I Swear on my favourite Spider Plant

Back to the cop who jacked me up (and then we’ll reconvene with the plot line (obviously I’ve seen too many Jim Jarmusch films))…I emerged from the alley of ill repute, looked both ways, and I swear on my favourite spider plant the coast was clear, so I put my head down and started in the direction of a house that would never be called a home. Unfortunately, my driven gait, also known as the crack street shuffle, was advertising to anyone within a two block radius that my demons had won yet another battle in the intractable war with my childhood, and yes, I’m the first to admit I should have gotten help in this regard, or rather, I should have stuck with the help I did have at one point but lost, because I found the long legs and sultry mouth of the only Jungian analyst in town far too distracting. Then of course, there’s my personal experience with Sod’s Law to consider, the heft of which could fill every legal library in Philadelphia. Point being, it was just my luck that the only person in the two block radius of my crack street shuffle happened to be a young cop. He was already smiling that sly smile some cops get when they fancy themselves detectives, as he pulled up beside me in his cruiser, lowered his passenger window and asked me in a fraternal, if not altogether cloying voice, where I had just come from. The rhetoric of this question lived a charmed life in the upscale neighbourhood of his eyes, which I tried to avoid but couldn’t, and when he saw the black holes of my pupils, he ticked a box somewhere in the remorseless paperwork of his precinct’s ‘to serve and protect’ agenda. Then he asked (in the same cloying voice) if I had anything on me. I replied in the negative and he smiled that smile again, before ordering me to give him whatever I had, or he’d drive me down to the station and have me strip searched by an ornery constable with webbed fingers. Just kidding, there was no mention of an ornery constable with webbed fingers, but there should have been, according to Sod’s law. At any rate, I knew I was fucked, so I reached into my pocket and pulled out a gram of heartbreakingly good cocaine, pleading my case as I did, “I’m just trying to have a little fun with my girl,” I said, not expecting it to make inroads on his privileged version of empathy: “I’ve got a side girl too,” he said as he flicked the baggie, winked, and drove away.


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