What happened to all the blood that Red Cross rounded up?
Did we need the blood, or was donating a method of allowing people to feel like they were doing something to help? Perhaps both.
But Jimmy Jazz didn't give a shit about any of that, the buildings and airplanes and other people's religious wars. He still had to score, and the jones doesn't pause for acts of terrorism.
Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn? Nope.
It was near Broad and Diamond in Philadelphia. A world darker than the city exhibited in that movie "Seven."
Gas skyrocketed immediately, but it took a few weeks for the price of narcotics to inch upward. Jimmy Jazz had the dough, so he told me:
"Fucking TVs everywhere, right? The smoke in New York. Busses stopped running, they didn't know about SEPTA, any of the trains, was it gonna be World War III. Someone said something about a plane hijacked over Texas."
Nearly smiling as he spoke, Jimmy's eyes surged.
"And I was like, Motherfucker, I gotta score, y'know? Shit don't take a holiday."