Ride or die

Or neither.

A crack-smoking associate named Macey once turned to me, and between great billows of smoke, uttered these words:

“I’ll ride for you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” she said, “I’ve got your back no matter what.”

“Well, I’d ride for you, too,” I said. She couldn’t reply, as she was trying to hold in the smoke from her last hit for as long as she possibly could.

I’d come to hear that expression a lot from various addict-friends. Often, they’d just say, “Ride or die.”

In a brutally uncertain world, where desperation can pit addict against addict, it was reassuring to know there was a code.

And soon, it would be tested.

There was a dealer named Max, who was in a feud with Macey in a parking lot. Something about unpaid debts.

He called her a cunt.

I flew into action. Ride or die.

“Hey, hey,” I said, stepping in front of Max, who happened to be quite a lot bigger and stronger than the average crack smoker.

“Get the fuck out of my face,” he snarled through clenched teeth. “This fucking cunt needs a lesson.”

“Don’t call her that,” I persisted.

“I’ll call her the fuck I want.”

Then he pulled out a knife.

Max hovered within a hair’s breadth of my neck.

“Get out of my way,” he snarled.

I wasn’t feeling particularly optimistic about my future, anyway. Getting stabbed while defending someone’s honor didn’t seem like the worst way to go.

Ride or die!

Maybe they’d build a statue of me in Crack Alley. At the very least, Macey would spread stories of my bravery far and wide.

Speaking of Macey, I didn’t feel her at my back any more. I glanced behind me. There was the usual crowd, milling around and taking in the performance.

I heard a rattle on the fire escape. There she was, darting quickly up the stairs before disappearing behind the door at the top. The local crack den.

“I’m a killer!” Max roared directly into my neck, still flashing that blade.

Maybe this would end up an attempted stabbing. Not ideal.

Then Max growled in my ear — “If I see you again, you’re dead” — before returning to the edge of the lot where he did business.

A moment later, Macey reappeared around the corner.

“Did you get any dope?” she asked.

“Where were you?”

“Look!” she changed the subject, pointing to a wall at the end of a narrow alley. As I drew closer, I realized that every inch of it was painted with names.

“Those are all the people who died,” Macey solemnly explained.

“Wait,” I said, surveying the wall. “All of these people died? From crack?”

“They died on the streets. Living this life,” she replied, adding, “You’re lucky. Max put a few of those names up there.”

All those lives reduced to scrawls on a hidden downtown wall. Did they ride for each other?

In the days afterward, I learned that Max had ‘beef’ with me.

“How do I get rid of this beef?” I asked Macey.

“You don’t,” she replied. “You’re fucked.”

Honestly, it was easy enough to steer clear of Max. But it unsettled me a little knowing that I might be surprised while walking the streets and stabbed to death.

Also, I have this thing about needing to be loved by everyone. And, although it invariably results in me being loved by no one, I still couldn’t let the beef with Max stand.

So I came up with an innovative plan to end this beef decisively. To succeed, I’d have to do everything a person in my shoes absolutely wouldn’t imagine doing.

First, I drove to the parking lot where I found Max working his regular shift. I strode purposefully toward him. He seemed a little surprised. Then he muttered darkly to his colleague and started walking toward me.

We met in the middle of the lot. A hush fell over the crowd of customers.

“Can we talk?” I asked.

“What about?” he asked.

“Listen,” I said. “I don’t want to have beef with you. There’s no reason why we should be enemies. This doesn’t do either of us good. I’m sorry for my behavior the other day.”

The idea was to surprise Max with kindness and vulnerability.

Max nodded, appreciatively. I swear I even caught a ‘sorry’ in subsequent mumblings.

“Now, can I buy some drugs off you?” I asked. Of course, I’d treat Max to a magnificent amount of dope.

And just like that, the beef was squashed. Max even stopped me when I turned to go.

“I’d ride for you,” he said.

This time around, I wasn’t completely convinced. Then again, I never had to find out.

About a month later, Max’s own name went up on the wall. Overdose.