Crack is wack
ALSO, I forgot to mention, but a letter/comment I wrote to NY Mag is in this week’s issue. Whatever you do, DO NOT tell my parents about this. Seriously. Wait, I think my parents are the only ones that still read this…But seriously, they’d kill me if they knew about this. (Hi Mom and Dad! Don’t kill me!)
Move-in day, 2001, Sunnyside, Queens. My roommate and I struggled to move a futon mattress out of a truck and into our building’s elevator when two neighborhood guys offered to help. They grabbed it and fit it into the elevator without even taking the cigarettes out of their mouths, and yet somehow, even though they were a little dirty and creepy, we told them to come by our apartment for a six-pack that night as a thank-you for the help. (There is no logic behind that, we weren’t the smartest.) When they showed up, they brought their friend Eddie, who seemed especially creepy. We drank our beers, hung out, they left. A few minutes later Eddie rang our buzzer and told us he forgot something and could he come up and grab it? We looked around, and after checking the bathroom, we realized our new friend Eddie had left his crack pipe in there.