The Pusher

Beast log…

No. 5, as chronicled through the eyes of the Brown-Eyed Bandit’s Pick-Up


"I hit the bowl of reefer like a crack pipe now." --Me

I push a van. My partner pushes a Ram. I moved closer to the suburbs. The last pusher sucked. Okay, I just moved to the edge of the suburbs—which, incidentally, is considered the suburbs. I could’ve stopped the last Pusher before it went to press, but that would have interrupted the chronicle of an existence. The Brown Eyed Bandit probably would like to get the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind brain-cleansing on this distro debacle, but we must Push on. Shitty week means shitty pusher. Worse week. Worse pusher. My week was decent, my partner’s…?

First, his ride wouldn’t start. I’m glad mine did. We formalized plans to cop the papers in the van. We had until Wednesday afternoon to get in shape for the pick-up, and I was understandably nervous about trying to cram too many papers up in my lady’s ride (the van is hers, I’m not trying to claim ownership of that fine auto. Really, I’m not. I don’t care, a van has wheels and it starts). Luckily, after being reassessed by one more mechanically inclined, the Ram fired up and we were overjoyed to stuff that pig with some papes.


"I Like my tires Fat, not Flat" –Showbiz

A sunny yet cool day. We left to pick up the papers at around two in the afternoon. The Pushers converged at the printer’s to find out our BEASTly beauty was not quite ready to go. The bandit had this brilliant idea to go for lunch; I agreed it was a mighty fine move to make. Thinking it funny that my lady used to stay out in this particular suburbified area of the armpit, he tells me to pick the spot as it was "Your Neighborhood." (I’m not saying Karma bit him in his ass for talking shit, because if I did, then you would know that more foulness befalls the bandit and his normally trusty steed in this story). By my lead, the Pushers descended on the fresh bread of Constanzo’s. So me, the Muss, Cut and the Bandit eat a nice meal at this wonderful eatery. Upon exiting we noticed that fish wrap, the sports one (of course, Baby Joe is all up on the cover smiling his ass off—or getting his shit busted). It stopped us long enough for Cut to point out a series of three drawings on the wall colored with what looked to be crayons. These pictures summate the American dream a la Costanzo: the first a storefront on the Westside (my grandmother later told me it was on Delevan); the second over in Kenmore somewhere, dated 1950s—a little bigger, a smidge nicer; the last one dated in the ‘90s, of course taking the bakery out to Union road in West Seneca where it is still housed in this lovely suburban building. This progression correlates with my living arrangements over the last five years: Richmond, then Hertel, now off of Kenmore. If we follow this progression, I should be on Sheridan, then Brighton, then off of the goddamned Boulevard. I will grow roots before that happens; I mean, I’m putting my fucking foot down. My lady may not think these size twelves so firmly planted, but we’ll see. Anyway, so we rolled back to the printer to find the romantic alter-cover awaiting us in all its grandeur. I stacked the papers, slapping a meager two-grand into the van, while the Bandit Rammed a cool eight-thou.

Cut and I set out to sling the Hertel papes. The Muss went wherever a Muss goes. As for the Bandit, he didn’t want me to disclose his whereabouts. So, back to Hertel: I’ve had sneaking suspicions turn out to be wrong; however I don’t believe I’ve had one printed before, at least none that I can be quoted for. Turns out the cat at Kosta’s who keeps asking me to put the BEAST under the Artvoice all the time speaks Greek. Is he Greek? Maybe. Can I speak Greek? Not a lick. Therefore, it may not be Greek he was speaking. Nonetheless, my initial doubt of his ‘I am a Greek guy who runs a Greek restaurant’ credibility may perhaps be misguided. I’d quote me but I can’t find the article I said that in; hopefully you can’t either.

It was a bit farther up Hertel, more towards Terrapin Station, when I got the call from the bandit; come to find out that the Ram was stuck on Allen with a flat; tireless and jack-less. Cool, a flat is fixed easily enough; you just find a joint to fix and pop the tire back on. But it really wasn’t that simple. My man had to traipse the city practically twice over to find a joint that would even allow him to purchase and mount a tire on the rim that evening. Finally, and luckily, he went to a place where he happened to know a cat who knew a cat that could pop the tire on the rim. (Props to D*Bug, who whipped the bandit back to the site of the jacked up Ram after I had to bail). Papers were slung through the darkness; the rest could be finished tomorrow.


"Stuck off the realness--in park." –Prodigy

That morning, the Bandit pushed up Elmwood in his newly-tired car, while I sat on my ass at the pad. Usually, we drop another route later on Thursday, so I talked to the Bandit early in the A.M. and he tells me, "I am taking my truck in for a run-of-the-mill check up. I’ll be over around five and we can jet from your place." Cool. 5:30 pm rolls around and I’m thinking, "Why do I listen to this guy? Here I am all dressed for the prom and no ride." Always late--I ring him. He proceeded to tell me how he just had the Ram looked at, yet there he is at DJ Universal’s cousin’s uncle’s mailman’s house completely stuck in park, unable to move.

Great. Did I mention this was at 6:30 pm? I feel bad for the Bandit and all, but shit, I was trying to be back on my ass, right on the couch, by like 9:00 PM at the latest. Did I mention that this was his Birthday? So I pick the birthday-bandit and his papers up, which happened to be right on our route. His car was towed and we were able to finish up the majority before calling it a night. Shout outs to DJ Universal—who, if I am correct, has never even heard of The BEAST—for rolling with us and talking about pink tacos, a phenomenon of which I’d never heard prior.


"You must know: I can’t win." --The Bandit

A far sunnier outlook than the previous few we hoped would be on the horizon for this day. The Bandit and I were set to pimp the remainder of the papers later that evening, but upon interviewing the Bandit about this new day’s occurrences, I realized the madness had only begun: "When this girl rear-ended you, was it right after you left the mechanic?" He bemoaned, "I dropped Sam off afterwards, and I left his driveway and was immediately hammered." He continued, "The girl was seventeen, but hot… and she was feeling a brotha. Nahhh mean!!!" I promised him that I would try to make what he said seem a little more tasteless, but he wouldn’t have it, fucking Art Prick! Shit, I’m no spin-doctor. Me: "What was going through your head at this point?" He says, "I wasn’t surprised in the least. It all made perfect sense." This late-day accident was only a follow-up to Brown’s rude 8:00AM awakening call of an angry shop manager with a line of customers all the way down Genesee. Turns out that the night before, AAA decided to so kindly drop off the Ram directly in front of the main entrance of the Chevy dealership—what’s next? Shit, The BEAST killed my car, but his was left almost unscathed after four attempts on its life. This paper is a ruthless murderer and must be stopped. My ride, which I had for almost six years before it met The BEAST, wasn’t as tough as a Ram for it was a dirty Camry. Kudo’s to the Ram, as it is still among us.

So after all of this the dude gets stupid sick, but dead-bent on finishing the route with me, the one we left unfinished to get all crunked up the night before (for his birthday—which happens to be my brother’s as well). So, being the great, wonderful friend I am I dipped on him and let him fester in his sickness, bringing a new face on this short mission: said birthday-synchronous brother. He sucked as a Pusher—it was rather boring. The only thing good about him is that he always has weed, similar to Universal, except my brother doesn’t teach me new things like what a pink taco is.

--Tone At

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© 2004 The Beast