It's all in my mind

I'm sitting on the porch, smoking a cig. A tall, skinny black guy walks past and asks if I have a match.

"No, but I got a lighter." I hold my lighter out to him.

So, he comes over, takes my lighter. He hesitates, looks at me quizzically, and says, "I don know 'f I should light dis in front of a lady."

I think that he's probably got a joint, so I say, "No, gohead, knock yourself out."

He turns his back to me and lights up. He exhales slowly, then looks at me over his shoulder. "You 'moke dis?"
Before I could stop myself, I say, "What? What is it?"

Then it hits me, he doesn't look quite right. He's tall, with an awkward, limping shamble. The dusty leather cap perched crookedly upon his greying, messy fro. The long, dirty red and black checked flannel that's covering up at least 4 other shirts. The dirty, faded black jeans sagging off of his too lean frame. I look up into his faraway cloudy eyes, they're surrounded by deep, puffy wrinkles. His cheeks are sunken in, his full lips are dry and slack. He still has a beautiful smile, though. If he weren't a crackhead, he'd be a very handsome man.

"No, no, nevermind, I'm ok." I stammer when I finally realize what's going on.
"Here, I'll show you." He announces, merrily.

He comes and sits down next to me. I shrink in upon myself, leaning away, trying not to be afraid.

"Now, dis ain't nasty," he says and starts unzipping his pants. I leap up off of the steps and away from him, but also away from my door.

"Hey now!" He's offended. "Dis ain't nasty, I tole you! I gotta hide. My. Shit." He says the last two words low, through gritted teeth, with his eyes wide open.

He pulls a plastic bag out through his zipper, filled with what looked like tiny shelled peanuts and I look away quickly.

"Gimme dat light." I hand Crackie my lighter, tell him he can keep it. He curses beneath his breath and shines the flame of the lighter around the stairs. He's frantically patting the stairs.

"Oh, you lost one?" I say. I'm fascinated.
He grins broadly, "I got em!"

I watch him pack several peanuts into a clear tube the size of one of those fatty pencils you used when you were a kid. It's burned black about halfway down. He lights the end, inhales deeply and waits a beat. He blows out a thick cloud of smoke. He closes his eyes happily, busts another beautiful smile and says "ahhhhh."

It amazes me that he actually blows smoke. I never realized that I didn't think there'd be smoke until I'm surprised by its appearance. I also didn't know crack rocks were tiny. I always figured that crackheads put one rock in, and it stuck into the end of the pipe, and they lit that.

Crackie raises an eyebrow, and offers the pipe to me. "Oh, no no!" I say, "but thank you."
I always remember my manners.

He gives me a joking skeptical look, opening his eyes wide. He waves his hand in a come here motion.

I say no again, tell him to have a good time. He waves me off, pfft.

He laughs, "I will!" He packs more little peanuts in.
"Ba-choo missin out dough." He says this in the nasally way of people talking while holding smoke in their lungs. "Dis some good shit!"

This is weird. I never figured a crackhead would be so willing to share his stash. I'd always thought they'd be fiercely protective of their drugs.

He mouths something to me, nodding at me to come closer.
"What?" I'm confused again.
He mouths it again, exaggerating. I can see he's frustrated, but I have no idea what he wants. When he sees I still don't get it, he tells me he needs my help.
He holds his pipe out to me, "Hold this."
"NO!" I'm shocked. I can't imagine touching that. I catch myself wiping my hand on my leg.
"Awright. If I spill it, it's yo fault." He laughs again, easy.

He carefully places the pipe in between his legs, holding it steady with his knees. He sets the baggie on the step next to him, and refills his pipe. I'm done with my cigarette, so I flick it away. I walk past Crackie into my place.
"Take care of yourself," I tell him. I'm not really sure what made me say that to him.
"I will," he says.

So this guy introduces me to the world of blogging and race relations.

Initially, it started as a discussion about interracial dating. See, he was going to interview me for his "book" of funny observations on interracial dating.

Of course, this leads to "hey, check out my blog!" Later, it developed into, "you could write some stuff for this other blog." "Start your own blog!"

But, the thing is, I still haven't had my interview. So, does this book even exist?

I'm starting to believe it was an internet pick-up line. Or maybe a way to increase traffic to his blog.

That's shady bizznatch.