Heard On Colfax: Down with The Up

Submitted anonymously by e-mail--"I woke up sometime mid-day, and I remember saying something like, “I think we need some more alcohol.” Tara dropped me and dick off uptown. We knocked on the apartment door of the previous couch we had been crashing on. From what I remember, nobody was home. The residents were at their respective division of labor. Un-phased, we ventured the alleys of east Colfax. We were searching for the next event. Our status set bequested homelessness. I found a sub sandwich in a dumpster, and Dick found a pair of shoes on someone’s porch. Previously his feet were bare ass naked. We deviated from the generalised other by walking around drunk in public. The following events of the night support the labeling theory; we were doing nothing wrong, but some people were responding to our actions. Our social construction of reality was altered when we encountered some hippies. We thought, perhaps, we shared the same beliefs, but after we asked them where we could find some methamphetamines, we realized that they were an out-group, or to say, they were not “down with the up.” And they went inside to smoke weed or braid dreads or whatever hippies do and kicked us off of their porch. That primary group went along their way and we went on ours."
     "Show us your booze!" neither man nor woman appreciates to hear this statement. We are not sexist. We are alcoholics. To Argonaut’s we went. The utilitarian organization I was a member of at the time gave me an opportunity to support the control theory, but my attachments and involvement were at a minimum wage if not downright normative. The next few, or until it grew dark, contained no intentional presentations of self for us. We just drank and walked, and we talked and laughed. The language grew to be more nonverbal communication as we began to lose motor functions, and a simple shrug or spit was enough for us guys to understand each other. The social control may have been taking the night off because neither of us can recall the rest of that first bottle of the day, but we still could not find any tweek.
     I must have woken up again somewhere in mid-step and fulfilled my role. Luckily, we were passing an Asian liquor store on Colfax, and we were both both exacting instrumental leadership. Apparently, I come to, if only slightly, just in time to buy another 1.75 litres of whiskey or vodka to keep us as drunk, and Dick waited outside socialising with all the crackheads walking up and down the sidewalks. Perhaps they would know how to get us high. A dramaturgical analysis would prove our personalities strengthened our organic solidarity, or at least I would like to think so, as long as we bothmaintained a certain level of innebriation and remained intoxicated. And do not think that we never took shots of mouthwash when therewas no other alternative to achieve this goal. Well, with a fresh handle and a handful of twenties, Dick leans to me and beckons me to follow the crackheads. Now I do not want to projectively label them, but we definitely wer not using expressive leadership at this this point in the evening. It is dark by this time, and we are following some crackheads!!! And to god knows where. Back to the alleys we go. He motions for my cash, with little questions of his own. “Sixty bucks, can you get some ice? Shardy Party!” “Yea yeah.” Hesitation becomes me, but alcohol swathes my thoughts. So, we wait with his buddies making wasted small talk until he gets back, seemingly very quickly. He hands me a rock, I get pissed, and we all start walking. “This is not what I paid for!” “What you talking that flip flap jacka?! You best be wearin’ a diaper on yo’ head the way poop be flyin’ out yo’ mouth!” Outnumbered; 5 crackheads to 2 drunks, we load his pipe in the alley behind some building, and him and his buddies get high,but since I paid for it, Dick and I take at least one good rip. “Shit, they know we’re high.” And we are off againback to Colfax. I can not see how far away it is, can not tell how fast I am walking or stumbling or if that bottle is still in my hands. Scene.
     I may have been on a sensorimotor level because all I could do was go, plus I was still upset that they bought that crap with my money. When Dick and I become pre-operational, we suggest asking someone else. There is obviously drugs out here, why should we not be able to find what we want? We do not become concrete operational until after being ripped off two more times in a row. We are persistent, determined, and loaded. To be honest, I do not know how we ended up in the next situation, but we followed another secondary group to an apartment building laundry room. There, we drank and talked and waited; hoping that this time I would get what I wanted to get while almost forgetting what we were doing there at that palce with those people at that time. Oh, I still have a bottle. Let us all enjoy the benefits of it. I have no idea what Dick is doing or saying at this point, but I am sharing my cheap whiskey with Big Black next to me. Getting impatient, I ask, “When is that ish coming?” they were not a primary group, they were doing business and/or fiding their own fix. After he snaps at me and assures me what I want and how much of it I paid for is coming. It is on the way. Back to the drink.
     Now, I am aware that so far we do not portray the conventional or traditional hero, but if I promise that if you were drunk with us, that you would have just as much excitement. I found that if we are around someone who is sober, then they will either end up stressed, annoyed, pissed, or possibly arrested, but that could happen anyway if you do not know how to escape a 10 story building from the 10th floor when the cops are knocking down the door. I digress.
     “Hey , know any party tricks?” Takes a shot, hits the pipe, hard, and then takes another shot to chase the first shot and toke. He smiles while swallowing the whiskey and blowing out the smoke. Every time that I look to see what Dick is doing he look shappy and in the middle of a conversation while standing next to someone else who is smoking half of what I bought. So, I want to try that party maneuver. I take the shot. I hit the pipe. “Pull it, pull it!” I hit that pipe so hard it is glowing red and almost burns me, but I must take another shot to finish the move. Swallow. Breathe. Head rush. Oh, I forgot to mention that they did not get what I wanted, to my dismay, he brought back more crack.
     So, let us see here; Dick layed down a huge fresh turd on the laundry room floor, he got choked out by Big Black so hard that it left scabs of his finger prints, I tried to break it up passively because he was huge and high, I picked up the poop with my gloved fingers and threw it outside so the problem could be relenquished, and Big Black said,” be more like yo’ friend here, man, chill man.” At one point I recall it getting to be loud, seemingly, or I was paranoid, but we had to get the fuh out of there. We ended up leaving with him. Dick is singing a popular hit on the R&B radio station, the name of which I can not recall now. It did have the word “bitch” in it though, because Dick kept reciting it while we were walking to “not”get ripped off again, and it was upsetting Big Black because he was a feminist or something. Aside from the choking, he seemed like such a nice fellow. He turned out to be gay. We really should have been paying more or any attention to where he was taking us; we just kept walking. I do remember him leaning over to me occasionally and whispering something like, “you want some dick?” He must not have known that I was already with my friend Dick, and-oh, wait he wanted to engage in sexual relations with me.
     Well, after a while of walking in circles we end up on the side of some house. He offers to go upstairs for us because the dealers do not enjoy people to be there besides him I suppose. I told him that sounds great, and I will go too. He was not having it. My curiosity was coming over me, and I inquired about the “Big Black” myth. “Is it true?” He pulled it out of his pants and set it in my hand. I weighed it. It was big, black, flacid, and warm. Dick is fast asleep by this point. On the side of the house was an extended platform, and he looked rather comfortable. I do not know how he was able to sleep after all that, but as I am trying to figure this out I suddenly realize that now my fallus is in his hands because he wanted to seen mine too. He was trying to make it get bigger. I told him to stop and go get that stuff I wanted and to hurry up with it too. 
     Wow, I must be high, or still really drunk. Both. I can not tell. A few moments of deliberating what just happened and how we got to where we were, I realised I just got ripped off again. Enfuriated, I wake up Dick and give him the bottle and tell him that we are going. He is ultra confused because of all the chemicals in his head on top of waking life. I knew we were walking in circles because we were only one block away from where we started after all of that. We head to the corner to use the crosswalk, and we begin talking to a bum, and Dick drops the bottle. This is one reason for the cheap booze. It comes in a palstic bottle. After that shatters all over the sidewalk, I can barely contain my rage and I cross to the north side of the street.
A few moments pass, and I am involved in a conversation with a bum named Spike. He seems rather optimistic and full of life. This is very refreshing. Dick comes up to me and introduces a white guy to me who claimns he can get the speed. I figure we got ripped off twice by blacks, so let us then try a white person. Why not? If this does not work, I give up.
     I gave him my cash and we follow him to the door of a door no the next block right across the street from the Bluebird, and he goes inside. We wait outside and attemp to begin conversations with the passerbys. The doorman thinks of this as harassment and kicks us out of the front of the building. He then gives me the great idea of goingin after the drugee through the back door. Just my luck, it is unlocked. I step in and begin looking for his face. The doorman sees me before I see who I am looking for. “Are you kidding me?!” He grabs me and bounces me outside. All of the rage I let go earlier flooded back into my eyes; I wanted my money and my drugs. He and a couple of others are down for this fight because it probably seems easy for them. I am also accepting of the challenge. We rumble for a minute before I get bored and decide to find where Dick went. He was just conversing with everyone on the side of the Bluebird. I sit down next to him and my temper festers. I look down and find that my pinkie finger is broken. I decide to go back to try and fight them again. Why? I can not say. No luck there. Ripped off again, and for the last time. The first appearance of the U.S. criminal justice system strolls down the sidewalk and tells us to stop loitering. He may or may not have seen what occurred at the bar across the street. I will never know.
     Everyone whom we told of the events of this and many other nights like this, holds a stigma for us and our values, but there is a moral to this story. The ethnomethodology and circumstances of our findings are incredible and rare to witness first hand unless actively engaged in such adventures. Word to the wise; do not ask anyone for meth in Denver, especially on the streets or in public. You will piss them off, get in a fight, get crack, get choked out, get ripped off and get whacked off, but you will not get methamphetamines.