Shit, I was successful. I had a lucrative business and tons of friends. I stayed loaded. And I was the most popular chick in the whole complex-if that ain't success, what is?

24.

IT DIDN'T TAKE long before the plan for my life began to fall apart. Although I initially did make money from selling weed, my required daily minimum was quickly escalating-the more I used, the more I wanted, the more I needed. As a result, I was constantly digging into my "merchandise" for my own personal use. It wasn't long before I was smoking more than I was selling. My first bright idea to fix this problem was to increase my use of the stronger drugs-especially crystal meth and coke. But that backfired because not only were those drugs stronger, they also cost more, which really cut into my available funds. I needed another plan.

Then it came to me. I could try and get my trust-fund money early; though to do so, I needed Jr.'s and the court's approval.

I figured I'd start with Jr., because if he agreed, the court might be more likely to agree too. In my most innocent, saddest, most helpless voice-using the acting training I'd gotten from Diane and Connie-I cried to him about how I'd gotten fired from my job for failing to respond fast enough to a fire alarm and the occupants had almost died. And, because of that serious blunder, I was having trouble getting another job, which meant I wouldn't be able to pay my rent. Besides, I had been declared an adult.

"That means I should be able to get my money, don't you think?" I stated emphatically.

He paused for a moment, not saying anything. When he did speak, he said that if the court wouldn't object, he wouldn't either.

The court objected.

Everything was going to hell. I had no job. Money was dwindling. I mean, business was great. But my daily use was steadily increasing and the amount of product available for selling was quickly diminishing.

Fuck that shit, I told myself. I'd need another plan. But, I'd played everyone I knew-except Daddy. Time for plan B.

I approached Daddy about the possibility of us being roommates again. I didn't go into a bunch of explanations. I just said I wanted to save some money. He said he liked the idea, as long as I didn't mind that it'd be just he and I. Sam wouldn't be joining us-at least not at first. He'd decided he needed some time alone. We agreed to move in together and be roommates.

- We moved into a large apartment complex in southeast San Diego that everyone called "the Complex." It was in the heart of the ghetto, and although it wasn't officially the "projects," everyone thought of it as such, probably because of the ever-present dealers, thugs, drugs, and violence. It was the perfect place for illegal activities because it had a graveyard on one side (which meant those neighbors wouldn't be complaining), there were only a couple of houses on the other side (whose occupants were loyal customers of dealers in the Complex), a big empty lot sat across the street, and behind it stood a row of dilapidated bungalows that housed tons of illegal Mexicans-most of whom didn't speak English. But the best part was that the apartment complex itself sat on a cul-de-sac-so there was only one way in, and one way out. A perfect place for an aspiring businesswoman like myself.

Soon after moving into the apartment, Social Security stopped sending me checks. When I went down to the Social Security office to find out why, the little elderly white woman behind the counter explained that, although I was eligible for the money because of my mother's death, I had to be enrolled in school to receive it.

"School!" My scream startled her so much she toppled her glasses. "Y'all want me to go to school?"

"Well, yes, dear. To be eligible you have to be in school."

She didn't know who she was talking to. I cussed her out, told her to kiss my black ass, and walked out.

Fuck the government and their Social Security checks, I told myself. I decided to just resume my business. But, this time, I'd do it better.

Later that night, I approached Daddy about my business. We were sitting around happy and full from the wonderful spaghetti he'd just cooked. First, I told him Social Security would no longer be sending me checks (I didn't tell him why). Then, I broke the other news to him.

"Daddy," I said, "I sold weed when I lived in Chula Vista. It's a lucrative business, and I plan to continue. Now I can do it from here, or I can stand on the corner. But, one way or another, I'm slangin'."

I never raised my voice and I wasn't rude, but I meant every word.

He looked at me intently and waited several moments before speaking. He knew I smoked weed, but he had no idea I'd sold it. I sat waiting and wondering how he'd respond.

"Punkin," he said, "I sell pills. It's a lucrative business, and I plan to continue it."

He never raised his voice and he wasn't rude, and I could tell he meant every word. He gave me a sly grin.

I was shocked. Daddy, a pusher? My Daddy a pusher? Me and Daddy slanging together? Cool!

Ignoring my astonishment, he continued. "Besides, I know you well enough to know that if you don't sell from here, you'll be out on the corners. That's the last place a young girl should be. That, I don't want. At least if you're here, I'll know where you are and who you're dealing with. So to keep you home and safe, you can continue your business from here."

He stood up to go into his room. Just before disappearing around the corner, he turned, and said, "And I'll continue mine."

I sat there, shocked and surprised. It didn't take long for the shock to wear off, though. I got up, went to my room, and got high.

Later, as we discussed how I'd run my business, Daddy laid down some new rules. Instead of dime bags, I'd sell "quarter" (twenty-five-dollar) bags. Doing this had several benefits. First, it meant more money per sale. Second, it reduced the amount of traffic because fewer people could afford the larger bags. Third, less traffic drew less attention. Finally, I adopted Daddy's rules and only sold to current customers or people I knew, which cut down on the chances of selling to a narc and getting busted. (Little did we know that most narcs snitch on the people they know first!) Once getting the rules regarding my business straight, Daddy hipped me to his. I wasn't new to pills. I'd known about them from the time I'd lived with Tim, and I took a variety of them myself. But Daddy introduced me to a whole new world. He sold codeines (they were called "tabloid 4's" and had more codeine than Tylenol with codeine), quaaludes and preludes (both called "ludes"), T's and blues, Ritalin (which was, and still is, often prescribed for hyperactive kids), and valium. He never sold on the street, and never to anyone he didn't know. Actually he sold only to hos-who loved the pills. Daddy told me that this was actually how he'd started fuckin' with hos-there's always a certain status that goes with being the dopeman's woman.

All the pills Daddy sold could be "slammed" (shot up) or swallowed. The tabloid 4's were the most popular because four of them slammed with two sleeping pills were almost like heroin-they made a person nod out. "Nodding" is the physical effect that all heroin users aim for. It's called "nodding" because users look like most people who fall asleep while sitting up-their heads nod up and down. All the pills Daddy sold were downers, so even if you didn't nod, they calmed you down and put you in an extremely tranquil and euphoric mood.

Although Daddy sold these pills, his connection always gave me plenty of other pills for free: reds, black beauties, and Christmas trees (called that because they were green, yellow, and white). The black beauties were an old favorite. Similar to crystal and coke, they were uppers, so they kept me physically hyper, energetic, and jubilant-giving me an enormous surge of "happy" energy. Now, don't get me wrong. I'd do downers if there was nothing else around, but I preferred uppers, since I was always trying to maintain a constant state of elation. I got them for free simply because I was Daddy's daughter. However, I was always looking for a way to make money. So although I wasn't really supposed to sell these pills, if a customer happened to mention they were looking for a little "up," I'd sell him one or two of my beauties. Since I didn't pay for them, any sale was 100 percent profit. I'd have been a fool not to have taken advantage of that.

Our business was "one-stop shopping." Whether customers were looking to score a mellow high (weed), or something to make them zoom, zoom (uppers), or something for just chilling (downers), we were equipped to supply all of their needs.

- Soon after we got to the Complex, Sam came back to live with us. I found out she'd left because she was pregnant. Daddy wanted the baby, but she didn't. She said her lifestyle wasn't appropriate for babies. Once she returned, though, she never mentioned a baby. And I never asked what happened to it, because personally, I couldn't have cared less.

Shortly after Sam's arrival, we were joined by another ho named Slim. Slim was also white, with dirty-blond hair that hung around her shoulders. I immediately recognized why she was called Slim. She stood about five foot seven, but weighed only about 110 pounds-if that.

They should call you Bones, I thought as I stared her up and down. I mean, I was skinny, but not THAT skinny. She was a pretty girl, but so thin she looked sickly. Shortly after her arrival, I learned why.

Slim liked to slam heroin. I caught her nodding one day. She was sitting at the dining-room table, her head hanging down as though she were asleep, but I saw the needle sticking out of her arm. I wasn't surprised. I had heard of slamming, but had never actually seen anyone do it-till then. As I stood there staring at her, Daddy came up behind me.

"Damn bitches. I told her about doin' that shit in here. Punkin, I hate for you to see this, but you're old enough to know."

"Shit, Daddy, don't trip. I've seen worse."

"Yeah, but I don't ever want to see you doing this shit."

"I won't," I promised. I'd long ago told myself that as long as I didn't shoot heroin, I couldn't be a dope fiend.

After a while, we even began to tease Slim about shooting up, saying she was going to the "hotseat," because soon after slamming, she'd start complaining that the dope made her skin hot and itchy, so much so that she'd start frantically scratching her arms, neck, and legs. Soon, she'd be clawing crazily at her entire body. Sometimes we'd use stiff-bristled brushes to scratch her body, but we were never fast enough for her. "Do my legs!" she'd scream, and Daddy would kneel to brush her legs. "Get my back!" she'd holler, and I would run behind her to brush her back. "Oh, my God, my stomach, my stomach!" No matter where or how hard we scratched, it was never enough. But Slim never quit slammin'.

Whenever Slim was high, she didn't eat. And Slim was always high. All of a sudden, her extreme skinniness made sense to me.

Not long after Slim came Wanda. Wanda looked Mexican, but she was white. She was much bigger than Slim, but not as tall as Sam. She was a pretty girl, with long brown hair, brown eyes, and pouty lips.

Now there were three hos in the house. They all slept with Daddy in his room, and I had my own room. But Daddy wasn't their pimp. It was a "business arrangement." They never turned tricks in our house and never gave Daddy money from it. They paid their share of the rent and utilities, and contributed for food-when they ate it. Slim and Wanda both slammed, so really most all their money went to "horse." Although Sam didn't slam, she used a variety of other drugs, which ate up all her earnings. So it really was like a business arrangement-Daddy provided them with a safe place to live and get high; in return they worked their jobs and kept all the money they earned, except what they paid in rent, utilities, etc. They always said that the real bonus for them was that they were never beaten, mistreated, or abused like other hos who had pimps. The real bonus for Daddy, was, of course, that the pussy was free.

During the day while Daddy was at work, the hos slept. In the evening, they went to the "ho stroll"-the street hookers walked to gather their tricks. Their favorite stroll was near the naval training center in San Diego. Since the girls weren't allowed to turn tricks in our house, the tricks would either pay for a hotel room (there were always spots near a ho stroll that rented by the hour) or they'd conduct business in the tricks' cars.

Because I usually partied all night, I also spent most of the day sleeping. But as soon as evening hit, I'd be prepared to hit the streets, generally borrowing Daddy's car. Often, as I made my way out the door, the girls would ask me to give them a ride to the stroll. They were always broke when they arrived at the stroll. So just before letting them out of the car, I'd give them each five dollars and say, "Now don't y'all spend it all in one place!" They'd take the money, give me a grin-and the middle finger. By the time they got home early the next morning, they'd give me back the five dollars, plus twenty more. Because of this great return on my investment, I was always more than willing to take the girls to work.

The pill business was booming. Even though I didn't shoot up, I learned how to do it because sometimes a customer would be so loaded or unable to find her vein she'd ask me to do it for her. And I gladly did-for a small fee.

To shoot someone up, I'd first crush the pill, then put it in a spoon with hot water. Then I'd gently but quickly wave a lighter beneath the spoon till the pill was completely melted. This procedure is called "cooking." Then, I placed a tiny piece of cotton (usually a tiny piece torn off of a cigarette filter) on the spoon, and drew up the solution with a needle. The filter's purpose was to clear out the various additives the pills contained so that the only thing that entered the needle was pure codeine-or whatever dope it was a customer was shooting. This is the same method used when slamming heroin or coke to filter out the numerous impurities they're cut with. (To "cut" dope means to add additional ingredients to it to bulk up the quantity. For example cocaine is usually cut with baking soda, laxatives, and numerous other household ingredients.) Although Jr. came over often for dinner, he didn't know we were dealing dope. We knew he wouldn't understand, so we kept that from him. He knew about the hos, though (it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out). Although he didn't approve, everyone was grown, so Jr. kept quiet.

- Everyone in the house, except Daddy, got high off of something, so it was one big never-ending party. Daddy did try weed once. One night Daddy, Slim, and I were sitting at the dining-room table, arguing about the effects of weed. Daddy was trying to convince us that weed negatively affected the brain-causing you to forget, slowing your motor skills, blah, blah, blah. We vehemently denied it, telling him that weed enhanced your brain-made music sound better, made you think better, made your food taste better; in fact, it made everything better. To prove his point, Daddy agreed to smoke a joint. It was red-hair sinsemilla-some of the strongest and best weed I'd ever sold. We warned him not to puff too hard or take in too much. He didn't listen. He took a couple of long, intense puffs. His eyes immediately watered, and he started to spew out a few harsh coughs. Then he was still. He sat there for a while, his eyes slowly getting smaller and smaller, his body beginning to slump as the high began to kick in. But he did not move.

All of a sudden, he announced he was hungry. Slim and I smiled at each other as we realized Daddy was getting the munchies. Slim hopped up and made Daddy the only thing she knew how to cook-scrambled eggs. As she sat the plate of eggs down in front of Daddy, she and I resumed smoking our joint. Daddy didn't touch the eggs. Instead, he just stared at them for a long time. Then, his head began to slowly lower toward the plate. I sat across from him, watching. I thought he would surely stop his head before it hit the plate. I stared in awe as I watched him slowly descend downward until his face smashed into the eggs.

"Daddy's fucked up!" I shrieked, and cracked up laughing.

"Yeah, he is!" Slim replied, laughing even harder.

What we didn't know was that Daddy was so high, he couldn't lift his face out of the eggs. The weed had relaxed him so much, he'd lost the ability to control his muscles. He later told us he was sitting there thinking, Y'all stop laughing at me and help me. I'm drowning in these fuckin' eggs!

It took a few seconds for us to pull ourselves together enough to stop laughing. Finally Slim went over, grabbed a clump of Daddy's hair and lifted his head out of the eggs. As she did so, some of the eggs fell from his face, while the rest clung to his cheeks, forehead, eyelids, and chin. Still laughing, she took one arm, I took the other, and we half-walked, half-dragged Daddy to the couch. We dumped him onto it and returned to the kitchen to smoke another joint. No sooner than we'd sat back down at the dining-room table, we heard a thud in the living room. We ran in there to find Daddy had fallen onto the floor.

"Fuck it. Let him sleep it off down there," I told Slim as I stood over him looking at the crazy way he was sprawled out. "There's no way I'm gon' try and lift his ass off that floor."

So we left Daddy sprawled on the floor, pieces of eggs still clinging to his face. Daddy never tried another drug again.

I actually was glad Daddy didn't use drugs. Counting me, the three hos, my friends, and the customers, there was enough using going on in that apartment.

- I celebrated my eighteenth birthday in the Complex. We had a huge party. Friends bought booze and brought dope. Customers bought dope and brought booze. The next day, I didn't have much memory of the party, but I was told it was the bomb.

A couple of days later, Jr. and the court did their thing to give me my trust-fund money. Twenty-five thousand dollars. I thought I was rich. Three days after receiving the check, the phone rang. No sooner than I'd said hello, a voice said, "La'Vette?" I hadn't been called that name in so long, the mention of it stopped me in my tracks. In fact, no one was allowed to call me that name. My hand began to tighten around the phone handle as I began to remember how much I hated that name and the man who'd given it to me. The voice continued, snapping me out of the daze. "This is your father." It was Mr. Burns. "How are you?"

I know this punk-ass nigga ain't callin' me! I thought as I stared at the phone in disbelief. I couldn't believe he had the audacity to call me-I hadn't seen or spoken to him since the day he'd given us to Diane.

He continued talking about how he missed me and how much trouble he'd had trying to find me. But I wasn't listening. I had too many unanswered questions racing through my mind.

How did he get my number? How did he know where I was? How did he know I'd gotten my money?

Then I remembered that he always showed up when money was involved. I came back to the present. The why and how he'd found me weren't important. What was important was that, after years of pure hell, I'd finally get the chance to give him a piece of my mind.

He'd been talking for about two minutes, going on and on about how he could "use a little help," and about how he "loved his daughter."

"Love? Love?" I screamed. "You don't know shit about love, you black sorry bastard of a man. I never even knew you existed. And how did I find out? When your sorry ass took us from the only family we loved and sent us to stay with that sadistic bitch! And for what? So you two could split the foster care and Social Security money! You sold out your kids for money! You are a punk bitch!"

I was so angry, tears were falling from my eyes. But I couldn't stop. I had to release the rage and hatred I'd been holding in for so long. Mr. Burns was shocked into silence by my anger and my language. But I continued.

"Yeah, I said it. A sorry-ass punk bitch. That's all you are! You might have pulled that 'I need my kids' shit on Larry, but that shit ain't gon' work with me. I don't want yo' fake-ass love, ya fake-ass nigga. I got a daddy and it ain't you, mothafucka! I'd rather lay on a bed of scalding-hot piercing nails naked before I'd acknowledge your sorry ass to be my father. Just the thought of you leaves a shitty taste in my mouth. You know why? 'Cause you ain't shit! You ain't never been a part of my life and, mothafucka, we ain't fittin' to start now. Now you listen and you listen good, ass-wipe. Don't you ever, and I mean ever, call my house again. You hear me, asshole? And, if you EVER come anywhere near me, I'll do what my momma shoulda done years ago, and what Larry shoulda done when you stole his money. I'll kill yo' black ass! You hear me? I'll fuckin' kill you DEAD!"

I slammed down the phone so hard I felt the cradle crack in my hand.

Daddy came running into my room.

"What's all the hollerin' about?" he asked as he threw open my bedroom door, his body crouched as if ready to attack.

With tears still falling and my body still shaking from the intense anger, I told him what had just happened and how glad I was that I'd finally gotten a chance to give Mr. Burns a piece of my mind.

"Sounds like you gave him more than a piece!" Daddy joked, grabbing me and giving me a big hug. "That's my girl!" he said with a big smile.

Mr. Burns never called back. And I never heard from him again.

- And, hell, I didn't need Mr. Burns to spend my trust-fund money-I could do that by myself just fine. And spend it I did. I wanted my own car. I didn't have a driver's license. But that didn't matter. The Gangstas had taught me to drive years before. So I headed to the first Buick dealer I saw and bought a car: a beautiful new Regal. It was a two-tone light-and-dark blue, with a sunroof and spoke wire rims. It was worth only about eight thousand dollars, but I paid twelve thousand for it. Why? Because it was pretty and I wanted it. Jr. tried to tell me it was a bad move, but hey, it was my money and I really wanted that car. So I bought it. Then, to prove I could be responsible, I got car insurance. I also bought clothes, jewelry, and of course, dope. I put the rest in a savings account with the intent to touch it only when I needed to.

- The period in the Complex was one of the happiest times in my life. All I did was hang out, get high, and sell dope-which I loved, especially since I had such a variety of drugs to choose from. I'd be down-in-the-dumps depressed one moment, and happy and ecstatic the next. I didn't yet realize the horrific physical and mental toll the constant drug use was taking on my mind and body. Actually, I didn't care. Business was booming. I was legally and physically grown, so foster homes were a thing of the past. I had my own room and phone. I had a little money in the bank. And I had my daddy and Jr. back.

Shit, life was good.

25.

I WASN'T TURNING tricks during this time at the Complex, though I should've been because at least I'd have been getting paid. I never really had a steady boyfriend-unless you considered my standard "relationship" span of two months as steady.

I met most of the men I dated in nightclubs. My favorite club, called the Oasis, was only half a mile from the Complex. It had a reputation for being one of the raunchiest, most violent and hap'nin' nightclubs in San Diego. I quickly began to make my rounds there as well as other clubs in the greater San Diego area. Getting in was never a problem because I had a fake I.D. Actually, it wasn't fake, it was my legitimate I.D., but with an incorrect birth date-a benefit of dealing dope. When I lived in my apartment in Chula Vista, one of my customers worked for the DMV. One day, she needed some dope, but was short on money. I told her I needed to change the date on my I.D., but didn't know how to go about it. We agreed to a little business trade (Hey, fair exchange ain't no robbery!). Thanks to that deal, I had an official California I.D. that listed my age as twenty-one.

Even though my purpose for going to clubs was to party, I always started the party way before I got there. I mean, I had to drink and smoke reefer and toot while getting dressed. Then, I had to stop and get something to drink on the way to the club (even though the farthest club wasn't ten minutes away). And, of course, I couldn't go into the club without smoking another joint or tooting another line. By the time I actually got inside the club, I'd be fucked up. Still, I would drink another four to six drinks.

I was a mean drunk. I liked to pick fights, talk about folks' mommas, and just talk shit. For example, one night I went up to this big, muscular guy standing up against the wall. I had to jump up to get in his face. Because I was drunk, each jump up landed in a stumble. That didn't deter me. I continued to talk about him and his ugly-ass momma. At first, he tried to ignore me. But with each insult-not to mention my drunk's bad breath-he was quickly losing patience. He balled up his fist.

That enraged me more. "You think you gon' hit me, mothafucka?" I yelled.

The anger in his eyes told me he was. Lucky for me, a lot of my customers and friends (which were really one and the same) partied in the same clubs. Realizing I was getting ready to get my ass whupped, they ran over, stepped in between me and the guy, remorsefully apologizing for my behavior and making up a story about me being distraught from a recent tragedy. Seeing as he was falling for their excuse, they grabbed me by the arm and dragged me away-while trying to cover my mouth, which continued to curse him out at the top of my lungs.

My friends comically began to call these the "save Cup's ass" incidents, since they'd prevented me from getting seriously hurt on many occasions. Each time they saved me, I'd reward them with free dope.

I'd laugh with them as they would relay the story to me the next day, though I usually had no memory of it. I was experiencing blackouts more and more. I would sit in total astonishment as my friends would tell me about the stupid things I'd done or said the night before. However, I soon realized a benefit from, and even began to welcome, the memory loss because it allowed me to remain oblivious to the extremely ignorant and hostile person I became when drunk.

My blackouts also had a negative effect. My friends began to realize that, since I had no idea of what really had happened the night before, they could tell me they'd helped me when they really hadn't. Pretty soon, I was frequently and regularly rewarding people with free dope, believing they'd protected me or saved me from a serious ass-whupping, when a lot of times they hadn't even been in the club!

Of course, I partied so much that there were times when there wasn't a customer around to come to my rescue. I remember one guy was so pissed and tired of my relentless babbling, he shoved my head into the wall with such force that I was actually knocked out for a few moments. I came to with a small bloody knot on my head, and my head imprint in the wall. Then of course, there were times when I just got my ass whupped because my mouth had written a check my ass couldn't cash.

- One day, Daddy was in the kitchen frying some chicken. The smell woke me up and made me so nauseous I had to run to the bathroom to throw up. I knew what that meant. Problem was, I had no clue as to whose baby it was. Nor did I try to figure out which of my last three boyfriends it belonged to. Didn't matter. I knew I wasn't going to keep it. I looked through the phone book, located an abortion clinic, and scheduled an appointment for that afternoon.

After tooting a couple of lines of meth, popping a yellow jacket, and drinking some bourbon, I drove to the clinic. Once I had given the receptionist my name and been instructed to sit down, I looked around the room, which was filled with young girls. Some were crying. Some disinterestedly flipped through magazines. Others just sat and stared off at objects only they seemed to be able to see.

I was examined by a doctor, and after making me piss into a small clear plastic cup, was told what I already knew: I was three months pregnant. I was so pissed at myself. How could I have let this happen again? I didn't bother answering that question. The "how" was unimportant. What was important is that I get rid of the pregnancy. So I made the necessary arrangements to do so.

Three days later, I popped two ludes, three black beauties, smoked a joint, drank four beers, and then drove to the clinic and had the abortion. An hour and a half later, I was home tooting coke, popping pills, and drinking Seagram's 7 and 7-Up. Soon, I didn't have to think. I didn't have to feel. I didn't have to remember.

- As usual, the money I made from my dope business became insufficient because I was using it up faster than I could sell it. I needed a scam, but wanted something where I wouldn't have to risk going to jail. Being able to stay out of jail helped me convince myself that my using and slanging were relatively harmless and recreational. One day while watching the news, I got an idea. The story was about some study that had proven that salesclerks and store-security personnel were more likely to watch minorities-specifically blacks and Mexicans-in their stores than they were white people. I'd finally found an advantage to being not only black, but dark black! But first, I'd need a white girl. I knew that Slim and the other hos wouldn't do; they were too old. I needed a white girl around my age.

I jumped up, ran into the living room, and told Slim what kind of girl I was looking for. A few days later she introduced me to a young white ho named Dot. Slim and Dot knew each other because they sometimes worked the same corner. Dot was eighteen years old, thin but pretty. She was dirty and scraggly, but once showered, shampooed, and cleaned up, I figured she'd do for my purposes just fine.

This is how the scam worked: first, I and five or six black girlfriends would dress as ghetto as possible: dirty jeans or khaki pants, and dirty shirts hanging out over the pants. Though none of my doper friends banged-and I'd long since quit-I had everyone wear blue rags to give us a more suspicious and sinister effect. Then, cursing and loud-talking in a mob, we'd enter a store. As soon as we came in the door, we could see the fear and suspicion in the clerks' eyes. We could feel the security guards' entire bodies jump to attention and tense up as we passed by.

Once we were sure we had everyone's attention, we'd slowly begin to walk around the store, lifting items to view and show them to each other, loudly shout the prices to each other, or hold up pieces of clothing to our bodies as if trying to size them up.