“Ya’on that shit?” “Huh?” “That fuckin’ shit! You on it?” “Yeah, man—sure,” I said because I wanted him to go away, but also because I’d been on so much shit he was probably right. “You on the heron?” he tried again. “The WHAT?!” I said as I looked up from the bench where I was sitting and squinted while trying to see past the residue clouding my thoughts and my ability to focus in on the fucker. “The HERON, man The HE-RON,” said a middle-aged black man with a broom in his hand as he gradually materialized before me. “The HE-RON, man?!?” I repeated back to him annoyed and tired and scared and exasperated and mocking his mispronunciation or whatever the fuck it was. “No, I’m not on the fucking HE-RON!” “Well…you nasty like you on the heron.” “I’m nasty regardless.” “Yeah…you on the heron,” he decided with a strange sort of smugness.
