It is getting dark in Manhattan and the rush hour traffic is building.

The cab that Sal—the junkie from Brooklyn who does my bidding in East Harlem—and I are taking back uptown from Chinatown is mired in congealed traffic on Park Avenue in the East Sixties.

“Youz wanna’ geddout and walk, Bobby?” Sal says.

“All the way to 125^th Street?” I say.

“I mean fawh a little ways. We can walk to the train and take dat.”

“What’s the rush?”

Sal’s in a hurry? His main responsibilities in life are getting methadone every day from a clinic in Harlem and selling it to buy drugs. Granted, the daily hustle to get dope money and cop drugs is nerve-racking, but Sal’s life can’t be that complicated. I’ve got to sustain a sizeable dope habit while keeping enough of a grip to maintain the professional reporting career that allows the monstrous Jones to flourish in the first place.

I need to run back to Washington so I can write a five-page magazine story that’s due in less than twenty-four hours. I haven’t written a sentence of it yet.

The faster I can finish buying drugs in New York and get on a Metroliner at Penn Station, the better.

“Nah, Bobby, I ain’t stressed,” Sal says. “But my mutha wants me home in time fawh dinner cuz I’m bringin’ food fawh dinner.”

Mother Sal trusts him to put food on the table?

Isn’t she afraid of starving to death?

Sal would trade the groceries for a two-dollar vial of rock.

Or, a three-dollar vial.

At best.

“Relax,” I say. “If it gets late, you can call your mother so she won’t worry.”

“She ain’t worryin’,” he says. “She just wantsa know about dinner. I told my mutha youz was payin’ me today fawh the work I been doin’ fawh youz, so I’m treatin’ tonight.”

In a different context Sal’s devotion would be heartwarming, but in this one, it’s lacking a certain something.

We are at East 71^st Street and Park Avenue. The heart of Very Expensive New York.

Sal takes a vial of Green Top crack from his pocket and a glass stem you smoke it with from his pocket and says, “Yo, Bobby, youz don’t mind if I do a hit, do youz?”

In the backseat of a cab on Park Avenue?

With old ladies in furs walking bizarrely coiffed miniature French Poodles and irritatingly perky Jack Russell Terriers on the sidewalk?

Has he lost his mind?

“Fuck no,” I say.

“Good, Bobby, cuz it’ll make me feel bettah,” Sal says.

He opens a vial of crack and pours the off-white rocks into the stem.

“I mean, fuck yes, I mind,” I say. “Are you nuts?”

“Wha’?” Sal says.

“Sal!”

Fortunately, the cabbie is oblivious. Indian music is blaring from the radio and he’s concentrating on squeezing between barely moving cars in a cab driverly way. “Put it away!” I say. “Not now!”

“Just one little hit,” he says.

For starters, there is no such thing as one little hit, when it comes to crack.

This is one of the major issues associated with doing the drug.

Sal becomes a crack-obsessed moron the moment he starts smoking.

“No!” I say.

It is to no avail.

Sal ducks. He leans toward the door. He lights the cocaine in the stem. The crack sizzles.

He sits up, holding his breath, rolls down the window and blows a large cloud of crack smoke out the window onto Park Avenue.

The cabbie looks in the rear view.

Dyspeptic Indian music is still blaring from the radio.

We’re on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, but it’s like being in a mobile crackhouse in Dehli.

“No zmoking, blease,” the driver says, like Sal just lit up a Marlboro.

“Sorry,” I say. “He won’t do it again. No smoking, Sal.”

“Tank youz, Bobby,” Sal says. “Fuckin’ A. Dat’s good shit. Youz wanna’ try some?”

Sal is still holding the crack stem in plain view, so I say, “No! Put it away, Sal.”

“Youz got it, Bobby,” he says. “I’m just waitin’ fawh it to cool off. If I put it away now, I’ll get burnt.”

At this particular point in time, I don’t care if he goes up in flames.

Smoking crack in a cab is not on the list of things I want to do today.

Hyperactive sitar twangs and percussion sounds continue emanating from the front of the cab. The driver, thankfully, is totally fixated on getting through traffic.

I shake my head. Sal, who is now amped up from smoking the rock, is babbling about setting up a business to transport dope from New York to D.C.

“Tink about it, Bobby” he says. “Wit yawh connections, youz could hook us up good. Neither one of us would evah havetah worry about buyin’ dope again and I could visit youz.”

Oh yeah. This is exactly what I’d like to introduce the neighbors to. Maybe we could turn my place into a crackhouse and shooting gallery while we’re at it. It would give the people on the condo board something to talk about besides whether or not people can leave doormats in the hall in front of their doors.

“I don’t think so, Sal,” I say.

“Youz don’t want me to come to D.C.?” he says. He has a crestfallen look on his face again that indicates the potential onset of horrible junkie tears.

How can I explain that he won’t blend?

“I don’t want to get involved in bringing a lot of drugs from New York to D.C.,” I say.

Strictly speaking, this is very much the truth.

“Ain’t dat what youz is doin’ awhlready?” he says.

“It’s only for me and a friend,” I say. “It’s different.”

“Well, maybe, I could come anyways? I’d bring shit only fawh youz and I could come, right?”

“Sure, Sal. Soon. Okay?”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“Fuckin’A. Youz could take me to the White House.”

Absolutely. That would be my hope. I’m certain we’d be received warmly.

“And to the Congress,” he adds.

“We’ll see,” I say.

“Good. In a coupla’ weeks. Youz can send me the money fawh the dope and if youz pay me aheadah time, I can use the money fawh the train. Dat way I don’t gotta’ botha my mutha fawh it.”

Sounds like a plan.

Sal looks like he’s going to put the crack stem away, but instead, he reaches into his pocket and extracts another vial of the crack he bought in Chinatown.

He pours the crack into the stem and says, “Don’t worry, Bobby, it’ll only take a second.”

“No!” I say.

But Sal is already ducking and lighting the stem.

The drugs are sizzling.

He sits back, holding his breath.

Then, he rolls down the window and blows another cloud of crack smoke into traffic.

“No zmoking in cab, blease!” the driver shouts over the Indian music blasting from the radio. “Blease! Or ve stop and you go.”

An Eastern wail is wahahahahahahahahing on the radio over the sitars, sarods, harmoniums, tamburas, tablahs and other percussion instruments.

This is becoming surreal.

To the driver, I say, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again.”

To Sal, I say, “Put the fucking stem away. Wait until we get to Harlem and you can smoke it all. I don’t care.”

“It’s a fuckin’ shame,” Sal says.

“Huh?”

“Don’t nobody drivin’ no cabs speak English no mawh.”

“Who cares? Put the stem away, Sal.”

“Hey, no problem, Bobby. I couldn’t help it. I wuz losin’ my buzz.”

Finally, the cab hits the lower reaches of Harlem and breaks free of the traffic. In a matter of minutes, we’re back at 123^rd and Lexington Avenue, where we started hours ago before heading downtown on a ridiculous, and unsuccessful quest, for Chinese Rock.

I pay the driver and throw in a huge tip, if not for his trouble, then for not calling the cops.

We get out.

Sal surveys the streetscape. Our drug dealer is gone.

“Muthafucka’,” he says. “Popi ain’t here.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I should get going. I have to get home.”

“Youz don’t want nuttin’ else? There’s uddah dope around. We can go to the Sout Bronx.”

“The South Bronx?”

“It’s right ovah the bridge. Alls we gotta’ do is walk. I know where to get good shit in the Sout Bronx.”

“I don’t want to go to the South Bronx.”

“I go dere awhl the time,” he says. “I’m witcha. Ain’t nuttin’ gonna’ happen. We’ll cop and go. It’ll take a half howah.”

“I don’t want to go to the South Bronx.”

“Dey got good shit in the Sout Bronx, Bobby.”

“No,” I say. “Either we find something around here or I’m leaving.”

“Yo, don’t get mad. I’m just tryin’ to get youz the best shit. We’ll find sumtin’ on First Avenue.”

“Let’s go.”

Sal and I walk to First Avenue and 123^rd.

“Whaddahyouz want?” he says.

I tell him to get two more bundles—at ten dime bags per bundle—and give him two hundred dollars.

“Wait here,” he says.

I watch Sal walk up the block and disappear around the corner. Five minutes later, he’s coming back down the block toward me.

“You get it?” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “The guy says it’s good, but he wouldn’t lemme taste any and youz don’t wanna’ go to the Sout Bronx, so don’t blame me if youz don’t like it.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Youz want anyting else?”

“No. I should go.”

It’s six. With traffic, I’ll be lucky if I make a seven o’clock train.

“Why don’t we go sumplace fawh a minute so youz can get off befawh youz go?” Sal says.

“Yeah,” I say. “But let’s make it fast.”

We walk to an empty lot between two abandoned buildings a couple of blocks away. An old truck—like one that delivers bread or potato chips, only covered with graffiti—is in the middle of the lot. We duck behind it.

I open a bag of the new dope and quickly sniff it.

Not bad.

Sal, meanwhile, puts two vials of crack in the stem and lights up.

“Why don’t I take my stuff?” I say when he finishes exhaling smoke.

“No problem, Bobby,” he says.

Sal hands me 38 bags of dope, one Thai stick, nine Valium, six Ativan and six vials of crack. I give him the Ativan and the crack and tell him to keep them. Then, I give him fifty dollars, which is his “pay.”

“Tanks, Bobby,” he says. “Youz is good to me.”

I put the drugs in various nooks and crannies of my coat.

We walk back to Lexington Avenue.

I flag down a livery cab and tell Sal I’ll see him soon.

“Tanks, Bobby,” he says. “Kawhl me tonight.”

“Huh?” I say.

“Kawhl me when youz get home. I wanna’ make sure youz get dere okay. Uddahwise I’m gonna’ worry.”

Like I’m going to get mugged in the toilet on the Metroliner?

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll call.”

Sal trudges away. I get in the cab and tell the driver to take me to Penn Station.

He looks at me over his shoulder and groans. We take off down Lexington Avenue.

Robert Guskind has been writing for a long time. An award-winning Washington-based journalist and contributor to major national magazines and newspapers, he now lives very close to Manhattan, where he continues to write, shoot photographs and work on a book based on his travels and experiences as a reporter and formerly disreputable dope fiend. He is all better now and is a regular contributor to Cherrybleeds.