MY CRACK PIPE

by Rachel M.

Yeah, that's right. You heard me: MY CRACK PIPE. Why do I own a crack pipe, you ask? Well... Oddly enough it began with an email I got from a guy who used to live in a TL hotel a few years ago. He'd moved to the TL shortly after graduating from Davis with a degree in zoology. Naturally, once in the TL, he developed a meth habit and accepted a position as a research assistant at Stanford of all places. Not only was he simultaneously mainlining meth and experimenting on lab mice, but Stanford was even paying him for his commute time between San Francisco and Palo Alto. Naturally, this led to his developing a highly unusual familiarity with restrooms along the Caltrain line (you never know when you'll need to "fix up" on your way to and from work after all)— but I guess that's another story...

At the time I received his email, he'd recently completed a TL-themed comic book and asked if he could send me a copy.

"Yeah, sure," I wrote back. "Sounds awesome. Send it to me."

"Okay," he replied, "but where should I send it? If mail's not convenient I can put it in a black plastic bag and bury it under a pre-designated bush in the park, or I can tape it to the bottom of a mailbox if that's more your style."

"Dude," I wrote back, "If you bury a book in the park for me I will totally dig it up."

I'm guessing he didn't expect me to respond like that, but what can I say? What on earth could possibly be more fun than a real life treasure hunt with a potentially methed out axe-murderer?

"If it's a treasure hunt you want, it's a treasure hunt you'll get!" he replied. "Just think of all the money we'll save on stamps!"

A few days later, I got a map and a set of instructions. Apparently, he'd hidden a spade and some gardening gloves in a bush at the site so as to save me the inconvenience of a trip to the hardware store. I admit the thought did cross my mind that this might (MIGHT) be a bad idea, but for a meth-head, he seemed like a pretty nice guy. I offered to rebury Issues Two and Three of The Loin's Mouth in an attempt to make a fair trade.

The earliest I could pull off my adventure was on a Friday evening-definitely wouldn't think of going down during daylight hours. Where the hell would be the fun in THAT?

When Friday night rolled around, I dressed myself inconspicuously in a black hoodie, black jeans, and a black hat and marched brazenly into Whiskey Thieves. I figured if I bragged about what a wild adventure I was about to have—literally to the bar-at-large—I'd not only be expected to come back with muddy comic books and wild comedic tales, but if I wussed out, I'd pretty much never live it down. I'd be known throughout the entire Tenderloin as a HUGE PUSSY.

"Hey, Cesar?" I asked the new bartender. "Can I borrow a flashlight for like three to four hours?"

"Sure, baby. No problem. Just bring it back, okay?" To be honest, I was surprised at how easy this was. I don't usually borrow a lot of hardware from local pubs.

"Don't worry. I'm good for it!" I said as I knocked back what would possibly be my last ever shot of Jamison. "OKAY, EVERYONE!! LISTEN UP!!!!" I shouted. "IF I'M NOT BACK IN THREE TO FOUR HOURS, SOMEBODY CALL 9-1-1!!!!" and with that I headed out the door.

...........................................................................

According to the directions, I had to take the 5 Fulton all the way to the end of the line. I figured I'd make use of the long ride by scrawling out a message to my mysterious partner-in-crime on the back of The Loin's Mouth Issue Two.

"Hello!" I began. "As I write this message I am on a bus on my way to the Windmill at Golden Gate Park. Hopefully I

will not be raped and murdered before you read this."

Glancing around the bus, I noticed that there were basically no other passengers with the exception of the bus driver, an old man who I could take out if I had to, and of course—in a cliché twist of fate—a token San Francisco crackhead.

"In the event that I'm NOT raped and murdered," I continued, "let's get a drink sometime! Call me when you get this!"

I concluded by scribbling my phone number at the bottom of the page and tucking the issue into my messenger bag. As we rolled up to the Safeway at the end of Fulton Street, my worst fears were confirmed. "Have a good night!" shouted the crackhead to the driver, and he got off the bus.

Great, I thought. I'm miles from the Tenderloin and my plan will STILL somehow be foiled by a crackhead.

I turned on my flashlight and stood at the entrance to the park for a minute, unsure of what to do next. I could see the windmill peeking out over the treetops as I sized up my annoying new companion.

"It's okay," said the crackhead. "I'll go in ahead and you can follow me with your flashlight."

"Thanks," I said as I stood there musing. Obviously, this guy was beyond crazy. How far gone do you have to be to think a petite girl with a flashlight will follow you anywhere—much less into a dark secluded area?

Okay, I thought. I am not a pussy. I am not a pussy.

I assumed there must be another entrance, so I turned back toward Fulton and walked left around the hedges along the Great Highway. So long, chump, I thought and bid my buddy adieu.

I turned off the flashlight and headed toward the Beach Chalet restaurant. Despite my being dressed like a bike messenger I snuck into the bathrooms undetected and pondered what to do next. Objective #1 was to have a funny story to tell when I got back to Whiskey Thieves. If only I could come up with a good lie... For example, I could tell them I tried to find the treasure but that a derelict hobo had beaten me to the punch... or I could feign injury and pretend like the hobo and I had gotten into a brawl of some kind when I discovered he was camping near the treasure site...

Standing there in the Beach Chalet restroom, dawdling among Midwestern tourists discussing child-rearing and kitchen remodeling, I couldn't help but smile... I can do this, I thought. I am a motherfucking BAD ASS. I am on a GODDAMNED MISSION!!!

Outside I stood across the street from the Windmill studying the map. "Stumble aimlessly through the park until you find the tulips at the foot of the windmill," read the instructions. "I hid my spade and gloves in a bush across the street [...] Look for a bush with purple flowers, then look for a plastic bag in the white fuzzy bush next to it. Happy Hunting!"

As I looked up from the map it suddenly dawned on me: I was standing directly in front of the white fuzzy bush!

With a covert glance from side to side, I dove underneath the hedges and rummaged through the leaves. My pulse racing, I groped wildly until I hit on the white bag! Bingo!

I turned my flashlight back on, pulled the spade out of the bag, and held it in front of me like a weapon. My heart beating faster than ever, I ran across the street to the windmill.

"Behind the windmill," read the instructions, "there's a little green shack. Walk to the right of the shack and head up the little dirt path toward a chain link fence."

The flashlight shook erratically in my hand. I tiptoed quietly, not wanting to disturb the rapists lying in wait for me in the bushes.

"Near the hole in the fence is a tree. This is where the treasure lies. Dig four or five inches into the ground."

Behind the tree I found a flat spot in the dirt with two twigs crossed over it like an "X". I dropped the flashlight on the ground next to me and dug frantically, throwing the dirt to the side.

Sure enough, there was a plastic bag with a small parcel inside. I fumbled and fumbled with the knot—why the hell had he knotted the bag so tight?! I needed the bag to rebury the issues of The Loin's Mouth!! What the fuck was the matter with this guy?!?!

In a state of excitement, I ripped the bag open, pulled out the parcel, and stuffed The Loin's Mouth inside. Then without resealing the bag, I shoved it back in the hole and packed the dirt on top with my bare hands. The longer I stayed behind the tree, the greater the chance of being found bloody and naked on Ocean Beach in the morning. I had to get out of there FAST!!

Picking up the flashlight and the rest of my things, I walked quickly back down the path. When I got back to the windmill, I broke out into a jog, stuffing the spade and gloves back into the bag, darting back across the street, and tossing them into the bush where I found them.

I was so excited by this point, that I tore the parcel open and pulled out the comic book before I made it back to the bus stop. On the inside cover was a drawing of a small prospector that said, "EUREKA! Nice job, Rachel!" I felt like a like a true adventurer!

When I got back to Whiskey Thieves, I proudly displayed my treasure to my friends, returned the flashlight to Cesar, and related my epic conquest to all.

MY CRACK PIPE: EPILOGUE

Now that my tale has come to an end, some of you are probably wondering what on earth this has to do with a crack pipe... In fact, it doesn't, come to think of it, except that the artist who buried the book for me is the same guy who took me on an adventure to acquire a crack pipe one time....but I guess that's a story for another issue..... Not to disappoint, however, for your amusement, here is a crappy photo of my "romantic rose" crack pipe. The store where we found it claimed they didn't sell them, presumably because we looked too clean cut (they suspected we were narcs, maybe? not sure...) In the end, we paid a crackwhore $5 to purchase it for us while we hid around the corner watching her reflection in a van parked out front. NO JOKE. haha

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