My brothers constant chomping irritates me to no end, and it makes me feel bad.

I dont know if its my anxiety in general or that I am genuinely disgusted with him. Either way, he spilled beer on his computer the other night and the screen stopped working. I feel really bad-especially bad when he asks to use mine to apply to jobs, but I dont want to let him because Im watching The Office or 30 Rock on Netflix. I have seen every episode of The Office at least three times and 30 Rock once. I should feel terrible, right? Friday, October 4, 2013 I just got back from work. I sitting on our new couch, listening to Starcraft 2, and talking to Sean on Facebook. I just got hustled. I am having mixed feelings. It was a rush. For sure. I thought I was going to get hit in the face and pockets emptied by a gangfull of black, homeless/drug dealers. They were older than I was. Probably, like, in their late 30s, some older. Heres how it went down: I took a ten minute break at 6:10. I walked down to the corner of OFarrell St. and Powell St. to buy a soda. I remembered a panhandler on outside of the garage I work at. I gave him some change. He was asking bystanders for 50 cents when I saw him as I was walking out of the liquor store. Conveniently, I had fifty cents change from my soda. That is a lie. I was hoping to get change for him while I was paying for my soda. I must have noticed him before I walked in. The Idea was already in my mind. As I put 50 cents into his cup, I asked him, Do you know where I can get some zanies and roxies? I looked at me for a second. He didnt have to think about it, it just took him a little while to figure out what was going on. He realized and immediately started rambling about pill hill. The location of pill hill would cost me two dollars. I didnt want to just know the location. I wanted him to actually take me there. What? Was I just going to take this mans word? He could just make up some random street, and even if he wasnt lying, what would I do when Im there? I needed him to come with me and be my liaison. I got off work in 15 minutes and told him I would meet him back at the corner in 15 minutes, he would wait there, and then take me. I passed him 2 dollars as we walked across the street, he agreed, and we both went our ways. It seemed really smooth. As I was walking back to work I thought, Whatever. He doesnt show up. I gave him 2 bucks to some homeless man that needed it. Best case. He would actually take me and I would get the pills. I thought about the pros and cons for the next fifteen minutes. It went very slow, but much of it is a blur. I do remember walking down the stairs after I said goodbye to the last valet at the podium. I ran into Adam, the guy who hired me. He asked me to wait in the office until he got back so he could give me a jacket and shirt. That took even longer. Finally, he did. I said Goodbye. See you Monday. And hurried out the door. And around the corner I started a lazy power-walk. I got to the corner and the guy was nowhere in sight. I headed down the street. I remembered he was wearing something red. I didnt quite remember what. Definitely not a shirt. That would have been too obvious. Maybe pants. Halfway down the block I saw an old black man in a red hat with the brim turned down and

to the side. Sweatshirt sleeves tied around his sides. As we approached 20 feet, we realized we were both looking for someone. It was a match. We proceeded down Powell St., in the direction I was heading, and began to talk. Pill Hill was located on Taylor St. and Jones St. We headed in the right direction. Our walk was cordial. We introduced ourselves. His name is Trevor. He grew up in Oakland. Most of it was mumbled, and I didnt care to follow up. I just nodded and said, ya. I little farther down the street Trevor quietly shouted, cigarette. It was I half-smoked, stomped out cigarette butt. He picked it up and cradled it in his hand. I felt bad. I took out my pack offered him one, and stuck another between my lips. He thanked me and took it gladly. He offered me his lighter. I took it and lit my cigarette and gave it back to him. We proceeded. Farther down he pointed out the police station. He said we had to walk around the block to avoid the police station. I was well aware of what we looked like walking with each other through the street just as everyone was getting off of work. Although, on the sidewalks we walked though, I didnt see many people getting off of work. I was in a very poor area. Trevor wasnt one in a million. But, it was still rush hour, and we were in a high traffic area. After moving from Washington, DC, I was quickly becoming aware of how differently the two cities are in this respect. Every morning this week on my way to work, I have seen multiple people smoking crack. It was all crack. I had been offered bud on the street, bought some in the park, and heard of people selling roxies. They couldnt do kill me in the street full of people getting off of work. Maybe they could jack me real quick and run with my stuff. But, I had put all my money in different places throughout my person. I didnt have anything expensive. So, what? Worse case scenario they punch me and take my 30 bucks? I was willing to risk it. As we walked down Jones St. (At least, what I thought was Jones St. based the information I had been given. I remember seeing Lavenworth St., though), the sidewalk became increasingly dense with, from what I can imagine, homeless people, and, hopefully, drug-dealers. Trevor began quietly shouting, benzos, and roxies to everyone on the sidewalk. The first few people noticed, but didnt pay attention. Then, we found the goldmine. At first one, then two, then three men came up to us and told us they had roxies. I asked if they had Xanax and they all didnt have that. Only roxies. Whatever, I have a Lorazapam that my mom sent me. I still wanted the roxie. It was a high stakes trade. One guy said 30. I said, What are they?. He said 30mg. I said I wanted two. He said no. I said okay. Another guy said he would give me a better one. I said no. I said I am doing this guy. They started arguing. Trevor told me to go with the first guy. I said, Sorry. They were whispering. I said, I need to go with the first guy. He put the white pill in my hand. I took 30 one-dollar bills that I allotted to my left-back pocket. I gave him 25 one-dollar bills. They other guy was unhappy. I thought I was going to get punched in my face. The other guy wanted to sell me another. I said, I can only afford one. He reached for the five one-dollar bills in my had. He took them. He gave me another, blue pill. I said, Its only five. He said, What?. He was unhappy. He took the white pill out of my hand and put an incredibly small baggie filled with a dark brown substance. It was torn off plastic wrap. And, he walked off.

I stood there and took it in. I had gotten taken for? I did. The white pill was good, Trevor told me. The other one was nothing. It was a real pill, but an antihistamine for pain and anxiety. Nothing I am looking for. I apologized to Trevor. He told me it was going to be like that. That, I just have to go with the one guy. I acted a fool. I didnt blame anyone but myself. It was a lesson learned. Trevor asked for another two bucks. I gave him a two-dollar bill I had in another pocket. He tried to give me his number, but he just continued to scroll his first generation, button-touch phone, coming back to the same screen after he got to the bottom. He said he was trying to get to voicemail. I said, Its okay. Ill be back around here and find you next time. I said it with absolutely no intention to try and find him again. I was embarrassed. I just got taken. I was defeated and wanted to just get away. Go back home. I said bye and we walked our separate ways. As I walked to the bus stop, I had both items that cost me $35+ in my jacket pocket. I was sure one of them was just the antihistamine. I remembered the imprint on the pill and typed it into my phone while I waked to the bus stop. Unfortunately, I was right. The bus came and I decided to wait till I got home to open the small baggie. There may still be some dope. The entire ride home, I assumed it was legit. I was optimistic. The bus ride was long. It was a blur. I tried to read an article about an English immigrant from Somalia, that moved back to Mogadishu to open restaurants and hotels. I didnt read much and most of it is a blur. I got home. Immediately went to the bathroom, but not before getting tin foil and a pen. I sat on the toilet seat, and dropped a movement as I searched for the baggie. It felt like the real-deal. When I opened it, though, it smelled like chocolate. It was cake. Chocolate cake. I threw everything in the garbage, wiped my ass, rolled a splif, took my last Lorazapam, poured a glass of wine, and sat on the couch to write this.