A street, a drink, a spice; ranging in color from dark brown, to amber, to technicolor; adorned in beads, glass, sweat, and nakedness. It brings joy, debauchery, desolation. It awakens the senses, dulls them, heightens, and crashes. It relaxes, unleashes, punishes, rewards, elevates, squeezes. Friends and strangers often bring it to you, but beware of the wolf in sheep’s clothing that uses it for personal gain.
Tonight, just like every night, I stand in this bar, no other place to go. I’m a regular—the bartender knows me, and so does the owner, for different reasons. I took a cab here and left my wallet; lucky for me I have an open tab, so I don’t worry about what I bring into this place, only what I take. The air is musty, the carpet is moist, the patrons are the same they’ve always been since I showed up that first time. “What do you want?”, the bartender asks me. I ask for my favorite, on the rocks. He tells me I’m not welcome here anymore. Here nor there, where can I go? I say I don’t care, I just need it. He hands me a glass and tells me to drink it and leave. I bring it to my mouth, sweet, electric, loud, smoky. Nothing else matters.
I’ll be back tomorrow, I say, as the bartender shoves me out. From one desolate place to another, the street beckons me to wait it out, patiently, until there is a change of shifts and I can go back in. Nevermind my wallet, I can pay with this pocket full of beads. We will work it out.