by Carrie
Diary of A Rich Girl – Chapter 84
Several weeks later I was standing on Upper Broadway waiting for that dealer again, hoping he’d show up. I was dying to get high. I wasn’t allowed to go to his walk-up, for security reasons, he said, but I knew that it was a way of putting me in my place.
It was very hot outside and I still had my school books with me, which I suppose made me look younger than 15, but after school is always the best time to get pot. I had several hours before homework and all that.
I was wearing a school plaid skirt, a buttoned white cotton shirt, without my school name, white cotton panties, and black Hi-Tops. For some reason they eased the shoe rule, but you had to wear white turnover frilly socks. Go figure.
New York is a pretty cool place in that most people don’t pay attention to you even if you are pretty. I mean I get looks, sure, but it’s only a few idiots who stop in front of me and find it absolutely necessary to tell me I’m a hot piece of ass. They generally have that hit-in-the-head by a 2×4 look. In time, they drift off with their heads on backwards.
Finally the juice-man showed up. I went through the usual routine: waited, followed, waited, and in about five minutes he was shutting the door to his apartment. “Yo, hows’ the life?” He sat back in a green straight back formica50s chair, which is probably worth something now, but which he had no clue, reached into his stash and showed me what I wanted.
“Let’s see the money.” I had none. He looked left then right like maybe I was in the middle of some magic trick, see which hand had the booty. I said, “I’ll take my shirt off again. Like last time. How’s that?” Realizing if anyone knew what I was about to do they’d have ended me. But I had no money and I was so into getting high before going to bed and then fucking myself that I just didn’t care if he saw a little skin.
He said, “This time I wanna see what’s under you itty-bitty skirt.” I think there’s a big difference between showing a guy your tits than your panties, even if you keep them up. But I wanted that pot and it was in arm’s reach.
He said, “You ain’t like them Highlanders that don’t wear no nothin’ underneath?” “No. I have panties on.” “Too bad. Get to work.” Christ, he could’ve been nicer.
I lifted up my plaid skirt and showed him my cotton panties. He said, “Come over here.” “Why?” ” ‘Cause if you want that pot you gonna.” He was all businesslike.
The idea of a pretty rich white girl doing this was improper to say the least. But I wanted that pot. I wanted it very bad. I said, “Just my bottom.” He asked, “Which side is that?” I dropped me skirt. I didn’t like wiseguys. Then he showed some teeth, “Oh, I remember. It’s way back.” I didn’t care what he remembered.
There was a momentary stalemate that needed to be broken. So he lit a joint, a good joint, then offered it to me.