Blues – plasticbagger

June 27, 2025

oxycontin was blue before coating and binder was added so it couldn’t be smoked. my friend discovered the alley. she made it home. tucked between the back of a closed medical clinic and an apartment building, it was a few blocks from her family’s place. she’d bring me there a lot. her bike, a small pink one made for doing tricks; and mine, a bulky orange one with thick tires, leaned against the wall with a spray painted smiley face. “fuck you, bro.” she’d fake punch me. “come here, nigga.” she’d put me in a headlock. i’d drop the cigarette we were sharing. i liked to pretend to struggle, let her bony arm clamp my teeth. “weak ass pussy bitch.” she was also the type to wear oversized t-shirts and sweatpants. i’d let her feel strong, but breaking free was easy. she’d pick our cigarette back up, then call me a faggot. i’d flatten the collar of my shirt. why do you have to be so stupid and ghetto? we’d rest in two tanning chairs. they were branded with the logo of a soda discontinued when we were kids. wobbly legs stabilized with many candy and blunt wrappers. 

my friend’s mother hung out of their 5th story window, pouring water on the blues heads below. she blamed this guy or that guy for her son being a junkie. soaked, they’d pat down their pockets, making sure their next works didn’t get wet. my friend couldn’t be seen with me. it would’ve been haram. i never saw her that way. on our bikes we’d avoid certain blocks and corners. ones where her mom knew a shopkeeper or barber. she had eyes and ears everywhere. including my friend’s big brother. like most blues heads, he roamed the streets aimlessly, avoiding the sober boredom of home with the annoying relief of being high. whenever he caught my friend outside, even being innocent, he’d drag her back to their mom, who’d scold her for giving into the devil and becoming a deadbeat like her dad. when she caught her son getting high, she’d cry and beg Allah for help. apart from stories my friend told me, or bruises she’d show up with, the alley existed mostly out of their view.

“my uncle came with nothing, bro.” she’d light a cigarette seconds after one was finished. “he bought a fruit truck and does all the market’s deliveries now.” the market was a local grocer. a family friend gave her a job there at the back register with no cameras. he came here with nothing but could afford a truck? how’d he get licenses? “nigga, are you retarded? family. friends.” a roach raced across the spray paint smiley face. so he came here with friends and family, you fucking dumbass. one of them had the connect. you think he found a fruit truck and an orange tree? “you think i’m stupid, bro,” my friend flicked ash at me, “no shit, my nigga. you’re mad autistic and got negativity in your heart.” negativity? it’s not easy to make it. “so bro,” she’d blow smoke in my face before handing me the cig, “wouldn’t it be nice if we did?”

i’d ease into fantasies of a balcony overlooking the beach. up close, there were bits of trash in the sand: coffee cups, diapers, an occasional syringe. on the 10th floor, it’d look spotless. my friend imagined leaving the city. where would you go? she’d give a different answer every time. i wanted us to have hope — i’d drawn the smiley face — though our attempts at escape had all failed. buying and reselling phones; shoveling snow at the mansions by our community college; her at that back register, pretending to scan hundreds of dollars worth of detergent and me walking out the back with it. “did i tell you my scheme when i worked at the pizzeria? when the delivery guy came back with his change and the receipt, i’d crumple it up, throw it in the trash, then go back later to get the money out the garbage. one time the owner walked in the back, son, and saw me digging in the trash. he started yelling what i was doing so i hugged him and made it seem like i threw an order out by accident. haha. i knew this nigga liked me so it worked.” didn’t you say that faggot fingered women’s pizzas? we had plenty of tricks to get over on others and laughed at the market’s wall of shame. both our dad’s faces hung there once. a dishonor neither of us shared.

the problem with hustles was someone else was already doing them. when we tried to make money after blizzards, there’d be workers riding snow plows around the block. corner stores we tried selling detergent to already had blues heads doing it for cheaper. every scheme made almost no money and took more effort than a real job, but they were fun with her. i doubted we’d ever leave; maybe that’s why i was harsh, despite never having ideas of my own. while we biked, my friend was the type to stop at places like the park where blues heads begged for cigarettes. “my dad fed the pigeons there, bro.” yeah, with bread he stole from your kitchen. are you slow? you think he gave a fuck about you or the pigeons? when i raised my voice, she’d clam up or try to get me to shut up by saying “bro, bro, bro” in a silly way. which got me annoyed. so i’d get louder. you think your brother gives a shit? if he could, he’d trade you having cancer for a pill. just one. you gotta accept it. never trust a blues head. even if they say they quit. she’d tense up and curse under her breath. i’d see her face and feel hurt. the next day my bike tires would get slashed on campus. us both feigning ignorance. 

in the alley she’d show me family photos. most of mine were lost. i wouldn’t have looked at them anyway. one she shared a lot was of her and her brother in front of an animatronic demon. i rode that ride too as a kid. “sometimes,” she’d wonder, “where’d it all go wrong?” i’d grab her phone, zooming in on how his mouth was curled into a devious smile. there, bitch. blues heads all have that shit eating grin. “nigga, that’s fucked up. you know that’s not…you know better, bro.” i don’t. “c’mon, my nigga, it’s like they got friends who do it…it’s like psycho–fuck bro, i can’t say the right shit ever. i’m retarded. you gotta know why people get addicted. ‘cause our pops.” yeah, they’re both dead and understanding doesn’t make me hate blues heads less. it makes me hate them more. cigarette smoke phased through the chain link fence, dissipating over a large potted plant left out in the only spot with any sun. your real brother’s a piece of shit. he’s a fucking stupid retard. while my friend shut down, i had no issue with words when angry. there’s two types of blues heads. ones who feel guilty about it, but do blues anyway; and ones who’ve lost all remorse. which one’s worse? i’d laugh. every pill should be laced. with a poison that hurts and works slow. it’d be so funny to watch these motherfuckers crawl around the floor and beg and cry and shit. i’d love for their families to see it too so they could accept how weak these blues heads always were. them dying gives everyone peace. my hands shook.

her brother sometimes walked past the alley entrance. he never thought to turn his head. from here he was a shadow. stumbling by, caring only about what was in front of him. not because it was interesting, just so he wouldn’t trip over his feet. we were supposed to act proud to be the collateral damage of a blues head’s choices. my friend sat in the beach chair that had its back toward the street. she thought his next rehab stint could work and would kick me randomly. “corny ass nigga,” she’d go back to rocking in her chair, “i’ll fuck you up.” i shoved her hard enough for it to feel honest. i was twice her size and liked that she trusted me to not get too rough. i would get so mad when i was alone. i’d bash myself in the head. as if that would do anything to get me, or maybe us, out of here. unlike my cousins, whose parents were immigrants too, i wasn’t smart enough to be a medical sonographer. what it seemed i was best at was stealing and arrogance, neither required skill so much as shamelessness. and although i liked my friend, she’d want me to write all her class discussions and spent most of her days with another person, the girl who got brain damage as a kid and whose mother kept a bottle of sleeping pills in the bathroom with never any recollection of how many in there. 

she meant more to me than other friends. we were born at the same hospital. played in the same parks. went to the same apartments for separate gatherings. our dads were locked up by the same cops and got trashed off the same malt liquor from the same delis and maybe even hung out. we knew exactly where our moms roamed the streets with us as kids because our dads were home throwing things. i’d gotten over it but she hadn’t. worse, she was nostalgic for it. mostly i was pissed at how pathetic those experiences made us. success scared me. compliments sounded like they could be insults. while biking around campus she’d ask me a thousand times whether a comment she’d made in class could’ve been worded better. i’d tell her it’s not worth looking back. let it go. “nigga, you always act like you’ve let shit go.” i understood why she wanted a clean slate. yet if we made enough money, this city would be way more tolerable. you wouldn’t have to leave. “bro, i gotta. it’s not just our hood. there’s trash in tourist spots too. i know 4 people who’ve OD’ed. i gotta not fuck up.” 

what if we can’t help it? “nah,” our last cigarette was finished, “there’s more to us than that. like my nigga, i know mad hijabis who wear all that to go to mosque, then tell their parents they’re going to a friend’s house and take off the hijab and suck mad dick, bro.” i’m surprised your mom doesn’t make you wear one. with how much of a religious bitch she is. “fuck you, nigga. your moms don’t even got papers. i can get her deported.” c’mon, that’s fucking low. “nah, i’m playing, bro.” she’d slap my leg. “i wouldn’t do that. unless you fucked with me.” would you ever wear one though? my friend didn’t have to sit delicately to keep the beach chair from breaking. she leaned all the way back. “i smoke weed and cigs. i steal and use people….it wouldn’t be me.” yeah, true. you’re dumb as shit. you’re going to Hell. “bro, my mom says that. she tells me i’mma wake up there and every time i get up, my skin’s gonna rip open and i’ll fall again. i’ll have to do that shit forever, bro. for every sin. past or future.”