One Night in Charlottesville, Part III -- The Crackhouse of Horrors

[Part I and Part II of the saga.]

I was sound asleep on the living room floor when a knock at the door woke me at around 8:30 am. When I opened the door, BBB was standing there with his trademark big goofy grin.

Me: “Where the f**k have you been?”
BBB: *giggling* “I’ll tell you later.”

He promptly found himself a spot on the floor and passed out. A few hours later, the six of us went out to brunch at a nearby buffet. I think the manager on duty might’ve cursed under his breath when he saw our large persons walk in, some of us still drunk from the night before. It being early on a Sunday afternoon, there were lots of families, some fresh from church, seated near our table. Between our boozy stench and uncensored conversations, I’m sure we earned the eatery a few bad reviews that day. Once we were all situated, BBB filled us in on his epic night.

…As he watched Butters grow smaller in the distance, he started to realize that he was in a bit of a tight spot. His “saviors” were all complete strangers, and he had no idea where they were headed. They eventually stopped at a house, where one or two other people were waiting for them. Everyone sat down around a dining room table, and he got to know his new friends. They all seemed to be nice folks, offering him something to drink and/or eat. They even offered him…a hit of their crack pipe.

Yes folks, that’s right: BBB had been rescued by crackheads.

One of the two women from the car pulled out a pipe, a lighter, and some rocks. She lit up, took a few puffs, and passed it BBB’s way.

BBB: “No thanks—I’m trying to quit.”

The gentleman who had been driving the getaway car explained to BBB that he didn’t smoke the stuff either—he just sold it. Drunk as he was, BBB had enough sense to understand his situation. Crack dealing is a violent trade, and to succeed at it you have to be a violent person. And, on top of that, the drug often turns those who smoke it into merciless scavengers, who will steal the shoes off your feet if they think they can make a dollar selling them. BBB was now surrounded by a dealer or two, and a few addicts. As he told us the following afternoon, “I thought to myself, ‘I canNOT fall asleep before any of these motherf****rs do!’”

He stopped drinking, determined to outlast everyone else in the house. He was about to find that tougher than planned, however. One of the women was about 5’2” on her feet, but 5’10" when lying on her side. She had walked off to a back room for a short while, and now returned wearing nothing but a t-shirt. Briefly looking around the room, she announced, “Mmmm…I need to get my cl** licked!”

Her eyes had come to a stop on BBB’s as the statement finished. I only wish I could have been a fly on the wall to see the look of sheer terror on his face in that moment. (Esq: “So what happened after you finished banging her?”) Despite his vow to stay awake, BBB’s best available defensive tactic was to dive on the floor, and announce, “I’m sleeping!” He, of course, only pretended to doze off, keeping himself vigilant of anyone attempting to harm him while he was lying prone.

Everyone in the house eventually went to bed themselves. BBB then took the opportunity to look around. He tiptoed into the kitchen and opened the fridge, finding an entire Papa John’s pizza. He opened the box and started feasting, and then continued to investigate the room. The sun had begun to rise; he saw a telephone, and then shortly after that found a phonebook. He looked up the number of a cab company, but where could he tell them to pick him up? He had no idea what the house’s address was. He polished off the pizza while quietly searching around the kitchen and surrounding rooms for an envelope, magazine, or anything that might have an address on it. He finally found one, and called the cab company. The cab came, and he stealthily made his way outside without anyone in the house waking up. I sometimes have wondered if the crackheads awoke the next day thinking that BBB had only been a hallucination.

Once in the taxi, though, he had a new problem: he didn’t know Esq’s address. He knew that the apartment was near the UVA campus, but had no other navigation point but the Hardee’s next door. The driver, unfortunately, wasn’t familiar with that particular landmark. The small amount of experience BBB had with Charlottesville’s roadways had been at night, and he had been merely a passenger—a heavily intoxicated one, at that. They drove around the greater Charlottesville area for 45 minutes until BBB found something he recognized—that grand ol’ yellow star high up in the air. For the third time in less than 24 hours, Hardee’s had brought a lost adventurer to Esq’s front door.

As BBB and I wearily traveled back home later that day, my phone rang. It was Chief, who was riding in Butters’ car, up ahead of us on the highway. After a quick question about our route, he paused.

Chief: “So…has [BBB] finally admitted to f***ing that fat broad yet?”
Me: “No, but he might as well. Obviously when WE tell the story to everyone back home, that’s how that part of his night’s going to end.”
BBB: “I DIDN’T TOUCH HER!”
Chief: “Sssuuuuurrrrrrrre he didn’t.”