Hustling ecstasy/mally on breezy morning in Georgetown..

DMTrott [CC BY-SA 4.0], via Wikimedia Commons

Breeze
Sun is out. December breezes cooling Kingston, not far from the Police Headquarters at Eve Leary. I am standing looking around waiting for a woman to collect a book from me.

"Excuse me.. I aint see you a long time man, like you went to the States"
Man in his mid thirties. Cap. Low beard, lightly trimmed. Belly big like mine. Comfortable tee shirt - like mine. Faded. Jeans, Boots.

I wait for the next line about wanting a help.  And say "Nah man, I went and get deport"

Man smiles. Looks me in the eyes. Nice demeanour

"I checking to see if you want any pills or so... mally..ecstasy "

 I not sure what to say. 

The woman comes up to collect the book. I mutter something about the street and the wrong street.  She takes the book.

I feel weird.

I see the man tell a woman in a car to hold on, but the woman seems to ignore him.

I remember a conversation with some community activists in Lodge. Minibus drivers drinking energy drinks and putting mally/ecstasy in them.  I never heard of mally before (molly).

Man not moving. Woman goes off with the book.

Racial histories
My mind is whirling.. what about me makes this man think I might want mally and that I would not tell the police.

I start off.. preaching.. 'Brother man, stop hustling on misery.. white people make this thing to down press black people.. your ancestors fight for emancipation .. "

Man still smiling. He looks at me and looks away.

Man, says.. "I don't use.. , I just hustling'.

There is a school  nearby.. I don't want to ask him if he is waiting to sell to the kids. I see the Facebook exchanges about molly at Christmas parties in school. That adults like him are selling drugs to children.

I think of the woman who told me about taking a pill and feeling herself. Brilliant woman. She told me she doesn't use it often.


I start walking off.. still preaching.. all kind of things coming out the mouth.
"Where you going..?" he asks.. 'let me walk with you..".
Words keep coming out of my mouth.. 'You have children..?"..
"Yes.. a daughter'
"You want her to end up a junkie ?"
Wrong words to use..
 "Why don't you sell something healthy instead."
"I sell juice.. "

Man hasn't moved away, he still hoping I would buy.  I have a feeling he is a go between, that he doesn't have the pills on him.

I wonder if other people would think I am a customer.

I am pleading now.. 'do something else, not live on the misery..." thinking of the families who have gone to the rum shop owners to beg them to not sell to their relatives who increased the profits of the rum shop while making life miserable.

I invoke ganja.. the least evil of all drugs. Man agrees..
"yes.. is best you get a pappi joint'
I get all health promotional.. nah , smoking not good, cocaine not good..
"I boil the tea and drink' he says..

Man is agreeing with me.. seeking connection to make customer.
He is not violent.

We get ready to part.

"Look man, I thought maybe you had friends who would want pills..."

People usually think I am a doctor or a pandit or Mr Bean.  But that is how drug use is.. there is no type of who uses and who does not use.  Except the middle class and upper class users rarely get into trouble with the law.

I could have asked more, found out more,but don't really want to know. 

The addict who walks the street who went to Bishops' with me. Smart guy, still smart, charming. He doesn't ask me for money..but he walked with me the last time to talk. He plays with words when I ask him if he still uses cocaine.. "we all use drugs of some sort.. " he says, big smile on his face.

I beg the man, the father of a daughter in the cap, one last time.. "stop selling".. but something about the man, it is as though he has heard me, but he has to get customers for some vendor.

We shake hands.

I tell him my name, he takes a second and tells me a name.

Maybe it is his name. Maybe he is a police officer .