By Gene Christian
To quit or not to quit, that is the question. It seems as good a time as any to quit, at least here in New York City. There’s a new sheriff in town, Mayor Rudolph Giuliani, who rose to power partly on his sworn pledge to “rid the streets of drugs.” Now take that pledge and filter it through one of the most corrupt police forces in the country, and you have a scaled-down version of the Reagan/Bush War On Drugs of a couple years back: Cocaine and heroin remain protected by organized crime, while it’s open season on your friendly neighborhood pot-smoker. Weed prices soar through the roof and coke and dope are cheaper and purer than ever. I mean really, when was the last time New York experienced a “heroin drought”?
And sure enough, exactly one day before starting this article, I ventured over to the Meadow in Central Park in search of a dime bag when I was approached by a six-and-ahalf-foot Irish dealer with red hair and a handle-bar mustache saying, “Buds, dude?” About 50 feet in front of me, poorly hidden behind a patch of trees, was a blue and white paddy wagon full of cops waiting for the moment they could haul my ass over to Rikers and throw me in a cell with that crazy Jamaican motherfucker who shot up the LIRR some months back.
I looked at my “dealer” and said, “Not today copper, I ain’t your Willie Horton!”
It seems everybody I know has tried to quit at one point or another, with varied degrees of success. And I suppose it’s good to know you can do it if you have to. Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll want to join the LAPD and …
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Author: High Times / High Times
