Chasing the Dragon, With a Return.

"Rob, where you at?" The deep voice of dispatch said from the radio.
"Clearing right now," I responded.
"Alright, where at?"
"Over here on East Washington."
"Go get the Dragon."
"Aight."

The Dragon is a notorious, cheap motel in Creve Coeur. I was pleased with the trip since I was already on the East Side of the River.

I know the East Side well, it ranges from Wasp Yuppy to White Trash, but it's all relatively safe. There's a very low probability of catching a stray bullet or getting jacked, no matter how poor the neighborhood. The police forces are well funded, don't have shit to do, and laws are strictly, yet selectively, enforced. It's also worth mentioning that several communities East of the River have been accused of deep seated racism.

Five minutes and thirty seconds later I was skidding into the narrow entryway of the Dragon Motel. The heat was finally starting to let up more than two hours after the sun set. I was happy to park in front of the red door marked fifteen and enjoy the breeze. "Hot Summer Nights" by Miami Sound Machine played low from my speakers as I enjoyed a cigarette. The evening traffic was dying down, a loud motorcycle fired up down the road and moved further away as a steady train whistle cried back from East Peoria.

I don't know where he came from, but suddenly he was three steps from me. An old, rock bottom biker with a long braided beard and leather clothes. His hair was as black as the half circles beneath his eyes. Old, weathered, yet somehow powerful. The guy almost startled me.

"Where'd you come from?"
"Hell, I guess!"
"Did you call for the cab?" I asked, knowing damn well he had.
"Yeah, goin over on Garden," he let loose a fit of laughter and I noticed a few teeth missing. "Don't you realize you're dealing with the reaper, son?"
"No, they just tell me where to pick up."

Garden is on the South End of Peoria. This was probably a crack run. Dangerous, but it paid well: long trip, with a return, plus charge for time and possibly a tip.

"So is that Garden, with a return?" I asked.
"Let's hope so, bud!" He said, handing my right shoulder thirty dollars.

I always try to take the fastest possible route. If the customer wants to go their own way, I'll abide. I took a right toward the Cedar Street Bridge. We were out of Creve Coeur, halfway to the bridge before he asked, "Which way you goin, bub?"

"The quickest way I know. Which way did you want to go?"
"Could have grabbed 474."
"Nah, the address on Garden is just past Western. And 474 takes you way further South than you're trying to go."
"Good answer. If you'd turned around I would've had to slice a piece of your ear off."
"What?"
"A piece of your ear, as a trophy. Then it'd be settled."

When we hit Garden Street from Jefferson I glanced to the left and saw a thirty something tough guy in an unzipped winter coat, sweatpants, white sneakers and nothing else, kick a garbage can into the street, which I had to avoid. That was interesting since I was still drifting from the quick right turn.

The can bounced off my back left tire as the rear end drifted toward the kicker. The can skidded harmlessly to the curb, not far from where it started. I can't say it was intentional...but who calls these things accidents? I knew we'd arrived.

It's like this: you could get robbed or shot on Main Street in Peoria if you have a unique combination of bad luck and stupidity. With the exceptions of the East Bluff, the North End, and low income housing like Pierson Hills, there aren't many places North of Main that I need to worry about.

Now to anyone familiar with the Peoria area and how segregated it is, you probably realize there's an undeniable correlation between areas I've just labeled as "dangerous" and high minority populations. I'm no sociologist, but I'd say the link between poverty stricken communities and crime is universal, regardless of race. I'm just a cab driver, I'll give anyone a ride, it's not the color of skin that puts me on edge, it's the nightly sound of gunfire.

South of Main you see more empty buildings, abandoned lots, over grown yards, garbage, neighborhood bars, liquor stores with bars over windows, and whatever. Among all of this, there are plenty of decent, hardworking people who have lived on the South End their entire lives and may never move out. Yet, I doubt even they could deny what their neighborhoods are turning into, especially at night.

South of MacArthur is rough. South of Western is bad. South of Griswald is no mans land. Laramie, Nevada, Idaho...no thanks.

A block short of Western there was a loose line of young black guys walking double file down Garden. There were fifteen or so, ranging from thirteen to twenty five years old, some had their shirts off, a couple were carrying clubs. No one was dressed for the club, all scrubs, and judging from their pace they had work to do.

We passed a guy more dressed for straight ballin a couple blocks up the road. He was standing in his front lawn, frantically discussing something on his cell phone and looking off in the direction of the gang. They were still out of sight. His house was an old Victorian with a big porch, nice for that block. It looked as if the trim was partly done in real copper, but had been hacked years before. Even from the cab I could see the sparkle of his jewelry, and the fear in his eyes.

I went up another block and a half, flipped a U-Turn and pulled over.

"I'll only be a minute," the Biker said before walking into one of the houses. He was five minutes actually. In that time I saw three squad cars, and two K9 unit SUVs flying down garden. Then a few minutes later an old blue Camaro darted past on one of the side streets.

"Let's go," he said, slamming the door. I was happy to.

Sometimes they give me a story. They have to pick up a paycheck or drop something off to their sister. I know what's really going on, but there's no need to point it out. I'm just the driver. I don't need to know.

They're not terrible people, most of them. Troubled, tortured even -- by what they've become, the inevitable result of a lifetime of hardship and bad decisions. But they must go on as the monster...because it's all they know and beyond the sorrow, there's no remembering what it was like before...

"You want to get higher than you've ever been man?"
"No, I don't do that shit."
"What shit?"
"Crack."
"This aint no fuckin rock!" He sounded somewhat offended. He opened his vest and I saw the head of a bald Eagle with a banner in its beak that read "Born to Fuck."

The Biker pulled a Crown Royal bag from somewhere inside. I knew it instantly from the purple velvet and gold trim. The bottle was long gone. From the shape of the bag, it was being used as a makeshift satchel.

He put his hands around the neck of the bag, and stuck his thumbs inside. His eyes smiled up at me for a moment before the bag was open and light poured out like a star had exploded inside the cab. It was a pure, white light, so intense I felt my heart pounding and fingers ripping into the seat cushions before I realized I wasn't in any pain.

There seemed to be music, but not music, more like long, powerful, somewhat melodic notes. The noise was deafening, but I didn't feel my ear drums blowing. And somewhere in the distance, miles or inches away, the biker was laughing, I could see his silhouetted face hovering over the source of the star. He seemed to be inhaling it.

As I focused on him the image became more clear. A vein pulsating from one side of his forehead to the other. His skin became yellow, and something dark squirmed beneath. The skin wasn't actually turning yellow, I realized, but transparent, it looked like rubber makeup on top of the exoskeleton of a giant ant. But this was no bug...I've read enough William S Burroughs to know what that would look like.

He closed it suddenly, the light was gone, and I realized we were in front of his room again. The Biker was no longer in the car. Had he left? Was he here?

"I'm clear."