But, once in a while, you imagine going to a movie. Like a normal person. Isn’t that what normal people do? People in TV commercials? Happily, before you could stagger down that morbid, self-pitying mode, one of your Armenian customers smacked you across the face. The back of his head was flat as spatula. He had hair that stopped at the top of his neck, above which he was shaved down to the scalp. His name was Bairj Donabedian (you remember because, mysteriously, he had his name tattooed on his bicep, a softball-sized display item. The more bloated his bicep, the bigger his BAIRJ). “That’s a good idea,” you said, just to break the ice. You didn’t know at this point, that they were coming to pay you back for the bunk drugs. “I mean, getting your name inked on your arm.” “It’s not my name you JEWCHEBAG. After he smacked you, he tore off his belt and whipped you across the face with the USA belt buckle.” You didn’t know very many Armenians. Only the ones you used to sell speed to. But they were all very patriotic.

SHALOM REST HOME TWICE

“Welcome to the Happy Death Camp,” your grandmother said, every time you came to visit. “She made the same joke every day. Shalom Rest Home—the Happy Death Camp.” But you didn’t mind. Maybe she didn’t know she burned you on a speed deal. Nearly got you killed by guys whose grandparents survived genocide at the hands of Turks.

Usually she had the uppers. Which helped with her narcolepsy. Before she arrived, Grandma Zelda had been a white gloves-to-take-the-bus-downtown kind of
lady. By the time you were stealing her narcotics, her station in life had changed. She let herself go. Wore the same stained nightgown every day. Though she remained oddly articulate. “Let me tell you, boychick, after you skid down the wheelchair ramp from spotting your panties to Excuse me, ma’am, do you want chemo with your fries? Appearance doesn’t matter.” “What’s with the Desoxyn?” you ask her. If she knows you steal the stuff she doesn’t say anything, or doesn’t care. (Though somebody went to the trouble of switching the speed out with the laxative. That kicks off a little paranoia action.) “So, Grandma, you have narcolepsy?” “Narcolepsy, my fat musty duff,” your grandmother says, “they give us speed cause we’re bored.” Before moving in with the other old Shalom captives, she never talked dirty. Maybe in Yiddish she did, but not like this. Not in English. Every other word out of her is now “shitty” or “dirty bitch” or the inexplicably more disturbing “crust-nasty.” As in, “that woman in four-twelve is plain crust-nasty.” If this wasn’t bad enough she’s gone crude and racist. Once an early and gutsy supporter of Martin Luther King—no small thing in our neighborhood—she now blames the “coloreds” for stealing her slippers. She takes speed by the fistful and talks to relatives who have been dead since Chubby Checker squeezed into red slacks.