grande addiction

August 4, 2002 &bull uncategorized

5:29am. Her fingers are twisting the key back and forth, absent-mindedly molesting the brass lock. Her back is to the door and she’s saying something to her coworker who’s out of sight, but still audible. Loose sheets of paper are hitting my shins, rolling past me like tumbleweeds. “Call 1-888-TOO-LOSE for more information about the new you!” It’s chilly and I’m all alone.

She finally opens the door and I mumble something about them being ready. She nods. We make our way through the maze of tables, chairs, and stacked boxes. She asks me to forgive their mess and says they are running a little behind this morning. I step over a french press and am transported into a different world….

Dealers. When you find one that works, you keep going, no matter how bad it gets. The thing with Jimmy is that you need to get there right at 12:43am, when the dicks stationed down the block have just left for their coffee break. (They always leave a couple minutes early — typical for detectives on the clock.) You can usually see a person or two sneaking towards the back of the house around 12:47am (they’re late because they haven’t done their research), but I always go in the front. I heard that a young kid got shot in the face while sneaking in the backyard one night. I guess he was mistaken for a DEA officer or something.

After you give the secret knock and pass the peephole identity check you are granted admission. There’s usually a couple people strung out on the porch floor, just lying there with puzzled looks on their faces. I think they are waiting for someone to disinfect them — like they have just realized that they are on the nastiest carpet in the world and are suddenly too grossed out to even move.

Walking through the living room you usually have to hop over children’s toys, broken beer bottles, human beings, and other unmentionables. Jimmy is always hanging out in a locked bedroom, which means you need to pass through an extra layer of security before you can see him. I start talking to Sal about getting in to see Jimmy when I hear some commotion in the back of the house. Before I know it I’m in the alley, running as fast as I can, scared-shitless. I never realized there were 50 of us in the house, but that’s about how many people are scattered in all directions, running away from the sirens surrounding 455 Rancho Cruz Blvd. I turn the corner of the alley, thinking I’ll hang out behind this garage for a minute to catch my breath. I’m instantly belted in the teeth by something cold and hard. My teeth are OK, but my lips aren’t — they’re bleeding like crazy. It turns out that this “cold and hard” object was the butt of a gun. Unfortunately, it’s been inverted and now the butt is the least of my concerns.

“Gimme your shoes!!”
“What?!”
“GIMME YOUR DAMN SHOES!!”

I’m not about to argue with anyone, especially with someone who’s waving a gun in my face, over a pair of worn-out Vans. I take my shoes off and toss them over to the half-clothed psycho. He disappears into the backyard with his new footwear. I’m left with my faded green polo shirt, wrinkled khakis, and bright white socks. I decide it would be best to take off my socks and go barefooted. This isn’t a fashion decision (although I’m very aware that I would look like a complete idiot walking around this alley in my bright-ass white socks). No, this is a strictly tactical decision. I’m trying to be strategic about my escape and figure that barefooted people are more common in this part of town than wimpy looking twenty-somethings in white socks. Of course, the bottoms of my feet are softer than my cheeks so they are bloodied up after a block or two. I keep running, though, trying to get my bearings….

I turn around and say to the girl who let me in, “No worries.” I walk up to the counter and place my order: a Grande coffee of the day. I have the feeling that waiting outside a locked Starbucks at 5:29am is possibly the first sign of a major addiction.

I guess it could be worse.

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