I really don’t know where I am right now. I do, but my energy level hasn’t calibrated to Brooklyn yet. I’m nice, courteous even, to strangers.
I’m from the south where we learn to be polite. To placate.
I should have known he was a coke dealer. Weed dealers don’t drive cars like that typically. In NYC they ride bikes more times than not.
A BMW hologram hits the asphalt when I open the door. I do not fear entering a stranger’s car. I do not see or smell weed. I am not in São Paulo where he would have known what I was texting about.
‘Oh man, you gotta let us know if you want that’ he says while fingering the two different-sized viles. Peer pressure has set in. What will a NYC coke dealer expect if summoned on false pretenses. I don’t like coke.
In a split second, something I learned — accrued — in São Paulo takes over. No, I will not buy it to appease him.
We had a miscommunication.