Every Date Needs A Crackhead

My girl J and I went on a date last night. About once every two or three weeks we have one of these dates where we treat each other to a fancy dinner and a lovely evening spent with each other's company. All other times we'd rather not see or hear one another. That's the way we like it. That's the secret to the success of our six year relationship. Dating other people also helps.

Tonight was a special night. J bought a fancy new camera this week so she picked up her most stunning, derp-faced model to test it out on: ME. Thus began our date night. We took the train to downtown Dallas for some scenic shots of the neighborhood and some bewildered shots of me in different settings. Then I treated my lady to a tasty dinner of pasta, burger, and wine. Bitches love wine! Later J saw my dinner and raised me a decadent dessert of some sort of stuffed chocolate cake abomination and a bread pudding with cream sauce. Bitches love stuffed shit and cream sauce more than wine!

Everything was just lovely. As evening fell we stopped at a fountain and took some night shots on her camera. We even had the brilliant idea to take levitation shots. Bitches love levitation photography! From the fountain to the train station, we took turns shooting each other jumping in mid-air. J looked as fun and adorable floating as she does on the ground. I served my best Paz de la Huerta-hovering in various states of seduction and befuddlement. The night couldn't get any better.

Oh but it did. On the way back home, we got off the train at the wrong stop. We thought, "Oh well, we'll just catch the next one in fifteen minutes." We sat down and quietly chatted while we waited, pretty pleased with how nicely our date turned out. Then we heard,

"Fucking punks... goddammit... fuck... those fucking punks..."

A man within earshot proximity to us was muttering angrily to himself and stomping around. We ignored him. Bitches have bad days sometimes. As we quietly continued with our conversation, I slowly became aware of how close he was getting to me. I didn't feel like I was in any danger, but I became concerned that I was in the splash zone for whatever filth he was harboring. Homeboy looked like Pig-Pen from the Peanuts comics if Pig-Pen wore a roll of packaging tape around one hand with some rope wrapped around his arm. I, on the other hand, was looking fly as fuck in my new dress. What can I say, this bitch looks good for dates. Naturally, I did not want some nasty crackhead's dust and sediments contaminating my new dress, but I soon became the divider between him and J along the seating area. All the while he was growing more belligerent and restless. Finally he got up in front of us and interjected our conversation with,

"What're you girls talking about? Boys? Is it boys? You talking about boys!"


"No." We replied and attempted to return to our conversation. Our attempt was futile as he blasted off,

"WELL I'VE GOT A LOT OF WISDOM, AND YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO ME! I'VE BEEN ALL AROUND THE WORLD, I'VE SEEN A LOT OF THINGS!"


At this point, J and I were dumbfounded. We tried to calmly communicate with him that we just wanted to have this private conversation between us, but he was adamant about being heard. He babbled on loudly about various, obscure, crackhead business that I didn't understand but felt compelled to record and present to small children as a warning to not do crack. I do not know for sure if he was on crack, but he was clearly strung out on something so for convenience, I will assume crack. The holy Whitney Houston once said, "Crack is whack," and Pig-Pen was wackier than public schools' wacky cake.

"I'm going to go where angels fear to tread. WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD! Yeah, over there. I'm going. I'm gonna go over there now!"


At this point I was ready for Pig-Pen to go. I looked him dead in the eyes and replied,

"That's great. You do that. It'll be awesome. Go there. Godspeed."


He seemed to head towards wherever angels feared to tread, which looked to be Downtown Plano, much to our relief. Then my mouth happened. Apparently I just always have to have the last word.

"Good luck with that." I said.

He turned around and came back. I nearly fell off my bench in consternation, Japanese anime-style. J looked like she wanted to drop-kick me, WWF-style. He started rambling on again with his nutty crackhead musings. I realized that this crackhead didn't really have any intention of defying angels and heading down the street. This clown was getting in my face earlier about doing some unholy, badass shit, and now he wasn't going to do it! I was annoyed. If he's going to be wishy-washy, then I get to be a troll. I then embarked on trolling the crackhead. He then asked us,

"What's important to you? What, boys? Grades? What do you do for excitement?"


"Read."


"Do what?"


"Read. Books. That's it."


"Oh yeah? What do you read?"


"TWILIGHT."


"What's that... oh you mean that vampire shit? GOD! I mean LITERATURE! Classic literature! You read classic literature?"


"THE BIBLE."


"Oh... I am not a Christian man... You know, Homer!... THE ILIAD!! yeah ...."


In the midst of my trolling, we saw a police car pull up, and two cops walked out. For the first time in my life, I was glad to see the police. Also for the first time in my life, I made very pronounced eye contact with the officer walking towards me, telepathically sending him a message of, "Hurry the FUCK up!" They came over and attended to Pig-Pen, who allegedly only had two beers at a customer's house. Apparently he also lived in a house at Alma and Plano Parkway. For future reference, I'll keep a lookout for crackhouses in that area. By this point, I felt that J and I needed to do a jumping high-five, possibly snapped mid-air on her fancy camera. The train arrived as they were searching his plastic shopping bag. On the train we met the guy who called the cops. I felt I owed him a jumping high-five as well, but resisted the urge, lest he call the cops on me for assault. We headed home in bemusement and relief.

On the way home, J expressed her annoyance with how long it took for someone to call the cops and how long it took for the cops to get to the station. I felt compelled to agree until I realized that we got to the station with the train set to arrive in fifteen minutes. I estimated that we sat there for few minutes chatting, and it probably took another five minutes or so for someone to call the cops, leaving about five minutes for the cops to get there. The entire, cracked-out ordeal happened in roughly fifteen minutes.

Time sure does not fly when you're with a crackhead.