David Navarro PAWNING FOR CRACK I knew it when Leo began pawning the little things, such as his boom box and watch, that there was a problem. His eyes would get glassy, and it seemed that he always wanted money for food. at least that's what he claimed it to be. But the truth was that he smoked crack, lots of it. In many ways I had been so stupid and naive, oblivious to contributing to his physical and mental deterioration. No more. "Let me borrow a couple of bucks. I'm just a little low on cash. When I get the money from Coca-Cola at the beginning of the month, I'll pay you." He always put me in these shit predicaments. "Look, Leo, I don't make a lot of money at 7-11. And what I do make I need for gas and the rent." He began getting red in the face. I knew this dirty, sonofabitch crack head was getting frustrated with me. Fuck him. He wasn't getting one more cent from me. "Damnit, Frank, just lend me the damn money! Don't you think it's embarrassing for me to ask you for money for food?" His eyes lit up like Christmas lights. "Leo, I'll tell you what I'll do. I have a big case of Cup-O-Noodles and some saltine crackers. I'll give you two weeks' supply." He grabbed me by the shirt and shook me roughly. I thought I was gonna drop a load in my underwear. "“Frank, when you've needed money for a club or advice on pussy, I've given it to you." This guy could have ripped me a couple of new assholes if he wanted to, but Dear Jesus heard my prayers. He let me go. Leo was a Coca-Cola worker, doing the shit job of loading the soda the way the rest of the workers did. He hated his job the way a small boy hates attending Sunday School. You don't want to go, but you have to. He also hated his girlfriend, Betsy, a Salvadoran girl he had met at Pic and Save. Leo would smack her a couple of times to tame her. "¡Cayate el osoci, pendeja! Ya mi enfadaste pinche puta." Most girls would leave a man like this, but Betsy liked getting her feathers ruffled. Bitch smacked, as some men refer to it. He was alone many nights at his house in South Gate. His family had cut off all communication with him. His "bitch" was hanging out with her "perra girlfriends" he drank his 40, taking swigs and just thinking of how he despised her. It was time for more booze and some company. None of his friends, however, were home, so he would get really fucked up. Alone. This was the night that cost Leo his life. As he was coming home from the liquor store he spotted a prostitute. She looked real dirty, like she hadn't taken a shower in a couple of weeks. She kept wiping her runny nose with her shirt sleeves. She had greasy hair, unshaved legs and facial hair. She was also missing a tooth at the front when she smiled. but what the hell. Company was company. Tu casa es mi casa. When he opened the door to let her in, a strong stench of urine and tampon engulfed him. "How much?" She didn't respond to him because she didn't know any English. Finally Leo said, "Cuanto cobras, Chula?" That was real smooth, but using the word cochina would have been more appropriate. She tossed her hair to one side—it was probably lice infested—and told Leo, "Te cobro $200, pero no te mammo el peeto." "¿Y porque no? Por $200 me vas a dar todo." She gave in finally to him. She would do any dirty deed Leo had in mind. Leo pondered the logic behind a hooker who charged $200 and didn’t give blow jobs. Maybe it had something to do with her missing tooth. When they were finished, Conchita, as the hooker was called, hit up her crack pipe and offered some to Leo. "Pontelo en la boca y respiralo." When he lit that crack pipe it was the most amazing thing. Smoking crack brought out an intense and instant high, and he savored it immensely. For one wonderful moment, he felt all his problems fade away. La perra novia, su pinche familia y los cabrones en su trabajo were gone from his mind. All that remained in him was the drug, the one that preyed on him like a vulture. "Let me borrow a couple of bucks. I'm a little low on cash. When I get the money from Coca-Cola..." I didn't want to talk to him anymore. I just didn't want to get dragged into that pool of blood, shit and despair. I had enough problems of my own. The last time I saw Leo was at Granny's Donut Shop. He was begging for spare change, hoping people would have a little compassion for a lost soul. He wore a black beanie, some filthy chanclas, and newspapers held together by a rope around his waist. His breath reeked of King Cobra and Night Train. "Frank, how you doing?" He hugged me tightly. I didn't want him touching me for fear of a fungus or infection. We talked a while about old times, such as all the women I never got and all that he did. "You weren' t that ugly. It was just that fucking pumpkin head of yours." We burst out in laughter, and I saw a glimmer of hope. "You're pretty hooked on crack, aren't you? Let me get you some help. We could go to some meetings and shit." A large lump filled his throat, a tear fell, and he walked away with his shopping cart and three mutt dogs. I saw his shrivelled body one last time and heard the screeching of the wheels that the shopping cart made. I crossed the street in pursuit of a future without junkies.