OK. 'bout 98-99 or so, after I had gotten my ass canned form a nice full time gig at a very large bank, and after I had managed to get myself addicted to tranquilizers (thanks to the girl I was seeing -- we'll call her wynter -- she used that name sometimes -- she would be the future mrs. left_the_scene)...
Wynter in I are crashing in a shitty little basement apt in park slope. She decides to have a mutual acquaintance of ours, whom she worked with at the Harmony, over. We'll call her "F" - her professional name started with that letter. She is bringing her boyfriend Ralph over.
F is not bad - late twenties white girl. Had a bit of a complexion problem, dies her hair an outrageous red/orange, has a nice body, cute piercings (pretty much everywhere) - very bright girl two. She is a complete sociopath, however. She is married to some russian guy for an immigration scam, and is banging the lawyer that set it up. And selling her ass on occasion. While her BF, Ralph, who is a short pudgy, almost geeky but clueless dominican thug wannabe, is oblivious to her goings on. His one major thing going for him, which is why he is "F"'s BF, is that he is a small time dope dealer.
Some girls do that - get some small time loser dope dealer to be their man - the get freebies, and have a place to cop whenever they need it. No more fucked up meets to get their stuff on the street. Problem is the BF often starts using it themselves, crashes what little of a life he has, and gets booted so the girl can find something more reliable.
Ralph had done exactly this. But supposedly was cleaning up his act so that "F" would not kick him to the curb. I let them both know if they came over: "NO DOPE IN MY HOUSE" - I was trying to keep the future Mrs. left off of it - she had been about 3 weeks without at that point.
They come over, hang out, play Sega Saturn (had just come out) with for a while. Ralph into my bathroom, for 15-20 minutes. Don't think to much of it other than "he better not blow the place up" (it was a small apt.)
At some point, I get up to take a leak, and I wash and dry my hands. go sit back down in the LR, and I notice something smells like puke. I ask. No-one else smells it. I realize it is coming from me. (ew!) Specifically, my hands. Weird. I wash them in the kitchen sink.
2 cups of coffee later, I go piss again. Wash my hands. Go sit back down. I smell puke again. OK, this is starting to look like a pattern. Maybe it's the soap in the bathroom or something. I go back, wash my hands. Smell them. Clean. Ok. weird. I dry them off and go sit down again.
Smell puke again! WTF? Wash up in the kitchen, and put it out of my mind. Maybe the 10-20mg a day of Xanax and Klonipin I have been gobling up is affecting my sense of smell?
Repeat above sequence a few times. No one else knows what the fuck I am talking about. No one else smells it.
Anyway, it gates late, "F", her BF, wynter and I all go out for dinner. Then we go our separate ways - wynter and I back to the apt, and "F" and ralph back to washington heights.
Wynter and I try to go at it a bit - try greek but with all the benzodiazapines in my system I just can't keep a stiffy. DT is easy enough with a limp noodle... but unfortunately it stays limp. I do mange to work up a hell of a sweat, though. Dripping in my eyes. I go to the bathroom, run the towel over my forhead... and smell...puke.
Forensic analysis:
Now, here is what happened - Fucking Ralph is still sniffing dope, unkown to "F".
Many of you may not know this, but if one does heroin, but has not been doing it for that long a period, one is likely to throw up when they get high on it.
Apparently Ralph did exactly that all over my bathroom floor. And wiped it up with my hand towels. Since is was on an empty stomach, it was just clear liquid puke that did not show on the towel, so he just fucking hung it back up (since he couldn't tell anyone and have "F" find out he was still on dope...)
WTF. His name was "Ralph" after all.
Wynter in I are crashing in a shitty little basement apt in park slope. She decides to have a mutual acquaintance of ours, whom she worked with at the Harmony, over. We'll call her "F" - her professional name started with that letter. She is bringing her boyfriend Ralph over.
F is not bad - late twenties white girl. Had a bit of a complexion problem, dies her hair an outrageous red/orange, has a nice body, cute piercings (pretty much everywhere) - very bright girl two. She is a complete sociopath, however. She is married to some russian guy for an immigration scam, and is banging the lawyer that set it up. And selling her ass on occasion. While her BF, Ralph, who is a short pudgy, almost geeky but clueless dominican thug wannabe, is oblivious to her goings on. His one major thing going for him, which is why he is "F"'s BF, is that he is a small time dope dealer.
Some girls do that - get some small time loser dope dealer to be their man - the get freebies, and have a place to cop whenever they need it. No more fucked up meets to get their stuff on the street. Problem is the BF often starts using it themselves, crashes what little of a life he has, and gets booted so the girl can find something more reliable.
Ralph had done exactly this. But supposedly was cleaning up his act so that "F" would not kick him to the curb. I let them both know if they came over: "NO DOPE IN MY HOUSE" - I was trying to keep the future Mrs. left off of it - she had been about 3 weeks without at that point.
They come over, hang out, play Sega Saturn (had just come out) with for a while. Ralph into my bathroom, for 15-20 minutes. Don't think to much of it other than "he better not blow the place up" (it was a small apt.)
At some point, I get up to take a leak, and I wash and dry my hands. go sit back down in the LR, and I notice something smells like puke. I ask. No-one else smells it. I realize it is coming from me. (ew!) Specifically, my hands. Weird. I wash them in the kitchen sink.
2 cups of coffee later, I go piss again. Wash my hands. Go sit back down. I smell puke again. OK, this is starting to look like a pattern. Maybe it's the soap in the bathroom or something. I go back, wash my hands. Smell them. Clean. Ok. weird. I dry them off and go sit down again.
Smell puke again! WTF? Wash up in the kitchen, and put it out of my mind. Maybe the 10-20mg a day of Xanax and Klonipin I have been gobling up is affecting my sense of smell?
Repeat above sequence a few times. No one else knows what the fuck I am talking about. No one else smells it.
Anyway, it gates late, "F", her BF, wynter and I all go out for dinner. Then we go our separate ways - wynter and I back to the apt, and "F" and ralph back to washington heights.
Wynter and I try to go at it a bit - try greek but with all the benzodiazapines in my system I just can't keep a stiffy. DT is easy enough with a limp noodle... but unfortunately it stays limp. I do mange to work up a hell of a sweat, though. Dripping in my eyes. I go to the bathroom, run the towel over my forhead... and smell...puke.
Forensic analysis:
Now, here is what happened - Fucking Ralph is still sniffing dope, unkown to "F".
Many of you may not know this, but if one does heroin, but has not been doing it for that long a period, one is likely to throw up when they get high on it.
Apparently Ralph did exactly that all over my bathroom floor. And wiped it up with my hand towels. Since is was on an empty stomach, it was just clear liquid puke that did not show on the towel, so he just fucking hung it back up (since he couldn't tell anyone and have "F" find out he was still on dope...)
WTF. His name was "Ralph" after all.
