A badly wounded drug dealer just returned from tours of duty in Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, who will soon be returning from Libya, Syria and Kosovo, visited again for the first time the Port Authority Terminal in New York where he learned his trade and got his first clients. The badly wounded drug dealer wanted information. In a conversation with a former fellow drug dealer, now a pimp, who bought him the bike he used for his first drug drops, he raised the question of responsibility for the wars the United States was engaged in.
He shot a thought toward George Bush. Then he shot one to Barack Obama: “Beware, president, that history does not call you another Nero.” You can be sure that the badly wounded drug dealer would say or do nothing hastily. He hadn’t waited patiently, potentially forever, and learned his trade for nothing. He was a big hairy American sergeant who had seen a lot. He was part of a winning machine and he knew it, though he sobbed for a vanished dream that would not return.
The pimp – Franz was his name – used to be passionate, audacious, even eloquent about sex. But when he switched from drug dealing to pimping, he became indifferent to sex, above the fray, abstract and uninvolved. He’d discuss sexual statistics endlessly and was up to date on the latest numbers and rates, but his heart, which had once been in it heart and soul, just wasn’t in it any more. He didn’t care. He just liked being a pimp.