Some guy tried to buy drugs from me last night.

Actually, a bunch of people tried to buy drugs from me last night, but this one was special. He was a NYPD Narc.

I was a bit insulted, actually, seeing as he either had really bulky sneaker tops on his right foot, or a concealed department-issue 9mm. What the Marine-style buzz cut didn't give away, the clean, pressed slacks he wore to a warehouse party did.

"Hey, my friends said you had some Ecstasy. Do you have any I could buy from you?"


Hey guy, normal people say, "Got any E?" Anything more than seven words to ask for drugs and it's even odds that's the same phrase typed in your pre-printed arrest reports. And oh yeah, "my friends" aren't morons that would tell random strangers if I were carrying something illegal, and they all know there isn't anything here.

But okay, I admit it, I'm a prime target.

I love playing with rollers. The way I figure it, it's almost as much fun as rolling without the post-trip depression. Plus your chances of getting a nice kiss or decent backrub are just as high. I'm carrying 30 pounds of water, supplies and toys on my back that, sadly, nobody wanted to play with because somehow in this bizzare vortex in the middle of Brooklyn there aren't any drugs to be found.

Twenty-something guy wearing an old backpack, safari hat, dirty cargo pants with pockets stuffed to the brim with bottled water, hard candy, candy bars, no shirt and a bright orange hunting vest. You got me! I'm a drug advocate, a drug proponent, a handy spirit guide, and a card-carrying ACLU member. Sadly for this poor Narc, not a dealer. And also not carrying anything more illegal than a modified ham radio.

I want to shout, "HellOOOO! Look a little more carefully, jackass. I'm wearing a Baltimore City Police pin and a pair of decorative handcuffs. I carry a two-way radio to a party. This gold nametag I'm wearing? It's a standard issue uniform nametag. I used to work in a police department for a year. You think I don't know how to play spot-the-Narc?"

It was amazingly insulting in my caffiene addled and menthol clouded but otherwise completely substance-free brain.

But I don't shout anything. It's late and I'm too tired and too far away from home to have some fun and either distract him with suggestive statements or follow him around the club for the rest of the night for fun like I would any other time. I just give him a smile, touch his shoulder (they hate that) and say, "Sorry, dude, I just haven't got anything."

I take a sniff from my handy Vicks Inhaler and a spash of water from my canteen case, pop a hard candy and walk away with a smile. I think he's going to have a long night.