MAGIC CITY VICE, PART ONE

By Beaux Sandoval

It’s 10:37 pm, and my ears are picking up the beginning riff of Glue Man by Fugazi. It’s coming out of my car speakers as my mind races a million miles a minute.

Kids really are stupid, apparently, because I’m only 20 and I’m on my way to help someone else acquire their vices while I casually and lightly trip on one of my own. I could be working on my relationship with the mother of my daughter, who is legally not ours anymore. Open adoption, long story, please don’t judge too hard, or do, whatever, you’re free to your own opinion and I’m used to it now. I could be at home applying to various schools that look really cool, but I know I’m probably never going to attend.

I know this side of town — I just entered Glen Iris from the section of Green Springs with that Custom Autoworks shop with the really fucking sexy 1996 Chevy Caprice SS perched out front. I’m racing through the streets and avenues because I know there are usually never any cops over on this side, and if there are, they’re occupied by some jackass choking out his girlfriend over a bag of meth or a chain of various armed robberies and/or car burglaries that, from what I hear, don’t ever seem to yield much reward to the land pirates committing their acts of survival. I’m also always under a weird sense of feeling rushed. I can’t explain it, and it must be genetic because my dad has experienced the same thing. That must be why we’re comfortable in kitchens and consume so many controlled substances and alcoholic beverages to try and level that rushed feeling out.

I meet up with my friend who has decided to bring another friend, which is cool and all, but like, as a general rule for anyone reading that’s new to buying shit illegally, don’t just bring someone else with you without telling your source or connection to the source first. Also, rule number two: don’t get into the car with open containers.

Luckily, we’re in Glen Iris, so it’s not that big of a deal, but out of respect, and to avoid making the driver’s current legal situation any worse, just don’t do that shit without forewarning and seeking approval. Like, goddamn y’all, it ain’t fucking hard.

We relocate to one spot to get money and just sit down and talk for a second, just because I haven’t seen them in quite some time and my rare conversational attitude is making an appearance. We talk about cooking and alcoholism and coping mechanisms and family and mild spiritual awakenings and music and drugs and shit and then it’s time to head out.

Another reason you shouldn’t just bring your friend on a ride like this is the driver may not have the capacity for two people, and this is our current situation. So, homeboy is stretched out across two really big cardboard boxes filled with random shit from my life that I drug out of my closet recently. So, yeah, open containers, they’re drunk, my passenger seat belt doesn’t work and dude is about six foot two inches and crammed into the backseat of my little car on top of all that shit.

I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here, but my night isn’t terrible so I’m dealing with it.

We make the run. I make them protect my car with two knives while I go inside for some quick peace of mind and to escape from the red-and-blue light trap I’m riding around in (the one that’s about to be even more dangerous) and to pet my dealer’s dog. She’s a sweet, old girl and has big, beautiful ears that she won’t let me touch because they droop and hurt due to old age or something.

The deal is done, the dog is pet, there was a minor scare when there was a random, loud fucking knock at the door but it turned out to be a delivery sandwich for dude’s roommate. After I separate the goods into two bags for my car guards, I say Adios and I’m out of there, back into the night.

I’ve been back inside my car for approximately thirty-eight seconds and dude stretched out on the boxes has already lost half of his stash. My head is starting to hurt, and I’m craving a grapefruit, water, some TV and some down time on the couch with my two pit bulls. I take the drunks back, we talk for a minute, then I get the hell out of there, too, ready to be by myself again.

I’ve got ten bucks to stretch me until Wednesday so I get a bottle of water, enough gas for the next two or three days, (if I’m careful) and I hit up the Western on Highland with the rest of my change for a bag of carrots, some green onions, an avocado, a grapefruit and a jalapeño. I’ve got some dry rice noodles sitting at my aunt’s apartment off Cliff Road, which is one of my hideouts and getaway spots, so I swing by and juice up my phone, drink my water, eat my grapefruit and some Zapp’s potato chips I had leftover from this morning’s headache (half alcohol hangover, half fucking the girl that came home with me last night for an hour when I woke up with no water), take out Auntie’s trash for her and grab my rice noodles before I hit the road one last time. Now that my phone is charged, I can listen to that DJ Screw mix of Visions of Love, followed by his mix of Anita Ward’s, Ring My Bell, which are equally perfect, by the way, for acid trips, interstate drives and lovemaking.

It’s about 2:24 a.m., and I’m halfway out my aunt’s door when I run into her on-and-off again (for the last sevenish years) boyfriend aka sweetheart aka Hank aka Uncle Hank aka Hankenstein.

Hank and my aunt are characters, as well as the story of their relationship, which is a bit Sid & Nancy. We all call them Hank and Cyndi, one in the same, yin yang, with the same thought in mind.

I have a very brief conversation with my unofficial uncle and get back in my car. I find my road playlist and head home, because at the end of every single fucking day there’s still the same lonely feeling, followed by the burning love, for the mother of my child, who I’ve been an asshole to lately. She is up tonight and misses me and wishes I would come mend the damage I’ve caused in the last few weeks: running around with other girls, drinking gin, moonshine and red wine like they’re fucking water, adding various other things to the mix, letting the prolonged effects get the best of me and behaving rudely to Baby Momma.

It’s time to go be nice to one of the few people who’s had your back since day one.