Read Part 1: click here



“Motherfucking paranoid Leonard,” Ed said to himself, descending the inside stairs four at a time.

At the front door he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his baseball cap and opened his umbrella, stepping warily into the wet street. The rain had let up to a meager drizzle under a cast-iron sky.

He scanned 116th Street from his front porch, which gave him a clear view all the way down to Riverside west and up to the gates of Columbia east.

He quickly made the ascent up to Broadway, huddling for a moment under the awning of the Chinese restaurant on the corner, blanketed in the smell of greasy wontons and wet newspaper.

With no sign of a maroon Impala, Ed crossed Broadway, walked through the Columbia gates and dodged the scatter of students offering an awkward ‘hello’ to the campus security guard on his way.

Along the brick path, halfway to the steps of the library, he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. It was Leonard.

“Yeah what is it?”

“Come in Delta Five. This is Echo Seven. We have confirmation,” Leonard said.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Speak English.”

“Roger that, Delta. The bird has landed.”

“Fuck you Leonard!”

“Chill man. Shit.” Leonard said.

“I’m not an air traffic controller. What is it?”

“Fine dickhead. A maroon Impala just pulled up to the northeast corner, on 116th. I think it’s them.”

Ed spun on his heel and started for the intersection.

“Got it. I’m on my way,” Ed said.

“Wait. Hang on,” Leonard said.

“What?”

“Where are you?” Leonard said.

“At Columbia, approaching Broadway. Why?”

“Oh shit,” Leonard said. “Hold up.”

Back at the gates, Ed spotted a late model maroon Impala, rough around the edges, idling next to the Chinese restaurant.

“Another car just pulled up behind the Impala,” Leonard said.

“So what?”

“I don’t know. It’s some kind of official looking sedan. Could be an undercover. It has a big antenna on the back. I fucking told you man! It's a total set-up.”

“You’re being paranoid. I’m going,” Ed said.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Leonard said.

“You’re an asshole,” Ed said, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

***
Richie turned down the stereo of the Impala and scanned the street from deep in his plush bucket seat.

“Fucking college kids all look the same,” he said to himself, flipping the defrost to high to combat the moisture-clouded windows.

“Hurry up motherfuckers. Damn,” he said, nervously tapping a beat on the steering wheel. It was his first week on the job. In the rearview he watched a navy blue sedan pull up behind him.

“Shit,” he said, and recluctantly decided to call Mary, the all-knowing delivery service dispatcher, forever filing her nails on a throne-like couch in Fort Greene.

“Where you at rookie?” she said in her hard Brooklyn voice, snapping her bubble gum into the reciever.

“Sitting here, at 116th.”

“116th? We usually meet them on Claremont. Less traffic.”

“Shit. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Seems obvious.”

“Fucking college kids. So slow,” he said, zipping and unzipping his duffle bag.

Inside was roughly a quarter pound of high-grade hydroponic marijuana, broken into $100 dollar plastic boxes -- Green Kush, Diesel and White Rhino -- bathing the air in its wicked fragrance.

“How long you been there?” Mary said.

“I don’t know. Two, three minutes maybe,” he said, eyeing the sedan behind him.

“Give it five, then take a spin around the block,” she said, matter-of-factly. “If you don’t see him on the way around, then take off.”

“Yeah alright,” he said, the worry bleeding through his voice.

“Something wrong?”

“Nah. It’s nothing. Just some fucker. Pulled up behind me in a big sedan. The kind cops drive. It’s sketching me out, that’s all.”

“Relax rookie,” she said. “If you’re really worried, once the customer gets in, drop him around the corner. Nice and easy. Right?”

“Right.”

“Alright then, call me when you’re back on the road.”

“Wait, Mary?”

“Rich, honey, I got other calls,” she said.

“But like, hypothetically, what happens if I did get popped? Is there a plan or something?”

“Plan? No. There’s no plan because you’re not going to get busted,” she said. “Nobody ever gets busted.”

“But, I mean, what if I did? What am I supposed to do then?”

“It’s not going to happen. If it does, you just sit tight and keep you’re mouth shut. But, if you don’t think you can handle this, then-- ”

“I can handle it, fine.”

“Okay, then I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation,” she said.

“Fine whatever,” he said.

A silent moment passed between them.

“So is it still there?” she said.

“What?”

“The car, numb nuts.”

Richie scoped the sedan in his rearview.

“Yeah, still there.”

“Did anybody get out? Is it parked or what?”

“No, nobody got out.”

“Alright, you know what, fuck this. Richie, I’m hanging up now because you’re starting to bug me out. Don’t freak, okay?”

“Okay.”

He hung up and tried to drown his concern in some loud Biggie, but couldn’t take his eyes off the rearview and the ominous, idling sedan. He pressed the automatic locks.

“Sit tight? Fuck that,” he said, zipping and unzipping his duffle bag again. “Bitch is crazy if she thinks I’m going to jail for this bullshit. I knew I never should have quit Starbucks. At least I had benefits.”

The rain started falling hard again, forcing him to turn on the wipers so he could scan the street.

He was jarred out of his train of thought by a hard knock on the window a moment later.

“Fucking shit,” he said, seized with the impulse to throw the Impala into drive and take off.

Through the rain-blurred driver side window all he could tell for sure was that there was a white guy standing there, motioning for him to open up.

Cops are usually white, he reasoned. Then again, college potheads are also usually white. Fifty-fifty. He held his breath and unlocked the door.

The door swung open revealing a shifty-looking young guy with a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes.

Ed climbed into the passenger side and slammed the door, shaking off his wet umbrella all over the upholstery. Richie glared at him.

“Hey what’s up man,” Ed said.

“Yeah, nothing man. Same old,” Richie said, a little defensively.

“So. You got it?” Ed said, eyeing Richie suspiciously.

“You got the cash?” Richie shot back, eyeing Ed suspiciously.

“Yeah,” Ed said, rummaging in his pocket. “Hundred right?”

Richie nodded and put the car into gear.

“Whoa, hang on,” Ed said, gripping the dash. “Where we going?”

“Just taking a spin around the block,” Richie said, eyes still glued on the rearview.

“Why? What’s up?” Ed said, turning to look back at the sedan.

“What are you looking back there for?” Richie asked.

“Because you did,” Ed said.

“No I didn’t,” Richie said. “I’m just checking shit out, generally.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Ritchie edged the Impala onto Broadway, both of them watching the sedan as discreetly as possible. They both breathed a silent sigh of relief when it stayed put.

He eased the car to a stop at the red light.

“Look man,” Richie said, confidentially, meeting Ed’s eyes for the first time. “You're not a cop or something are you?”

“A cop?” Ed said, dumbfounded. “Why? Do I look like a cop?”

“Just answer the question man,” Ritchie said, instantly regretting asking.

“Why? Are you a cop?”

“Me? Fuck no,” Ritchie said, regarding his own tattooed arms.

Ed presented a wad of wrinkled twenties on the center console.

“Look, I’m in kind of a hurry, so if you don’t mind-- ” Ed said.

"Oh I see. Now you're in a hurry and shit. Pssh," Ritchie mumbled, eyes on the road.

"Sorry man," Ed said, trying not to look incredulous. "How long were you waiting? Like five minutes, tops?"

"Forget it. You sure you're not a cop?" Ritchie asked, his dark eyes drilling into Ed's goofy, unshaven mug, trying to decipher some hidden truth.

“No. What makes you think I'm a cop man? I buy from you guys like once a week.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know that? Plus if you are a cop, and I ask you, then legally you have to tell me.”

“I think that’s just an urban myth dude,” Ed said.

“Fuck it,” Ritchie said, whipping the car to a hard stop on 115th. "Shit is stressing me out."

"You want to smoke?" Ed asked.

Despite himself, Ritchie cracked a smile, his first and only. He removed a box of weed from the duffle bag.

"Nah man. I don't smoke that shit. Makes me paranoid."

They made the exchange, quick and low, and Ed hopped out, hustling back toward Broadway.

“Punk ass pothead,” Ritchie said, pulling away.

***
“So I take it you didn’t get busted then?” Mary said.

“No ma'am,” Richie said, cruising down Broadway solo.

“I told you, paranoid freak.”

“Sketchy ass college boys,” Richie said. “I hate that shit.”

He could hear Mary laughing on the other end.

“Well, get used to it. That’s most of our business,” she said.

Back in the apartment, Ed flung off his shoes and dropped his umbrella in the hallway. He could hear the Simpsons playing on the TV in the living room.

“So did you get busted or what?” Leonard asked from the living room.

“Yeah dumbass. I got busted. That’s why I’m standing here with a bag of weed.”

Ed plopped down on the couch and started packing a bowl. The rain had finally stopped and a thin ray of sunshine poked through the window.

“I swear that sedan looked like an undercover though,” Leonard said. “Didn’t it?”

“Whatever. Next time you’re doing the pick-up,” Ed said. He took a monster hit off the pipe, coughed heartily and passed it to Leonard.

“Fuck that,” Leonard said, flicking the lighter. “Sketchy ass drug dealers.”

“Get used to it dude. It’s the only service that delivers up here.”

“Damn. That sucks,” Leonard said, blowing smoke.

“Yeah, that guy was a freak,” Ed said, feeling better already. “It is tasty weed though.”

“True, true” Leonard said.

With all the recent talk about New York City's prolific pot delivery services I thought I'd add my two cents. Not that I know anything about it, of course.



“Did you call them yet?”

“Who?”

“The pot guys.”

“Yeah, but they haven’t called back yet.”

“Damn,” Leonard said, swinging his legs up onto the shitty couch in the living room. “Are you sure you called the right number?”

“Of course, it’s programmed in my phone.”

“Don’t they usually call back within like five or ten minutes?”

“Not always,” said Ed, who was leaning out the large living room window, his palms resting on the dusty sill.

It was muggy and overcast outside and the rain came and went in dramatic fifteen-minute episodes. The cloud-swells floated over the sun making it almost impossible to tell what time it was, making it the perfect day to get stoned.

Leonard, now stretched out on the couch with the remote control balanced on his stomach, flipped to a rerun of the Simpsons.

“What if they got busted?” he asked.

Ed returned from the window and sat down in a rocking chair, one of an assortment of second-hand furniture scattered around the apartment.

“I’ve used these guys a lot,” he said. “They’re not like that. Don’t worry.”

“Not like what?” Leonard asked.

Ed went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Leonard lived in the apartment below Ed. He’d spent about the last three months of after-work hours and most weekends sitting on Ed’s couch smoking joints and playing backgammon.

Leonard never actually bought pot though. Mostly he just smoked it.

“Anyway, they’re very professional,” said Ed. “They don’t fuck around.”

Ed was more or less a master pothead, highly effective in just about every part of the process, from bong maintenance to purchasing etiquette.

Leonard continued: “If they’re so professional what’re they doing selling weed anyway?”

Ed was clipping his fingernails over a full ashtray. “For pot dealers, they’re very professional.”

“Do they sell other drugs too?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What’re they called?”

“Like ‘Happy Face’ or something. I don’t know.”

“That’s not very inventive.”

“It’s a pot delivery service. You think they want to stand out?”

“Well, yes,’ said Leonard, now propping himself in a sitting position. “I would think that among the many pot delivery services in Manhattan they would want to make a splash, yes.”

“See man,” said Ed, wagging the nail clippers at Leonard. “If you ever actually dealt with these people you’d know that asking so many questions makes them nervous, it’s really not appropriate.”

“I do deal with them. I went down to meet them last time, remember?”

“Yeah, and you fucked it up.”

“It’s not my fault they can’t make change.”

“I told you they only sell $100 boxes.”

“And I told you, I TRIED to explain to him that he could just split one order in half and sell it for $50, and when THAT didn’t work, I tried to tell him I was going to the ATM and I’d be right back. Then he just took off. What could I do?”

“You probably freaked him out with all your sketchy questions and shit. I’d probably take off too.”

“They’re pot dealers, " said Leonard. "Big whoop. And what's all this 'meet me on the corner' bullshit anyway? They should come up to the apartment. Much easier that way."

"They used to," Ed said. "I think they got sick of looking for parking."

"Lazy drug dealers."

“Leonard, how is it that you have absolutely no street smarts?”

“I don’t know,” he said, picking his nose. “Too much school I guess. I’m just glad he didn’t shoot me.”

“They’re not like that! They’re fucking POT dealers. They don’t carry guns. The guys running the whole operation are probably a couple of hippies sitting on a farm upstate or something.”

“That could explain why haven’t they called back yet.”

“It is taking a while,” Ed said, looking at the clock on his cell phone. “It’s been almost an hour.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

Ed stood in front of the window, looking down into the empty street. “Jesus, is this rain ever gunna stop?”

Leonard made his way to the kitchen. The counter was covered in what appeared to be either wet bread crumbs or a field of swollen roach eggs. Something about the afternoon light made the kitchen appear gloomy and dirty, or dirtier than it really was. Cringing, he brushed the questionable specs onto the floor and began rifling aimlessly through the cabinets. Ed appeared in the kitchen, a little agitated.

“There’s no way. These guys will never get busted,” he said. “What did I tell you about all the questions man? Now you’re making ME nervous, and I’m just a customer!”

“All I’m saying is that you should at least acknowledge the possibility that they got busted. That’s all. What if they DID get busted? How would you know? It’s not like they could call their customers like ‘Uh yeah, hey Ed, what’s up? Sorry I didn’t call you back the other day, I’m in jail and since you’re such a loyal Happy Face customer I used my only phone call to tell you that we got busted so you shouldn’t call anymore.’ No dude, they’d probably be too busy flushing weed down the toilet before the cops broke down the fucking door.”

“Do you hear what you're saying? First of all, weed is not fucking flushable! You can’t flush weed down the toilet.”

“If you’re about to get busted I bet you could.”

“These guys aren’t fucking big-syndicate cocaine traffickers or anything. It’s a small business, a cottage industry.”

“They deal all over Manhattan right?”

“Yeah.”

“Cottage industry my ass. You know how many pot smokers there are in this city? It’s fucking huge. Ten of millions. I bet the cops would love to bust these guys, I bet it’d be all over the news, I bet the Post would run it on the cover.”

“So what? They didn’t get busted,” said Ed, now pacing.

“Have they ever taken so long to call back before?”

“No, but,” he said, looking again at his cell phone. “These guys are totally consistent, it’s always the same deal when you call. It’s like clockwork. They always have the same …” Ed stopped short, and something like concern came over his face. He began pressing buttons on his phone.

“Are you calling again?”

He held up his index finger and pressed the phone to his ear, his face perplexed. He quit the phone suddenly.

“What?” Leonard asked.

“Their voicemail is different. It’s always been the same. I didn’t notice it until … fuck man, what if they?”

“What’s it sound like?”

“I dunno exactly, it’s like,” he fumbled with his phone again. “Here, just listen to it.”

“What are you doing?” Leonard jumped up and tried to pull the phone out of Ed’s hand. “Don’t fucking call them again! If they did get busted the cops are probably just waiting for people to call so they can bust them too.”

“Don’t be so paranoid.”

“Then don’t be so stupid about it!” said Leonard, almost joyously. “I bet the cops are sitting down at the fucking station right now waiting for all the pothead Lemmings to just dive off that cliff right into their hands, and then boom!” he said, clapping his hands. “They gotcha. Think about it, it’s an easy bust. Low risk. Then they can pump up the headlines with numbers, which is great P.R. and …”

Leonard was clearly enraptured. He made broad hand gestures.

“But,” said Ed, finally, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “They probably didn’t get busted so let’s just drop it.”

“You said the message was different, right?”

“Yeah, it used to be some Reggae tune and then just a beep.” said Ed, furrow-browed. “Now it’s some chick’s voice and it just says ‘leave a number,’ but the voice is definitely sketchy.”

“I just can’t help but think of this one episode of Law And Order when they bust this guy for smuggling and…”

“Shut the fuck up Leonard!” said Ed. “Help me figure this shit out!”

Ed’s cell phone rang. He hesitated.

“No number,” he said. “Should I answer it?”

“I dunno,” said Leonard. “If you do, and it’s the cops …”

He answered.

“Hello? Oh, um, hey. Yeah, it’s 116th and Broadway. Okay, how long? Ok, see you in a few.”

Ed set the phone down and looked at Leonard.

“Fuck,” he said. “I think you might be right. I think we’re being set up.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah, the voice on the phone was definitely not familiar. I’ve never heard it before. And the guy didn’t really seem to know the drill.”

“Sketchy man,” said Leonard. “Very fucking sketchy. What’d he say exactly?”

“It’s gotta be a fucking set up. He said they’d meet me in a maroon Impala at the corner of 116th and Broadway. And first of all, they’ve never driven a fucking Impala …”

“Yeah, that just screams ‘hey we’re undercover!' Do they think we’re fucking idiots or something?”

“And secondly, and most sketchily, they never meet me on Broadway. We always meet at Claremont.”

Outside, the rain started to fall again. After a moment Leonard turned to Ed.

“Hey, wanna scrape some resin?”

“Sure. Then we can figure this out.” Ed picked up a lumpy, colorful glass pipe from the coffee table. “You got a paper clip?”

“Yeah,” said Leonard. He rummaged through his bag and pulled out a deformed paperclip with a blackened end. “Here ya go.”

Ed began poking the end of the clip around inside the bowl. “So, let’s think about this logically.”

“Okay,” said Leonard. “So, if worse comes to worst, we don’t have to go down and meet them, we can just watch from the window.”

“True,” said Ed, now rolling the end of the pipe around over the flame of his lighter. A tiny wisp of smoke leap from the pipe. “But, there’s gotta be some way we can …”

“Also, I bet we’d actually have to buy the weed to get busted.”

Leonard continued to fiddle with the pipe while Ed prepared to go.

“You have your cell on you?” Ed asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay so, I’m going down to meet them. I want you to watch out the window, watch the car. I’m going to walk around the block once to scope it out too. If you see ANYTHING weird going on I want you to call me.”

“Then what?” Leonard asked.

“Then nothing. I’ll come back.”

“But what about the weed?”

“Fuck you man!” said Ed, turning to leave.

“Well, good luck! Be safe!” Leonard shouted down the hall.

This is the closest I'll ever come to Bob Dylan, the first night of his two-night stint at the Bill Graham auditorium in San Francisco. We crammed into the core nearest the stage in general admission, one of those rubberized cement floors, partly to get a close up view of the the immortal American alien poet himself -- who somehow squeezed through the fatal 60s rock star bottleneck unscathed. Okay, a broken neck, a religious awakening or two, Self Portrait, but that's it.

The other reason we were on the floor though, was to be with the people, the Dylan folk. How can you resist their myriad charms? It was a little disappointing actually, no jealous monks or lumberjacks or lepers, no sword swallowers or one-eyed midgets. There was though, a smattering of young modish pilgrims -- the Bobsters in dark glasses and tight jeans, ala Don't Look Back. Yes, I remember them well.

"Check it, I printed a set list," he said, whipping a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket.

"Let's see," his fellow Bobster said.

"Hang on. Oh awesome encore! I totally called it."

"Let me see it."

"Wow. This is going to be a really, really good show."

"Why won't you let me see it?"

"Hey, I just had a thought. Holy shit. We should get Dylan's autograph! We should get the set list autographed!"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"Umm. I dunno man. That's kinda lame if you ask me. The whole 'autograph' thing."

"What? Fuck you man. Why is that lame?"

"Because that's what 12-year-old kids do, with like sports stars and shit. I like Dylan more as a myth, not an actual living human being. I mean, would you ask -- I dunno -- like Buddha or Vishnu for an autograph?"

"Yeah probably. If it was convenient."

"SO lame. Can't you just absorb the show without having to take home some kind of memento?"

"I don't understand why you think that's lame."

"You know 'Leave only footprints, take only memories.'"

"What are you talking about?"

"Never mind dude."

"Fuck off."

Here's the set list, by the way:

1. Lenny Bruce
2. Rollin' And Tumblin'
3. Señor (Tales Of Yankee Power)
4. I'll Be Your Baby Tonight
5. It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)
6. Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
7. Desolation Row
8. Tangled Up In Blue
9. Highway 61 Revisited
10. When The Deal Goes Down
11. Watching The River Flow
12. Workingman's Blues #2
13. Summer Days

(encore)
14. Thunder On The Mountain
15. Like A Rolling Stone
16. All Along The Watchtower

There were lots of confused pubescent high school boys smoking joints on the down-low and sweeping their nappy bangs out of their faces and acting suspicious.

Then there were the pickled hippies, relics of the good old days -- lots of them -- the genuine summer of lovers. Big, drunk, Santa Clauses dribbling whiskey in their beards and sun-baked tootsie roll-colored women with stringy hair and crystal amulets.

As the crowd warmed up to the empty stage, one of these -- a jolly man outfitted in a safari hat and woven poncho -- clear leader of the Dylan expedition, ambled past and, perhaps sensing an opportunity to exude some of his happiness, paused at a pair of straw haired preteens sitting on the floor bothering their blackberry wielding parents.

"These kids grow up with Bobby?"

His tootsie roll lady friend smiled bizarrely down at the girls, who seemed stunned by the old hippy and sat motionless, frozen in his only-slightly-creepy gaze. He squatted and spoke directly to them with a wheezy smile.

"Do you girls like Dylan?"

Terrified, the younger girl spun around and clawed her distracted mother's leg while the older girl managed a shrug. Mom stared up at the booming old man from behind her plastic wine glass.

"Can I help you?"

He was unfazed and remarkably well preserved, glowing in the pre-Dylan daybreak. He swung a plump arm around his skeletal lady friend and let loose a chuckle.

"Did these kids grow up listening to Bobby?"

"Oh, sure, they've heard him."

"That's great," he said, still eyeing the girls benevolently. "It's just amazing to see how Bobby transcends all generations."

"Whether they actually listen, I'm not sure. They like the -- oh I can't remember the name -- who is it girls?"

In unison the daughters -- eyes on the ground -- chirped: "Cheetah Girls!"

"Yes," Mom said, with some sarcasm. "They like the Cheetah Girls better than Bob Dylan."

Defiant now behind her mother, the younger girl met the old hippy's gaze.

"Yeah," she said. "We like the Cheetah Girls."

"Well, I think I've heard of them," offered the old hippy lady to her man. But he didn't seem to hear, apparently hypnotized by the little girls.

"What's your favorite Dylan song girls?"

Aware now that she was dealing not only with children who don't understand dirty old hippies, but old hippies who don't understand children, Mom gently interceded.

"I don't think they really have a favorite Dylan song."

"No favorites? Sure they do! What is it girls? 'Subterranean Homesick Blues'? 'Like a Rolling Stone'? 'Lay Lady Lay'?"

"That's a really fascinating question, isn't it girls?" Mom said, sparing her daughters momentarily. "I'd have to say that MY favorite Bob Dylan song of all time has to be --"

But the boozy old man wasn't hearing it. He squatted again, determined to make a breakthrough with the little girls.

"Aww c'mon! We don't want to hear what boring old MOM likes, do we girls?"

"Excuse me?" Mom said.

At this point the younger of the two girls bolted straight for Dad, a few feet away and enmeshed in conversation on his cell phone. I can't say I blame her; at this point I was scared shitless too. Sorry hippies, you just don't seem to age well.

"You're so drunk Harold!" cackled his crazy lady, slapping him in the head lovingly. "Look, you're scaring the children! Ha ha!"

Harold did not hear though. He reared up, red-faced and sliding quickly from jolly to terrifying. He raised his voice an octave, addressing the entire vicinity.

"I dunno about you all, but MY favorite Bobby song has always been 'Maggie's Farm'!"

Having gotten everybody’s attention, Harold began to sing, loud and mournful, stamping his foot as he went. His lady performed the ancient hippy ritual twirling dance around him.

"Well, he hands you a nickel!
He hands you a dime!
He asks you with a grin, if you're havin' a good time!

Then he fines you every time you slam the door!
I AIN'T GONNA WORK FOR MAGGIE'S BROTHER NO MORE!"

And he held the last word. 'MOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRR,' carrying it high and far across the auditorium, pulling out a Zippo and lifting the flame high above his head. A few like-minded rebels clapped. Harold bowed deeply to the little girl, now on the verge of tears.

"Whew!" he said, laying a sloppy kiss on his lady. "God I love Bob honey."

"I know you do baby. And Bob loves us too."