My Drug Dealer’s Snake
Eventually, he’s going to make you watch him feed it
I’sitting on the edge of this guy’s waterbed while he explains the belt drive on his record player. Or maybe his record player’s better because it doesn’t have a belt drive. I’m not sure. I haven’t been listening because I don’t give a shit. He says the waterbed’s vintage but I think I’ve got it beat. When did they start adding bookshelves to the headboards, mid-eighties? It doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m too fucking old to be sitting in this studio apartment, pretending to be impressed by his record collection. But this is what we do in states run by Evangelical zealots that won’t legalize marijuana.
I’m lucky this is my problem with buying drugs. There’s little chance I’ll get pulled over on the way home. If I do, it’s unlikely a cop will search me. If he searches me, and finds drugs, I probably won’t get worse than probation. I live in Austin, Texas. I’m white. I can scrape together enough for a lawyer. That doesn’t mean it’s not a pain in the ass to have to sit here in a cloud of patchouli listening to Kyle tell me I’ve never really heard Fleetwood Mac. I mean, really heard them, you know?
It’s always some guy named Kyle or Greg or Steve. This guy’s a Kyle. As far as Kyles go, he’s not the worst. Last Kyle I had was back in Maryland. He had a pet lizard and a…
