Greg’s Gift

How a surprise visit turned an easy-going afternoon into a memorable couple of days I’d share more than twenty years later…

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Spring 1997: Eddie Murphy got busted with a transgender prostitute, Gary Kasparov was defeated by an IBM computer, Donald Trump split with Marla Maples, and Greg our unFriendly Neighborhood Drug Dealer bounded up three flights to the door of my Chicago pad. Bang, bang, bang— “Open up, let me in!” — Bang, bang, bang! I ran over and peeped through the peephole.

A profusely sweating bald head with enormous bloodshot eyes stared back, the fish eye perspective making terrified Greg look even creepier than usual. Bang, bang — I swung the door open, if only to quiet the noise. He stood gawking in t-shirt and worn jeans, drenched in sweat and clutching a large gym bag that he immediately thrust into my face: “You gotta take this!”

On impulse I accepted his large and unwieldy duffel bag, rattling and clinking as its surprisingly substantive mass shifted over. “Here’s my stash,” Greg gasped breathlessly, not bothering to keep his voice down. “The cops are about to bust me and I need to get rid of this — You’re the only one I can trust — I gotta hang low for a while — Keep it safe until whenever — Thanks, man!”

Stunned, I watched Greg turn around and bolt into the stairwell. Still holding his…