Time for us was a pile of antiquated bricks; he dropped me off with our goodbyes swift and without remorse; pallid remarks, lackluster jokes, nasty thoughtways were slapped on as shoddy mortar. He could get good coke though, and I owe it to him that that was and will be the only time I transact with Hispanic gangsters on fast motorcycles.
Up then down. The ticket lady covered in sweat decamped this feeling of relief, informed me maximum capacity of said train had been reached. She told me it’s better to book ahead online than pay upfront, and she made it sound like my cash was losing value as we spoke. I asked her if it was and she said she wasn’t sure what I meant.
It was 2:30. The next train was tomorrow morning at 10:20. I knew I wouldn’t call Alex. He had nothing more to offer. I had entirely bested the situation. Just before we left he'd gone to the bathroom, and the thief in me had managed to cram his dad's neat old-fashioned briefcase and third edition of Jude the Obscure inside my newly acquired backpack. No, I would not return. So I walked upstairs into the street's sunlight, wishing I had my sunglasses, but assured myself the times felt a backpack more necessary. I started imagining Dora the Explorer snorting lines off intimate body parts, and was on my way.
First things are always first. I had $40 and some change along with a bit of pot, but no papers. Sifting through the city's framework, I’d wandered into the gay district, welcomed on all sides by colorful eccentric sex shops. I kept my virtue in tact, eventually finding a tobacconist. I took the tattered briefcase out, submerged the papers and pot underneath the ocean of jargony scribblings, and was on my way. The briefcase was so I could feel okay in public places. It was questionless that it served as the ultimate defense against any accusation of impropriety. I'd shaken hands with my new role for the day: Knight #1 in ragamuffin armor.
And then I met the test of putting this theory into practice. This grey man with crooked nose, spatulate beard, and a rusted bike stopped me in my tracks to state, “Important business.” He sounded deliberately factual, though the words gargled when spoken. His voice was that of a crocodile with a mouthful of raspberries. At once I was fascinated, and instantly agreed, and asked if he’d like to join me on this important business of mine.