Part 1

Muggy and hot, Michael had taken up smoking on a whim. Marlboro, lighter, $8, thank you. This was the time to do such things. He had never fucked, but always spoke of it in crude terms, figuring it was teenager-appropriate and would seem foolish language for a bald man. Michael was in quick suspicion of all bald matters. He would find strands of hair in his hand during a shower, and showing them to his mother, would be reassured that it was only because his hair was so long. She would go on to explain that his constant anxiety regarding hair consistency could be causing it to fall out. In most cases, Michael wished his mother would allow her first statement to suffice.

The very thing that prevented Michael from “banging” and “getting bizz-ay” was that he constantly felt prohibited by his sensitive nature. He felt it could be demoralizing to fornicate with a woman whom he had no intention of wedding. What if someone “banged” his future daughter in this way? Would she be walking down the street in 2050 with her husband and two kids, noticing that gentleman who had “really given it to her” back in 10th grade? Everyone is someone’s daughter, Michael thought, scooping some Dunkaroo frosting with his index finger.

In lieu of sexual intercourse, Michael decided that an acceptable alternative would be to delve into some form of drug use. His semester work load being embarrassingly light (five classes spread from Monday to Wednesday), Michael would have a four day weekend to “smash out,” and then get himself together for Monday’s lesson.

There was no doubt Michael could find illegal substances in Baltimore, but he had been quite uncertain of the best time of day to get it. Gang initiation shootings happened at all hours. He had been meaning to join one himself, but knew the sight of blood made him faint. The image of shooting a civilian and then passing out in front of him or her would cause serious concern for Michael’s street cred. This also could leave him in a legal bind if the gang members, deciding the initiation was not complete if shooter could not run away, decided to leave Michael asleep on the sidewalk.

Night time was when all of the junkies slithered out of the boarded up houses they had been sleeping in all day. He imagined the process as a mix between vampires and zombies emerging out into the night, but later decided it was probably more like an afternoon movie ending, the patrons surprised to find it suddenly dark out, discussing the dreams they’d had while sleeping through the final act of “Honey.”

Michael walked down Pratt St. at 4:30 PM, wearing a purple Ravens jersey. The street was growing dark faster than he’d hoped, and he scurried to the first gentleman who came his way. This fellow was African American, and the holes in his shirt revealed white patches of skin. His head was bald save for long dreadlocks that extended from an invisible line connecting his left and right ears.

“Excuse me, sir. Where can I purchase some crack cocaine?”