shadowboxing crackhead

7.08.02

To celebrate Monday, I spent the gift certificate my little brother got me
for my birthday at the 'wrecka stow' up the street.  I bought some
Brazilian: Salome de Bahia’s “Cabaret”, some African: “Retrospective on
Nigeria 70”, and some soul: “Tribe Vibes 3 – 33 original songs sampled by A
Tribe Called Quest”.

It is a blessing and a crime that I have a bar at the end of my block.  So a
chimichanga and a couple of big ass mango margaritas later, I decide to head
home.  I don’t believe in blaming liquor for the dumb things that you do
while drinking, but I’ll be damned if Jose Cuervo didn’t have at least a
little bit to do with me deciding to move my car one block closer to my
house, then locking my keys in the car.

All night I’d been trying to get a hold of my brother, and all night I
failed. Finally, after he got home and I adjusted from sitting on that hard
ass concrete to the comfort of the couch in the living room, he wants to go
and get something to eat. When I was sure that I was finished cussing him
out, we got in his car, and me, Roy Ayers, and everybody who loves the
sunshine went to White Castle to voluntarily destroy our bowels.

When I was a kid, we used to come up to Chicago to visit my grandparents
before they moved down to Mississippi to take their forty acres. The mule
had moved on to bigger and better things though. What I remember is I was
damn sure that somewhere between Springfield and that intersection of 87th
and Martin Luther king, we were going to hit a White Castle. When I would
visit Chicago on my own whenever I had money I’d buy a couple of sliders.
There was this lady that I saw all over the neighborhood, but mostly in the
White Castle parking lot. She lived out of a shopping cart, but I guess all
of the South Side was her living room.

This one particular day, I had enough change for two sliders. Figuring that
I’d get it to go so my clothes wouldn’t smell like I bathed in Crisco, I
headed back to my grandparents. I probably smelled her before I saw her,
hungry and soaked in ammonia. That’s what she smelled like. She looked at my
bag. I looked at my bag. The lyrics to “Mr. Wendell” ran through my head. So
I offered her my fries. I don’t know what kind of gratification I was
looking for, but whatever it was, she didn’t extend it. She snatched my
fries and went back to her urine soaked business and the unaccompanied
conversation that my generosity so rudely interrupted. Maybe it was because
the wind changed. Maybe it was just that I realized that she wouldn’t tell
me she appreciated the fact that I had just given her one third of my meal,
whatever it was, the stench of assisted living facility piss got so strong
that my nose started burning, so I turned up 87th ave and kept moving.

I hate to make light of other folks’ hardships, but last night, we pull into
the white castle parking lot (on the north side), and there he was, a
crackhead doing kung-fu. This poor sonovabith was wearing corduroys and a
winter jacket with his hood up in the middle of July in Chicago. And he was
shadow boxing himself and as soon as I walked out, there he was giving me
the same look that woman gave me when I gave up my fries 12 years ago.

“Damn,” I thought to myself.

I was watching him while I was inside and was thinking to myself “Times must
be getting tough in crackdom.” He looked like he knew what he was doing
though. His technique looked invincible. Or at least, it looked like he was
about as invincible as a tenth degree crack belt is capable of being. I
felt guilty, but a natural reaction was to not give him any money. There
are some people I give change too, others I don't. This guy could've
probably used my fries though because he was burning an awful lot of
carbohydrates on the air.

Then there was a female observer from the crackdom world studying his
ancient crackiestyle. From living in DC, I can say I’ve seen a lot of
crackheads in my life. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pretty crackhead
before last night though, especially not one who was visually both
attractive and addicted at the same time. She had a stack of unopened DVDs
in her hand, "Five dollas, three for ten."

She was pretty though, and she smiled at me as she walked through the door
and I walked towards it. It made me feel kind of uncomfortable. I was still
shocked that she was even possible. I tried to smile back, but it probably
looked as awkward as it felt. I had to laugh though. I’m sure it’s true that
crackheads need love too, but damn. She was a crackhead. And because she was
a crackhead, she was also on a hustle. As I pushed through the double doors,
I heard her running crackie game on the cat behind the counter.

“Um....my purse just got stolen, I was wondering if....”

I was in the parking lot with my brother for a minute. and I told him:

"dog...we just saw a crackhead"

him:"so? look around man...there's probably at least two more in this
parking lot"

me:"yeah...but that one was practicing the mysteries of chessboxin"

and we both laughed and shit.

I couldn’t even laugh at Crackolyn though. Seeing her broke my heart man,
and I don’t even know her. It’s kinda like that feeling you get when you
see someone who is blind and think to yourself, “Man, I couldn’t even
imagine being blind.” And I don’t really think it was because she was
pretty or that she smiled at me. I can't explain it. If I would have
watched my man rock the tae bo any longer, I probably would have been upset
by his ready-for-winter ass too.

~C

CD of the moment: King Britt presents Obafunke