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I’m working all summer, two jobs, saving scratch to make a killing before school starts. During the week I work for the City of Windsor on a garbage truck. Weekends play drums around town. By August I have myself a car, good condition, and lotsa folding cash for a pound of hash. Gonna sell quarter ounces, and double my money.
Usually, I cop dime grams here and there from Skinny. But Skinny’s wrecked again, spikin’ scag. Answers the door in his tattered bathrobe that keeps falling open. Nobody needs to see that. He forces one eye open, and sees it’s me. “‘Sup,” says Skinny. “Need anything? ‘Nother dime?”
“Nah,” I say, “dimes’re all cool and shit, but where can I cop an elbow?”
“Ah, man,” he says, trying to hold the bathrobe against his belly with a forearm. He looks spastic, and I wanna laugh, but I shake my head slowly. “Shit!” he says, raking fingers through long, stringy hair. “I need that scratch, man. Today.”