So I went adventuring in the tundra this morning to go check on my Vespa when I found myself walking behind the kind of drug dealer who would have made Max Weber smile: clearly no blizzard was going to stay this courier from the swift completion of his appointed rounds, and his appointed rounds were apparently Greenpoint house calls.
Then something beautiful happened: he wiped out on the sidewalk and a dozen or so dimebags came flying out of his pockets. Like a piñada. Some kind of magical piñada put on this Earth just for grown-ups.
I watched as he frantically gathered up his supply before bolting, and then grinned when I realized he’d missed a bag. I don’t partake myself (shit makes you stupid, yo) but I did snag a gram for my deadbeat neighbor, figuring found drugs don’t carry the same sort of stigma when one is witness to the initial loss. What with it being a snow day and all she was very appreciative.
Anyway, I found my Vespa. Its rearview mirror is pictured above.
