The November Criminals
“On the first of October, as I was leaving my house, an unsupervised boy rammed my shin with his blood-colored tricycle. I was all primed to go distribute my sheaf of flyers. I had resigned myself to a life of despair, without Digger, I mean. It’s quite a voluptuous feeling. I had my backpack with me, with the dumb-ass posters and my rubber-banded, sorted bundles of money. As the pain of the tricycle blow receded, and the afterecho of the boy’s shout thinned, my pager went off. This was at nine ...o’clock in the morning. It was the earliest daylight page I had ever received. The number was unfamiliar. A D.C. number, an exchange (that’s the first three digits after the area code) I knew: 202-364-1889. But at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning? The thought of someone needing weed first fucking thing in the morning kind of wowed me. I mean, it’s not heroin. It’s just pot. How strong can your craving for it be? There’s no physical dependency. Yeah, some kids pretend that they’re total addicts, but that’s just the exuberance of being young, rearing its clumsy, horned head.MoreLess
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