My New York City Circle

My house smells like a crack pipe. That just occurred to me yesterday, after days of sniffing the air like a bloodhound and coming to no certain conclusion regarding the familiar smell. I was emptying the kitchen trash when an Evian bottle fell on the floor and rolled under the refrigerator. I was crouched on my hands and knees peering under the stainless steel appliance and using a wooden spoon to try and lure the water bottle to it’s impending doom in the recycling bin, when it hit me. I said it out loud, "A crack pipe!"
I’m sure you’re wondering how I know what a crack pipe smells like. I smoked crack. Not often, or habitually, just on occasion...for recreation. It sounds a lot worse than it is. I know a lot of people who have smoked crack. Granted, most of them were the pimps and prostitutes I passed every night walking from the subway to my apartment on 102nd and West End. Okay, so I didn't really know them...it’s not like we were friends, or even acquaintances. We didn’t chat about our careers or love lives on the corner of Broadway. And yet, I still considered them in my circle. Whether I liked it or not, those crack smoking pimps were apart of my life.