wintering

“Exactly. Tha’s what I’m talkin bout. See, these kids are relics of the eighties. They may not wanna believe it, but that’s what they are. That Breakfast Club generation passed into the next phase of their respective lives: college university, marriage, jobs, houses, mortgages, kids, dogs, pools, swingsets, rec rooms and board games, maybe a vacation once a year to Mexico, in order to offset the ravages of the winter weather. This is your typical, average north american lifestyle. This is exactly what that generation X or Y, or whatever tha shit, was tryin to avoid. All those eighties punks, piercings, tattoos, pink hair, they're all ways to avoid assimilation into mainstream culture. What you gotta ask yourself is, well, is it all just a phase? Is it just something that everyone passes through on their way to the middle? Maybe some people pass through it in a way that’s louder, or more obvious than others, but still, they don’t stick with their rebellion. And if that’s true, then what were they rebellin for in the first place? Prolonged, displaced, teen-aged existential angst. Is that all it is?”
“So you sayin dat now everyone is through rebellin?”
“Sorta. They suckin it up jus like the generation before them did. An now they feedin it to their kids. These are the kids that we see here today. Yo, can you spot me another cigarette?”
“Sure ting. fuckin mooch.”
“Say what?”
“I said, ‘Want some hooch?’”
“Yeah, of course. But, at the same time, what’s the alternative, you know? What can we do, jus rebel right off into oblivion?”
“You keep on scarfin down those bennies de way dat you do and guess den you won hafta worry bout it anymore, right? Speakin o’dat, man, you holdin?”
“Yeah, but only enough for personal. --"
“Bullshit. Fuckin rich, whitebred, punkass. As if you ain’t had enough personal today already. The whole time you bin talkin you bin twitchin like hell.”
--
“But, I'll warn you right now, Jo is going to be feeling sorry for himself, and talking about himself a lot, cause that's basically all he's into at this point. You're jus going to have to put up with it for a while if you wan any shit from ‘im. You gotta listen to his sad story first otherwise he won give you the time o’day. I mean it. I seen ‘im wid dat... oh, what’s her name? Dat sorta hippie chick. You know who I’m talkin ‘bout. Anyway, she jus wanted a bit o’pot, but instead o’ jus handin over a baggie, he was goin on an on about all his shit. She was tryin to look interested but I could tell she was just wanting to get the weed an go. But she knew that if she interrupted ‘im she’d get nothin. So, jus keep that in mind, man. Jo D’s got lousy customer relations. I’m tellin ya...”

I am runnin da phys. ed. beat. We s’posed to go round a block or two for a warm-up before we start our soccer game or whatever da hell it is we doin today. But I gotta plan, see? ’Cause -
OH. Ow. Ow. Ouch.
“Shit. Dat kills.”
I am doubled over on da sidewalk.
“Yo dude. You ok?”
“Fuck. I’s my fuckin ankle. Went over on me widda fuckin curb.”
“You gonna be a’right? Can you walk?”
“Yeah. I think I’m ok.”
Gingerly. Gingerly. Tryin to put weight on...
“Jus tell mista Moore it might take me a while to come in.”
“Yeah, ok. You wan some help or something?”
“I’ll be a’right. You go on ahead.”

Fuckin B. Langdon. Tryin to fuck my shit up or somethin. Wans to help me. As fuckin if. Ain no way no cracker gonna help me out any time soon. But here I am anyway. Right outside Jo D’s.

So, Jo D’s. Der’s a buncha people round, jus chillin an such. But everyone’s der to get der fix. Dat’s fer damn sure. Dey’s a coupla chix over in da corner tryin to smoke somethin dat at first looks like hash. But it sure don smell like hash. I get over closa an ask’m what it is. Dey tell me i’s chocolate.
“Yo, you mean, like, real chocolate? Da shit dat people eat at easter time?”
Dey nod der big ol’ stoner heads.
“Fuck. No wonder i’s stenchin.”
Chocolate, fuck man. Anythin to get high. I thought I was bad. Nex ting you know we’ll be into da fuckin nutmeg. Can’t really blame ‘m though. I remember back when I was in el. I was doin all kindsa shit too. Even a little solvent abuse now and again. But I’m much smarter an more mature dan dat dese days, of course. Tanks to Jo I am mostly strictly designer shit only.

“So wha’chup for today, honey?”

Jo D’s addressin me in dat way he’s got.

“I see you sportin a beautiful new Cyndi Lauper cut over dat tired ol’ mac daddy o’yers. You havin a Boo Radley moment are ya?”

“Huh?”
Whadda fuck is dis sucker goin on bout? I guess I oughtta be used to it by now. Fucker’s always talkin in dis cryptic shit.

“Ahhh. Don mind me, sweety. I’m just havin a little fun tuggin on dat long hangin Johnson o’yers.”
I look down. De guy ain’t even within three feet o’my crotch. Still, he’s makin me more dan a little nervous wid his line o‘reasonin or whatever da fuck it is.

Dis guy is so quick, man. I’m jus standin der an all I can tink to say back is, “You been dippin into da crack again, boy?”
Jo breaks out into a big grin. “Don’t I know it! Ha ha! What can I do for you, honey? Tranqs, shooters, blow, or you goin straight for the chrome dis mornin?”
“No thanks, baby. I’m actually thinkin o’goin to class dis afternoon.”
“Shit. No kiddin.”
“Da’s right.”
“Guess you wan somethin nice an light fer now then, huh?”

Jo D started out dealin ritalin when he was bout nine years of age. It was prescribed to him cuz o’his supposed hyperactivity, see.