I was working my usual spot, down on fifth and state, when I saw the car blazing by, wheels practically on fire, a blond head sticking out of the passenger side, screaming his arse off as the driver turned the corner with a loud squeal of the tyres. The red car with the white stripped running elegantly through it, stayed in my mind until my next client, a short kid of about fifteen passed by, whistling a tune that signalled he had my money. I followed the boy, turning the same corner the red car had, into a side street. The tyres had left black marks on the floor and the boy was intent of following them. We turned another corner and he stopped. I could see he was strung out by the way his shoulder were shaking – hell, his entire body was shaking – and, once he spun around, the way he kept licking his lips and twitching his head.

"How much you want?" I asked, putting my hands on my hips and waiting for the boy to produce his money before I would give him any of my merchandise. He said nothing, his hand coming up to wipe some sweat from his forehead, his eyes on the floor between us. I snapped my fingers, trying to get his attention. "Hey, boy, are we here to chat or are you gonna buy?"

"Sixty," he finally said after a moment where I thought I might have left my spot for nothing.

"You don't sound so sure," I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest. He nodded, his black curly locks moving along with the shake of his head. He begins to mutter things that I do not understand, moving his hands this way and that like a hand model in one of those hand commercials. He shakes his head a couple of times and I'm not sure if its towards me or if he's talking to himself. "Is it sixty bucks worth or not?"

I hold out my hand and he takes out three 20's, his entire wallet it seems, and puts the bills in my hand. I take a second; looking at the bills that are now in my possession and taking a close look at the kid in front of me. He looks like he really needs to score, but it almost looks too real. But I take a gander and, reaching down to my knees where, tucked deep into my boots, I retrieve a small bag of white powder. It isn't my fault that they use so much, especially sixty bucks worth (three bags which leaves me with only two left); I just sell the stuff.

I take out three bags and press them into his sweaty hands. He quickly snatches them from under my grasp, like he thought I might be taking them back at any moment. The street we are on is suddenly to close in, the shops we are by are too narrow and I feel the world closing in on me. I take a step back, looking at the kid in front of me with worry as he pries one of the bags open with his bare teeth in the middle of the street.

"Okay, man," I told him, my hands in the air. "We are done here."

I slowly back away, my hands still raised up in a non-confrontational way. I know all about these junkies and the way they get when a bag is put in their hands. Their minds turn to caveman mentality and all they can think about is sniffing the hell out of the bag and putting all the sugary white powder in their bodies. Usually, they take so much within the first hour of getting their goods that they either die of an overdose, or call me up asking for more. No money, no help - that is my policy.

I made my way back to my corner on fifth and state slowly, turning my head to make sure the junkie kid wasn't following me. It wasn't a regular thing, junkies tailing me, but this kid; there was something about him that just wasn't right. If he were to follow me, I had a nice surprise for him packed away at my waist, right beside my moneybag. No one ripped me off and lived to tell about it, at least not yet.

My corner of the city was nice and crowded with posh buildings and business suits walking around like they owned the entire world. It was also where most, if not all, workers of my trade made the most money. I had procured this little spot, in front of a designer store where all sorts of thin- waist woman came, from a little old lady who was tired of life on the street. She told me, "Alexandria, that's a good modest name. They will never suspect you to be a seller." And so, at the tender age of eighteen, I became a seller of goods that the little old lady, Miranda, made in her dark and dingy basement.

Miranda came around at a time of my life where, in my desperate need for money, I was, shall we say, in the lowest point in my life. I was doing things that, even now, I am not proud of. My reason? I was saving up to go to college, to be one of those professionals who would take me out to dinner at night and then take me to their posh homes full of fancy appliances and cars worth more than my life.

Now, I'm not saying that selling dope and other things are getting me where I want to be in life. But the money is good and, it is in fact, getting through college. Miranda understands, sending me only when I'm free and, always, asking if I'm sure I want to do this. "Yes," I tell her every time, "I need the money." And then I head out, wearing my street clothes and trying, successfully so far, to blend in with the crowd. I make my rounds, dropping a few deliveries for Miranda and then, working my corner.

In a good day, I make about twice as much as my tuition, which, in the long run, is better than most nickel and dime jobs out there.