awesome benefits program going. He worked the counter at McDonalds. You would order one cheeseburger for every gram you wanted. He would go for a bathroom break, come out, and your stuff would be in the stall after, with one big mac for every cheeseburger you ordered. Dolla' fitty upgrades, baby. Please excuse me if this all seems a little shocking. But there's really nothing else to do in the suburbs. Excelsior. 11:21 p.m. - 2008-12-15 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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