by Carrie
Diary of A Rich Girl – Chapter 82
“That depends on how much hooch you want.” “So what do I have to do?” He said, “Help me in my career path.” I looked at him and wondered what the career path of a dealer was. He said, “It’s the artist in me I want to explore.” “I thought you wanted to explore me?” He said, “My artistic integrity always needs to be challenged.”
I knew he was full of shit. The problem was, he didn’t.
What’s your name?” I told him. Then he told me his name, “Leroy Ha’Sallam.” “Which one of your parents is Arab?” “Neither. They’s cotton pickers from Mississipi, but they had style.” They had more than style.
I played along, “Well, Mr. Ha’Sallam. Just how do you want to explore the artist in you?” “I wanna paint you.” “You’re a painter?” “I been recently exploring the field.”
“Where’s your paint brush?” He pulled out a Post-It and a Bic retractable. He was ready to go.
I reminded him, “That’s not exactly the kind of equipment a painter uses.” He said, “Whyn’t you leave the artistry up to me. You just take off your shirt and let me do the doodle.”
“Do the Doodle?” He said, “Yeah, the hell you thinks behind the Lisa?” I reminded him, “You mean The Mona Lisa.” “Who the fuck, she?” “That’s her name.” “Maybe she ought to change it.” “To what?” He bared his teeth, “Lisa Ha’Sallam.”
It was obvious he was another nut. He flicked his pen to let me know that he was ready. I said, “Okay, Mr. Ha’Sallam. I take off my shirt. You draw me. I get pot. Right?” He said, “Two joints.” I said no. He said, “Three joints.” I said no. He said, “Five or you can get the fuck outta here.” Five it was.
I unbuttoned my expensive shirt and showed him my goods. I was wearing a lacy black bra. But he wasn’t drawing. He was staring at me as if he’d just been quick-freezed.
Finally he opened his mouth. “Uh, how tall is you?” “I’m still growing.” “Unh-huh, and like how much you weigh?” I said, “I don’t know, 120, 125.” He nodded his head. “You got some fly body.” I was going to remind him that my slacks were still on, but why push it? “What size chest you got.” I was getting annoyed. “Is that necessary?” “You want pot?” I did. “It’s necessary.”
“Depends, 34 E, F. Depends on the bra,” He said, “We gonna have to renegotiate our deal.” I reached for my shirt. He reached for my shirt, “You get half an ounce you take your bra off.” “Let go of my shirt before it rips.” He did, but slowly.
I knew it was a dirty thing to have gone this far, but to take off my bra would be really dirty. But I had no money and I needed pot. I reasoned that since I walked the beaches topless, why not make believe I was on a beach, even though it was up two flights of stairs.
“Half ounce. You swear? ” He said, “I swear.” I said, “I want the pot now.” He pushed it over, sat back, “Now you complete your part of the deal.”
It was right in front of me. A whole half ounce. All mine. I could get high without having to beg. It was fucking freedom.
I put the half ounce in my shoulder bag then reached behind and unclasped my bra. I felt slut dirty; all sorts of cruddy things went on in my head, but I dropped the straps and took off my bra.
Mr. Ha’Sallam was leaning back with his mouth wide open. “I told you I was big.” He slowly nodded, “So am I, but I didn’t tell you.”