The Magic Of Microwave Cookery with Crackhead Joe!

I didn't like Joe the first time I met him, and it wasn't just his mullet. There was also his wispy six-hair mustache, his penchant for sleeveless t-shirts, his boundless energy and obnoxious personality. I disliked him even more the longer I knew him. He suffered wild mood swings, and made everyone around him, namely me, suffer with him. He carried a battered Olan Mills eight-by-ten photo of his daughter, and when he was feeling down, he would make me look at the picture.

"This is my 4 year old daughter, Melissa. She's all fucked up because my wife drank when she was pregnant. We were all fucked up, and we ruined her life! She can't even live with us. The court gave her to my mom and she won't let us see her."

Seeing Melissa's bald head and vacant stare made me feel guilty, remembering the pot I smoked with a Dead Head in my second week of pregnancy. Seeing Joe's naked grief and the snot leaking into his wispy mustache just made me nauseous. Joe sobbed for several minutes, excusing himself to the bathroom. He came out a new man. A new man full of dirty jokes and high-pitched giggles. His energy was so great that he bunny hopped down the aisles of potato chips and candy bars, shouting, laughing, and slinging drool onto the linoleum floor.

Despite the fact that I was raised by meth heads and heroin addicts, I was clueless about Joe's obvious drug use until Eric pointed it out.

"Eric! That explains so much! The motherfucker is a CRACKHEAD!!!!"

Lotto Fever, Baby!

On slow nights, Joe and I would play Lotto.

"Hey, Rebel. Let's get a ticket. Which one do you want?"

"I shouldn't buy a ticket. I'm pregnant and broke. I work at Town & Country Food Store."

"What's a dollar? Especially if you can win fifteen thousand dollars. If you win big money, you can buy your baby a car. C'mon just pick a ticket."

He continued to badger me until I bought a ticket, and he'd buy one too. If I lost, I quit playing. Joe would stop after a winning ticket or he ran out of money. After a losing session, he would emerge on the other side, sweaty and dazed. He would visit the bathroom, and come back artificially invigorated, full of lies about previous big wins.

As Joe's addiction progressed, he no longer had cash to pay for his Lotto. Instead, he would "borrow" a few dollars worth of tickets, scratch them, and pay for his tickets with the winnings. If there were no winnings, he spent the rest of the night short changing customers to make up for the loss. I stopped playing.

Cooking With Crackheads

I once saw Joe create and eat a food so foul that it made me throw up for three days. His recipe was simple.

1 Grab Bag size Cool Ranch Doritos

1 package Top Ramen, any flavor

1 c. water

2 -3 rubber bands

Method

Without opening the package, pulverize the ramen into small pieces. Cut top from Doritos bag (only the very top, the bag is your cooking vessel and you need plenty of room). Pulverize the Doritos into small pieces. Add the seasoning packet and ramen pieces to the Grab Bag of Dorito pieces. Add water and tightly close the Grab Bag using the rubber bands. Knead the bag until all ingredients are well mixed. Remove the rubber bands, and roll the mixture (inside the Dorito bag) into a tight burrito securing the ends with the rubber bands. Microwave on high for 3 minutes. Allow to rest for several minutes. Slice open bag, and you will have a quivering mass of ramen and soggy Doritos molded into the shape of a burrito. The burrito will retain its shape, but must be consumed with the aid of a fork.

Joe ate it with joy. He called it his favorite supper.

Myra and the Dumpster Dive

It was autumn, and Myra was in the dumpster. I was walking in to the building when she popped her head out and frowned at me.

"What are you doing in the dumpster?"

Myra ignored me and continued frowning. I stood, waiting until Myra disappeared into the dumpster again. When I entered the store, I could hear a man sobbing behind the particle board half wall of the manager's office.

The sobbing soon turned to pleading.

"Please don't call the cops, DeeDee. PLEASE! I'll do anything you want, just don't call the cops. If you do, I'll go back to prison, and I need to take care of Melissa! I didn't mean to do it, it was the crack. I need to go to rehab. You can help me. Please help ME!"

I listened to him beg while I rang up customers. I fetched their cigarettes and made small talk like there wasn't a broken man within our earshot. Myra came inside, still frowning, holding a trash bag bulging with strips of lottery tickets.

"Myra, please tell me what the fuck is going on."

She walked to DeeDee's office, holding her evidence. Shortly after, two policemen arrived. Joe struggled briefly, and then went limp. The police pulled him by his cuffed arms, the points of his shoes dragging the ground behind him. I saw that his face was slack, and he left a trail of drool in his wake.

As they put him in the back of their cruiser, Myra turned to me.

"Last night, Joe smoked crack in the bathroom, and scratched off five hundred dollars worth of lottery tickets. When we did the Lotto count this morning we were four hundred tickets short. We watched the video and saw him scratching twenty tickets at a time. Towards the end, he just sat on the floor and pulled his hair and screamed. Fuckin' weirdo. Did you ever see that picture of his poor kid?"