Brian of the buds and diaper leaves

Maybe I am crazy and everyone else is normal. After all, I stood on 43rd Avenue for a good 20 minutes last night watching the group of druggies who were engaged in their nightly activity on this block. To pass the time, I sang Sleater Kinney songs and did some leg stretches. I tried to photograph and videotape them, as discreetly as possible.

 

After the first 10 minutes, one of the people from the group walked to my corner. He didn't say anything and didn't make eye contact. I guess he just wanted to see who I was: crazy person? (yes, probably), irate old lady who hates drug use? (check), undercover cop? (nah, I wouldn't be so obvious about my position). I think he just scratched his head (figuratively at least) and went back to the group, where no doubt a fat doobie was waiting for him. I continued my vigil for a little while longer, then finally decided to head on out. I walked right by the kids. Of course the smell of the wackYweed was strong when I passed. I didn't look at them, they ignored me, and that was that, right?

Arrows point to the group of pot smokers who gather on 43rd Avenue
every night around 9pm

 

I walked up to 44th Avenue next. Immediately a new graffiti tag caught my eyeball. (And ironically enough, the tag seemed to depict an actual eyeball.) This looks vaguely familiar, but I can't be sure. Anyway, I was so disgusted, especially because our wonderful Woodside Avenger had recently painted over all of the tags on this overpass. The overpass is due for a full repainting- hopefully sometimes this Spring- because the paint is chipping.

Some loser's work on the 44th Avenue overpass graffiti: a crying eye?

I took out my phone and photographed this tag, shaking my head in disgust and probably uttering some, er, indelicate words. The sidewalk was deserted, but a car drove alongside me slowly and parked in a space at the end of the block, which was very dark. A youngish man got out just as I was walking by his car. He extended his hand and said "Hi, I'm Brian." He seemed very polite (geez, I have like no street smarts, right?), and I shook his hand back and I guess I told him my first name. He was well spoken and polite, and made chit chat about what I was doing walking around here or something, and asked if I lived in the area. I told him I did, and he asked for how long, and I said for 5 years. Somehow I got to talking about (okay, b*tching about) the graffiti, I guess because he had seen me just snap a photo of the crap above. I said I was so disgusted by graffiti and litter. He asked me why I cared. He didn't have any kind of judgmental or threatening (eg, "mind your own business") or annoyed tone; he seemed generally curious as to why someone might give a crap about crap. So I tried to explain as calmly as possible that I live here, and I don't like to see our walls tagged on, nor do I like to see garbage everywhere, particularly the vile garbage like used condoms and drug baggies. To bolster my point, I brought up the fact that many children live nearby, and hundred more walk through here every day on their way to the public school and nursery school on 72nd Street. Brian agreed that the used condoms were disgusting, and said that he sees all kinds of nasty stuff around here ("someone's always getting busy!" were his exact words). He said that he often sees people having sex on the side of the abandoned 74th Street building. Remembering his manners then, he asked me if I smoked, and gestured as if to offer me a puff of his smokable nicotine (so I thought) stick. I caught a whiff of the weed then, and realized that it was not a cig he was smoking. I declined, and told him that the only time I'd tried that had been like 15 years ago, and inhaling made me feel like I couldn't breathe and it was an incredibly painful and scary experience. He said I should give it a go sometime again, but not in a pressuring way. And he put me off guard a little when he said I have "nice eyes" (which seems hard to believe seeing as I was crying in rage and frustration over the standoff with the 43rd Ave crowd, but maybe potheads are hot for red-eyed girls). Then he proceeded to extoll the virtues of the weed, and talked about buds and something called "diaper leaves" (did I get that right?), and said that nowadays weed is very pure and healthy, and I should google medicinal madge and I could learn all about it's health benefits, and the different kinds- purple, etc. I kind of lost track. Anyway, eventually he finished his smoke, and we bid each other adieu.

So who was this polite fella? Some possibilities:
1. An undercover cop. (Maybe they have developed a cig that emits something that smells just like pot smoke, for when they are doing undercover work-?) I mean, surely (hopefully!) there must be SOME undercover cops in the area, seeing as all this horrible stuff from nightly drug use to murder goes on here. And I certainly must be suspicious character with all my standing on corners glaring at drug-smokers.
2. A local drug dealer who wanted to see if I was some kind of threat. [I think this is the most likely scenario.]
3. Occam's Razor. He was just a random pot smoker who encountered a neighbor on a Sunday night and was making polite conversation. [This seems very unlikely, because who would step out of their vehicle, joint already lit, and start talking up a person about whom he knows nothing- ie, maybe I'm a cop myself, or a crazy lady, or someone who's going to start hollering and calling 911 on him, etc.]

So, I don't know what to make of last night's events. Part of me is kind of proud that the drug guys on both 43rd and 44th Ave have taken notice of the presence of a person who is keeping an (evil) eye on their activities. Oddly, I don't feel much fear, mostly just fury.