My early mornings on my way to drop J off at his grandmother (that rock of Gibraltar) for the day, is often greeted by the second hand ganja smoke of the young men on the "block", who not so long ago I observed running around in this very area in their underwear's.
"Wam" I would say to them every time I pass by; this is supposedly a macho salutation, to which I would receive one of three standard responses; "wam", "yeah" or "yeah boss".
The toddlers of yesterday, now the "shotta yutes" of today spend the entire day sitting on the "block" smoking and selling weed, while exchanging war stories of hustles, hits and narrow brushes with death; and like generals in the army of the survival of the fittest, they plot their next move, the next hustle, the next hit. Man must eat, by the profuse ganja sweat of thy brow, man must eat.
These force ripe bad boys (one of whom I had occasion to remind a couple years ago, that I to am from this area too and should not be trifled with, especially not my the likes of him) sit diligently with their basin of weed, wrapping meticulously every five bag. Sometimes it's the high grade stuff (you can tell by the smell), other times it's bush weed, and when supply low they stretch the product with a bit of tabac. Like I said, I'm from the area.
But back to what started this posting; I could not help being sadly amused by this purveyor of temporary escape from the delirium and drudgery that be this life. I watched this young man, perhaps just approaching 25 (if so much), leaning against a light pole, exhausted from the days hustle, his trophy (I suspect that trophy to be the end result of a careless night/day of some high grade kiki chased with a Guinness or three) of his sexual prowess proudly perched in his left arm ; to tired to lace the customary slap in the arse of a late paying client/fiend.
A client whom as a young boy growing up in the area I knew him to be a handy man, jack of all trades, master of none. This once strapping gentleman of yesterday, older than me (and I would have hoped wiser); now withered, broken, mouth practically vacant, has become the drug fiend of today, to a child of yesterday, the drug boss of today.
"Garson when you have my mon-e fo me jus pass it, doh come un gimme no story" said the boss. "No garson I go bring yoh mon-e fo you, garson you feel I go try to spoil wah we have deh" said the fiend.
Shit! The more things change.....
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