I would dress like a dork. A collegiate dork to be exact. A denim-collar-down-jacket-waffle stomper, outdoorsy-but-clean-REI-kind of dork to be real exact. I would paste down my bleached-blond spikes into a forced-part comb-over. I was Sunny Jim come to life. I would stand on the corner of the major strip in this particular university area armed with my Mead binder full of $10 gram-bags and eighths. [continues 384 words]
Paul just sat there. I've never seen a dead person sit, but I have a nasty hunch a dead man sitting would appear much like Paul did that day in the pizza place - minus the monkey on his back. "I tried to kick a couple of weeks ago," he started in. "I was sick for 15 days with no sign of it letting up, so I just said, 'Fuck it.'" I was saddened, but somehow fascinated - impressed, even - that this lab rat of a person was still alive. "Can I git a pull from yer Pepsi?" he said as he simultaneously snatched and sipped from my wife's Big Gulp. "Keep it," she said. He might as well have had a neon sign on his forehead that flashed "HEPATITIS HEPATITIS HEPATITIS." He scared the shit out of her. He scared the shit out of me. [continues 689 words]
