The Pushers

Years ago, before Rudy Guiliani stepped into City Hall as head honcho and began cleaning up New York City in earnest, there existed certain corners and certain streets where one was almost always sure to walk through a medley of questionable characters who would inevitably ask the same question over and over and over.

“Crack, coke, dope, smoke, weed?"

Remember the guys I’m talking about? Remember the corner of 42^nd Street and 8^th Avenue? And their usual spot down on 6^th Avenue and West 8^th Street (was it West 8^th or Waverly Place)? You couldn’t make it ten feet without a constant barrage by a strategically placed platoon of drug-dealing losers asking if you wanted to get high. And if you did feel like getting high, I’m sure the jackals had their pockets stuffed with dime bags of pure oregano. Not that I would know, of course. Seriously. I never bought weed off any of those losers, let alone crack, coke, dope, or any kind of smoke for that matter. I don’t think I ever actually bought weed, now that I’m thinking of it.

The reason I mention all this is that, despite the fantastic work done in this city by not only Guiliani but Bloomberg as well (can you tell which way my tree swings when it comes to political party affiliations?), I ran into another one of these clowns just yesterday. Yes, it was as much of a shock to me as I’m sure it is to you as you sit at home reading this, but let me set the stage first.

It’s late afternoon on an unseasonably warm afternoon in late November. After the long group ride on Sunday, I realized my front brake pads were due for changing, so throwing a light sweater over my shoulders, I grabbed my keys and walked out the door. My destination? R&A Cycles on 5^th Avenue. Not that I care much for the abrasive clowns who work in that particular establishment, but they’re the closest bike shop with a decent selection of not just bikes, but everything in between (I could smack myself for giving them that small bit of positive promotion). Twenty minutes later, I walked in, paid $10 for a pair of pads (which seemed like something of a rip-off if you want my opinion), and pocketed my purchase. On my way out the door, I spotted a scruffy looking black guy hovering to the right, standing just beyond the shop’s front windows. Of course, the moment I decided to make eye contact with this fool--it has been a long while since the crack, coke, dope, smoke, weed days, so I saw little danger in making said eye contact--he opened his horrible mouth and asked the question: “Hey bro? Crack, coke, dope, smoke, weed, EPO?”

EPO? Did this loser just offer to sell me EPO? Under any other circumstances, under normal circumstances, I simply would have went about my business without so much as a word, but this was way too interesting to not investigate further.

“What was that last thing you just said?” I asked.

My drug-dealing homeboy glanced left and right down the street, checking for the po-lice.

“Whatcha want, bro? You want somethin’? You wanna ride with the big boys?”

“Did you say EPO?” I asked, glancing up and down the street myself to see if anyone else was witnessing this surreal exchange.

“Check it out.”

The homeboy quickly pulled open his jacket and flashed a few tiny glass bottles of clear liquid, each of them strung to the inside of his coat, much like those old street dealers who would hang hundreds of fake and stolen watches from the insides of their lapels. Homeboy flicked one of the vials with a fingernail and explained, “The real deal, bro. You could climb Mount Ev’rest with this shit right here.”

Before I could ask another question, homeboy pulled open the other side of his jacket to show me several hypodermic syringes in sterile wrappers bound together with a single rubber band.

“How much you want, champ?”

I thought about that. Standing on 5^th Avenue in Park Slope, I asked myself just how bad I want to win one of those races held in Prospect Park almost every Saturday morning during the summer. I also thought about the measly $5 left in my wallet after having just spent $10 on the brake pads.

“How much?” I asked, knowing fully well I would never in my life buy or use EPO (let alone from the loser standing in front of me) just so I could pedal a bicycle faster, although I was curious as to the price.

“Two hunnert a pop, champ.”

“Have a nice day,” I said decisively and walked away. From behind me, I could hear the homeboy lowering his price with every step I took, but it really didn’t matter.

With all that said, it’s amazing to think that drug-dealers are now pushing performance-enhancing drugs rather than just crack, coke, dope, smoke, and weed. Further, they now have the brains to target geographically, meaning they do their pushing in the places where all the cyclists eventually end up: the bike shop. On one hand, it’s a great sign as it means more people are cycling, which is always good for the sport, not to mention the environment (didn’t expect to hear that from a registered Republican, did you). More people mean bigger events which means more TV coverage which means more corporate sponsorship dollars which means bigger talent which means more people. Everybody wins, even the EPO-pushing losers on the corner of 5^th Avenue in Brooklyn, but that also represents the downside. If this guy was selling, that means somebody has been buying. In Brooklyn? I could see this happening in Europe where cycling seems a lot more fanatical than it does here in the States, but on 5^th Avenue? Take a quick step back from the scenario and try to get objective about this. First, how in the world did this homeboy get his hands on EPO? It’s a drug typically administered to cancer patients undergoing chemotherapy treatment, correct? It’s manufactured in labs owned by huge drug conglomerates, so how the hell did several vials fall into this jackass’s hands? Further, who’s giving him business and taking the syringes with their purchase? Can buyers find instructions online at DIY.com regarding the proper manner in which EPO is to be injected? Just what the hell is this world coming to?!

What’s the moral of this story? If Uncle Stevie begins telling you something that sounds too good or too sensational to be true, then it probably is too fantastic to be true. No one standing outside R&A is pushing EPO on unsuspecting kids like myself and I’m not even sure if a website with the URL DIY.com even exists. If it does, it’s unlikely they have instructions posted on how to inject EPO. Why did I bother with the above? The thought came to me recently, “What if those a-hole drug dealers on the street starting pushing stuff like EPO? How weird would that be?” Figured I’d have some fun with it.

As usual, thanks for reading.