A Funny Thing Happened At The Dope Spot

THROWBACK BY KHALID STRICKLAND a.k.a. BLACK PACINO

: http://t.co/KmlLXTI 

A long time ago, in a ghetto far away…

Let me start by saying that I don’t actually slang the dope, I just bag it. And this is only a temp job until I find something legal… or at least until Jose returns from Puerto Rico to reclaim this crummy gig. But since he fled The States with charges pending, I doubt he’ll be back anytime soon.

My game is weed but in these desperate times I’m willing to pinch-hit in another sport. Jose’s cousin Flaco runs this spot and right now he’s in the shower freshening up for Lisa; she’ll be here for him a lil’ later. By then, I’ll be done baggin this shit up.

At first I needed the electric scale to measure off the grams but after an hour I know exactly how much to bag. Repetition is an exercise.

The intercom rings and Flaco, with his almost indecipherable Spanish accent, yells from the bathroom: “Could you answer that, Kha?”

I wipe my hands, get up from the table and answer the intercom.
“Who?”
“It’s Brad,” replies a chipper voice over the intercom.
I put the visitor on pause and shout at Flaco.
“Yo, Flock! Brad is at the door. Sounds like a whiteboy.”
“Yeah, he a custie,” Flaco yells from the back room. “It’s all good, buzz him in.”

I push the button. Seconds later, the doorbell chimes and I look through the peephole. Two white dudes, both sharply-dressed in business suits and holding leather briefcases, wait to enter. I open the door and let them in.

“Thanks, buddy,” says the first guy to enter.  He extends his hand for a shake.  ”I’m Brad.”

And I’m a nigga who don’t give a fuck. I leave Brad hangin, sit down at the table and continue to package the work.  Fiends are fiends whether they’re toothless and dressed in second-hand Karl Kani, or clean-cut Harvard graduates in Armani suits.

Flaco finally walks into the room shirtless, drying his hair with a towel. But once he catches a glimpse of the preppy duo, Flock becomes extremely angry.

“What the fuck, mang?” Flaco barks, pointing at Brad’s friend. “I told you not to bring nobody down here! Just you, alone! I already told you that!”

Brad chuckles nervously.

“Hey… he’s cool, Flock. Jim is my dude,” Brad assures.  Then he pushes the envelope with a hot-button phrase that I know will set Flaco off:

“It’s OK.”
Before Brad can continue, Flaco immediately cuts him off.
“What the fuck did you just say?” Flaco asks as he gets in Brad’s face.

Brad clams up to measure his words. It’s too late now, though. Flaco’s combustible temper has been stoked. Brad’s fear is justified; Flock may be lean but his upper body is chiseled like a welterweight boxer.

Where’s that bag o’ Haze in my pocket? This is an opportune time for a smoke break.

“It’s okay? Is that what you said?” Flaco asks before turning and looking at me incredulously. “You hear this chit, Kha? Why do blancos love to say it’s okay?”

I shrug my shoulders and proceed to roll a fat spliff.  Flock turns his wrath back on poor Brad.

“No, muthafucka… it AIN’T okay,” Flock unloads. “It ain’t okay cuz I’m tellin’ you it ain’t okay. How you you gonna come into MY place of business and tell ME what’s okay?”

Brad is stuttering now.  I don’t want to add levity to the situation but I’m not sure how much longer I can control my laughter.

“Listen here,” Flaco says, poking his finger into Brad’s chest for emphasis. “You blancos are takin over our hood but you don’t own shit in this apartment. You ain’t Christopher Columbus and I ain’t no fuckin Indian.”

Ha! I didn’t know Flock was so poetic.

“This is the rule,” Flaco snarls, nose-to-nose with Brad. “Nobody but you comes down here, you got that? And if you do this chit again, I’mma beat you… AND whoever you bring down here… within an inch of your fuckin lives.  You got dat?”

A demoralized Brad nods in agreement.

“Good,” Flaco says.  “Now what you want?”

“I’ll take four, please,” Brad skittishly replies.

“Ayo, Kha!” Flaco says without taking his eyes off Brad.  “Serve this muthafucka.”

I grab four baggies from the table and hand them to the reprimanded whiteboy.  Once money is exchanged, the shook duo quickly head for the exit.

“Sorry about that, Flock.  No hard feelings, eh?” Brad says from the hallway.

Flaco replies by slamming the door in his face.  And with that, I burst into laughter and spark the freshly-rolled Haze.  A grin creeps across Flock’s face as sits in a chair beside me.

“I don’t get it, mang.  Why do white people love to say it’s okay?” he asks me rhetorically.  It’s a reasonable question but I’ll be damned if I know the answer.

“Maybe to them everything really is okay,” I surmise through a cloud of sweet smoke.
Although it wasn’t meant as a joke, I finally got Flaco to chuckle.
Puff, puff pass.