The Song Remains the Same
Last night about 10 I had a sudden craving for an ice cream cone and, it being a nice night, I decided to walk across the street to Sonic to procure said ice cream cone.
This Sonic has a large outdoor sitting area with several picnic tables, a small pond and waterfountain, and even a small stage where a band plays every Tuesday night. It is usually a very clean, nice place to go and enjoy a bit to eat.
But not last night. . .
When I walked up there was a guy, probably in his 20's, who could-- at best-- be described as "white trash." He sat at a picnic table sipping something out of a dirty 7-11 cup and, with his leg shaking uncontrollably, looked to be quite anxious.
I placed my order and found a table as far from him as possible, wishing I'd had enough foresight to stick my .380 in my pocket before wandering off at 10:30 at night.
While I waited, however, a brand new Ford Mustang pulled up driven by what looked to me to be a clean cut "frat boy" type white college-age kid. This sure as hell excited Mr. White Trash because he jumped to his feet and attempted to do this leisurely stroll thing to the car which looked just absolutely akward given his present state of anxiety.
So he slides into the passenger seat and Frat Boy reaches into the back and pulls out a gym bag. I am watching as he pulls out a couple small baggies, hands them to White Trash and, in return, White Trash hands him a few folded up bills.
He was in the process of counting this money when the carhop bringing my ice cream cone leans in his window and attempts to hand it to him. I am not entirely sure what he said but she beat a hasty path to myself, who had been watching the entire time.
As soon as the transaction was concluded, White Trash got out and into his beat-up old pick-up with a ladder hanging out over the bed and Frat Boy went his separate way, as well.
Of course, me being me . . . I had to think about what I had just watched for the next 30 minutes and analyze it and re-analyze it. And, well . . .
I wonder how much White Trash paid Frat Boy for those "baggies o' fun" last night?
When you are working at not much above minimum wage as some sort of independent subcontractor (as he probably was given the state of his truck and the tools in the back) . . . it can't leave you much to eat and live off of after you've doled the first share of your earnings over to Frat Boy.
And does Frat Boy need the money? My guess would be, "no." That didn't buy his car. More than likely, daddy did. For Frat Boy, its probably just a little extra easy income to supplement the monthly credit limit he has been forced to deal with. I would also venture that Frat Boy probably doesn't do much more than try the stuff . . .
But that's life.
And you wonder why the song will always remain the same??
I am becoming such a cynic . . .
This Sonic has a large outdoor sitting area with several picnic tables, a small pond and waterfountain, and even a small stage where a band plays every Tuesday night. It is usually a very clean, nice place to go and enjoy a bit to eat.
But not last night. . .
When I walked up there was a guy, probably in his 20's, who could-- at best-- be described as "white trash." He sat at a picnic table sipping something out of a dirty 7-11 cup and, with his leg shaking uncontrollably, looked to be quite anxious.
I placed my order and found a table as far from him as possible, wishing I'd had enough foresight to stick my .380 in my pocket before wandering off at 10:30 at night.
While I waited, however, a brand new Ford Mustang pulled up driven by what looked to me to be a clean cut "frat boy" type white college-age kid. This sure as hell excited Mr. White Trash because he jumped to his feet and attempted to do this leisurely stroll thing to the car which looked just absolutely akward given his present state of anxiety.
So he slides into the passenger seat and Frat Boy reaches into the back and pulls out a gym bag. I am watching as he pulls out a couple small baggies, hands them to White Trash and, in return, White Trash hands him a few folded up bills.
He was in the process of counting this money when the carhop bringing my ice cream cone leans in his window and attempts to hand it to him. I am not entirely sure what he said but she beat a hasty path to myself, who had been watching the entire time.
As soon as the transaction was concluded, White Trash got out and into his beat-up old pick-up with a ladder hanging out over the bed and Frat Boy went his separate way, as well.
Of course, me being me . . . I had to think about what I had just watched for the next 30 minutes and analyze it and re-analyze it. And, well . . .
I wonder how much White Trash paid Frat Boy for those "baggies o' fun" last night?
When you are working at not much above minimum wage as some sort of independent subcontractor (as he probably was given the state of his truck and the tools in the back) . . . it can't leave you much to eat and live off of after you've doled the first share of your earnings over to Frat Boy.
And does Frat Boy need the money? My guess would be, "no." That didn't buy his car. More than likely, daddy did. For Frat Boy, its probably just a little extra easy income to supplement the monthly credit limit he has been forced to deal with. I would also venture that Frat Boy probably doesn't do much more than try the stuff . . .
But that's life.
And you wonder why the song will always remain the same??
I am becoming such a cynic . . .
posted by Moonlighting in Misery at 5:56 PM
1 Comments:
Yeah I guess the song will always remain the same as long as you have one rich kid dishing out the dope and another druggie willing to buy. Sort of a sad situation but someones gotta keep the circle going. Sad and unfortunate...and wow in the parking lot at sonic, now i've heard it all.
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