No Clubs or Pubs: Drug Dealers sell Coke under Cherry Blossom Trees

A man limps towards me, dreadlocks tickling his bum, eyes darting up 6th Ave then back at me.
‘Molly, marijuana, ecstasy, LSD, mushroom, quaaludes.”
“Not today,” I say.
‘Coke?’
Usually, the pedestrian crossing would be thick with eyes, but today, it’s just me and a dreadlocked dealer making a marketing pitch in the middle of the street.
“Have a good day,” he waves, as he strolls away, pants below his ass, pockets bulging with retail.
In pe-Corona New York, strangers pedalled drugs in toilet lines, on park benches, from community chess boards, and under street lamps you wouldn’t want to linger around after sundown. Today, the birds are chirping and the West Village afternoon is grumbling with garbage trucks, postal trucks, and a cranky old man yelling at bike riders for running reds.
Usually, the pavement would click with tourists in search of a neighborhood drag show, locals avoiding tourists in search of a neighborhood drag show, dog walkers leashing half a dozen preened pooches and enough poo bags carabinered on hip to clean out an elephant enclosure, and teenagers testing out goth and if a cigarette looks good with black.
But today, the pooches, the pubescents, the partyers, their all home watching Tiger King on Netflix.

Published by C0VID 0perations

A New Yorker in the time of Corona. This is not an ideal situation, but that's no reason to lose ideals. Trying to fight fear and hysteria through yoga, strolls (yes, 6ft from you), and the comic beauty that Corona can't kill.

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