Junkie Fisherman, Expert Thief

This evening in my wanderings, I encountered across the canal a small group that it seems were fishing. This reminded me of B., The Junkie Fisherman, Expert Thief.

B. is an older gentleman, though not old. He could be my father for his age; he is gangly, tall, with white hair and mustache and blue eyes. Initially, it is easy enough to ignore the fact that he is a junkie. He is well-spoken, and while he does not exude warmth or any particular kindness, he is never condescending, and generally level-headed. He's been around for a while, obviously, and has been an addict for most of that time.

One day, I drove C. to meet with B., and B. was telling us all about the giant blue gill he was catching from the lake and eating. Perch, too. He saw the quail feather on my dash board, and asked if he could have it: he cut them into small pieces and made fishing lures from them. I didn't expect it would be B. that asked for it. Since I had found it and placed it there, I had this feeling that some economically poor man would ask to have it. I didn't know that it would be B.

B. speaks of fishing, and he gets excited. It is not clear to me all of the reasons that he gets so excited, but it is clear that he enjoys the act of catching fish, and enjoys the food they provide. He tells of the rods he's had over time, and tells us about the fantastic reels he used to have, where he stole them from, and how much he got rid of them for. He doesn't use anything that fantastic now.

Once I made the mistake of driving he and C. on a run to pick up their fix. Two cars, me following the other, into a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood where I had just inquired about a house for sale. The woman selling the house told me that they had been working hard to clean up the area; keep the drugs away from the kids at the school across the street from her.

It took forever to get what we went there for: the dude who was hooking up was taking forever. The dealer apparently wouldn't deliver, and insisted that whoever came by stayed a while. So we waited. I got so anxious I nearly threw up. Here I am because of C., because I didn't want to be slandered for being a selfish greedy bitch who refused to drive him, thereby making him junk sick. Because it was B.'s connection, we had to have him along.

Finally the other dude comes back out of the house. Before he goes and gets into the other car, he tries to get in mine. The back seat is full. I still had not unpacked things left there from evacuation the house C. and I had shared. The dude is annoyed, leans in the window and hurries out.

Getting back on the highway, I see the other car behind me. Behind them is a cop. I watch them get into another lane, and the cop come up behind me. C., at this point has all of the stuff. He has his needle and spoon ready, and he is prepping a his dose. The cop is practically riding my ass. I ask him once to put that shit away, there is a cop behind us. He ignores me. I bark this time, the same request. I bark at B. to stop rubbernecking it: he is watching C. to make sure that he isn't pocketing any extra for himself by stealing B.'s. Both of them don't care that the cop can see into the back window, C.'s head down, B. clearly looking down into his lap. I am cautious and slow, praying my directional hasn't suddenly broken, driving just below the speed limit. The cop follows me into an alley that I turn into. I bark at C. yet again to put that shit away. After I tell them both that I just picked them up if the police do pull me over and ask, they both ignore me. I have to yell at B. more than once to turn the fuck around, using the "f" word before he'll do it.

(This is the third time I've had to tell C. that I really don't want him doing that in the car while I'm driving.)

Finally, the cop falls off. C. pretends he didn't realize the cop was right behind us. He has a history of pretending that I exaggerate. He has a history of doing whatever he wants and then finding a way to blame the everyone else when things go bad. He has a history of totally disrespecting and doubting me. But this isn't about C. B. was annoyed that I freaked out. I later stated my insistence that I was not out of line, and that that shit scared me--I don't need to go to jail because of their choice. It's not fair to me. Besides, I have never been busted for having heroin anywhere near me: B. has. More than once. In this instance, I feel I'm justified in saying I'm better qualified to make the judgement call.

Time passes, and thankfully I don't have to deal with B. for most of that. The next time I encounter him, he is still using. This will never change. He is a lifer. This time, we are meeting someone else, and C. has been better behaved if not more respectful. I fear the horrible lies C. will tell if I don't comply with his wishes, and I feel bad for his mother who is being used up and is also afraid to do something. B. and C. have been using C.'s mother's car to drive around to various stores to boost things. Digital cameras, suits, power tools. B. has keys that he stole some time ago from various department stores. C. drives and goes along as a distraction to the sales people. Now, B. is in the back of the car with the dealer, and is talking.

He tells the dealer he is a thief. They are working out a deal where B. will steal the dealer a suit for his court date. He goes on to explain he doesn't steal from ordinary people, unless they deserve it. He just steals from stores mostly. But he works out a deal to trade the suit for junk.

Weeks later, the dealer has them programmed into the phone as CB--C. always gets stuck driving, isn't getting his fair share for being the getaway car and spotter. B. calls the dealer and is ignored, so he calls C. to drive him to the neighborhood where c. comes to find out that the dealer never answered--B. is just assuming he can sit and the guy will just be there. He figures that if he's in the neighborhood it will go faster. Often it takes a long time sitting on the street in broad daylight before C. figures this out, the pattern B. has, and they end up having to drive further out. But B. is impatient and manipulates things because it makes him feel better.

The last time I saw B., he and his roommates appear to be sick of C. They suggest to me he try pot. They suggest he find some methadone. Neither B. nor his room mate are sick. They claim to have done a three day methadone detox. It seems they are avoiding doing the usual rounds with C. B. is able to find nothing for him. We leave.