“Shit, Jake’s not answering…” Jack said to me as we
drove around town aimlessly. The last of our stash was burning away in a joint
we passed back and forth. “Fuck…” I sighed. We each took a moment and called
all the dealers we knew to no avail. “Fuck, man! This never happens! Who else
sells bud?!” Jack asked, irritated.
“…Alex?” I suggest.
“Already tried him, no answer.”
“Fuckin… Tim?”
“He’s like a half hour away, I’m not tryna drive
that far.”
“What about Rob?”
“I think he’s in rehab, he got way into Oxy over the
summer…”
“Shit… I don’t know man, let me see…”
Jack
stopped at a gas station to get cigarettes. As I waited for him, I stumbled
upon an old text message from an unknown number sent to me a few nights before.
“Yo its Dennis hmu if u need bud.” It read. Dennis was a co-worker of mine that
sold bud on and off. He was always breaking his phone and getting new numbers,
so getting texts from him from random numbers was pretty common. “I think I got
somebody…” I said to Jack as he got back into the car. Dennis’ phone rang twice
before he picked it up. “Hello?” An unfamiliar voice answered. “Uh… Dennis?
It’s Harry. You got bud?” “This isn’t Dennis. I got bud though. My name’s
Keith, he probably texted you from my phone. What’re you looking for?” I gave
Jack a thumbs-up. “What’ll you do a quarter for?” I asked Keith. “A hundred.”
“Alright, where and when can you meet me?” “You can just come to my house. You
know where Dennis lives, right?” “Yeah I think so…” “Right before you make the
right onto his street there’s a porno store. I live in the house across the
street, on the main road. Hit me up when you’re here.” “Cool man, I should be
there in ten minutes.”
“Does
this kid get good bud?” Jack asked me as we headed to Keith’s. “I don’t know, I
never met him before.” “Then how the fuck did you get his number?” “My boy
Dennis vouched for him, it’s cool…” Jack shrugged. “If it ends up being mids
you’re paying for it.” I was so grilled I never realized how sketchy it might
be to go to a stranger’s house to pick up weed. I had put an awful lot of faith
in Dennis, who was one of those “drug friends” that only ever hit you up to
sell you a bag or split a bag with you. He had yet to do me wrong, and that was
good enough for me.
“There’s
the porn store up there on the left…” I said. On our right was a two family
house, the only house on that street, oddly placed between a liquor store and a
dive bar. Standing outside on the second floor porch was a fat guy with a
shaved head wearing a black wife-beater. He stared down at Jack and I
disapprovingly while he smoked a cigarette. “The fuck is this guy’s problem?” I
asked Jack as I called Keith. The man pulled a phone out of his pocket and
answered me. “That you in the truck?” Keith asked. “Yup.” “Alright, come on
in.”
Jack
and I followed Keith into his apartment on the second floor. I couldn’t help
but get the vibe that Keith didn’t have company very often. His kitchen table
was covered in dirty laundry (or, in his defense, it could’ve been clean), his
sink was full of dishes, and there were pizza and takeout boxes piled by the
front door. The whole place was strangely dark and the main source of light
seemed to come from the living room window. “You guys can have a seat on the
couch there, sorry about the fuckin’ mess, I just got off work and shit, you
know, I been working all the fuckin’ time and shit…” Jack and I sat down in
front of a dust-covered big screen TV that would’ve been very impressive in
1998. Behind the TV was what appeared to be Keith’s bedroom, which featured a
sheet-less mattress on the floor with a yellow pillow. I don’t know if it was
naturally yellow, I didn’t ask.
I
was starting to have second thoughts about the deal as Keith walked over to an
empty bookshelf he had placed right under the living room window. He turned his
back to us and began fiddling with something. “I wasn’t really expecting you
guys to fuckin’ get here so quick and shit…” He said. Jack and I watched as he
lowered his head to the bookshelf and took two big snorts of an unknown
substance. We were teenagers back then, and seeing someone do Cocaine was still
a big deal. After he cleared his sinuses, Keith turned back to us, holding a
small bag of weed. “What the fuck was I saying again?” He asked us. He just
stood there, looking at us, until Jack jogged his memory. “You didn’t expect us
to get here so quickly…?” “Oh yeah! My fuckin’ guy is gonna come through with
more bud, it’ll be fuckin’ ten minutes or some shit, you guys wanna smoke my
grav bong?” Keith pointed to a TV table in front of us. On top was one of the
filthiest ghetto grav bongs I’d ever seen, made with a 3-liter Poland Spring
jug and a Rubinoff bottle. The water inside was a dull brown and there was
random shit floating around inside. “There is no fucking way I’m smoking out of
that thing.” I thought to myself. “I’m down!” Jack said enthusiastically.
Shiiiiiiettttt….
A
couple grav bowls later, I was starting to get irritated with Keith. “Fuckin’
what were you guys’ names again? I fuckin’ forgot, I’m always forgettin’ shit,
I’m sorry…” He asked as he made his billionth trip across the living room to do
more coke. I found it odd that he never even acknowledged the fact that he was
doing blow the whole time we were there. “You guys wanna fuckin’ play Twisted
Metal?!” Before we could even respond Keith started up his PS3 and handed each
of us a controller. I looked at the time on my phone. We had been there for a
half an hour. While Keith was turned around to do another line I showed Jack
the screen and mouthed the words: “What the fuck?” “Who the fuck cares? He’s
smoking us up…” Jack whispered back. I sighed and got comfortable as Jack
picked a track for us to race on. I wasn’t really sketched out or afraid of
getting robbed anymore, I was just annoyed. I’ll be the first to admit that I
can be a bit of a dick if I’m kept waiting for my drugs. Jack seemed amused by
the absurdity of the situation, and didn’t really give a shit where he was as
long as he was getting stoned.
Keith stood next to the
TV and babbled at us while we played. “I used to play the old fuckin’ Twisted
Metals back in the day on the fuckin’ PS1 and shit. You remember those fuckin’
games? They were fuckin’ awesome…” Keith swore like a Tourette’s patient. Every
sentence was an incoherent mash-up of random words sandwiched between shits and
fucks. After I lost yet another race to Jack I tossed my controller aside and
started playing with my phone. “Yo, are those nunchuks?!” I heard Jack ask
Keith. I put my phone down and saw Jack pointing to the threshold over Keith’s
bedroom. “Yeah dude!” Keith walked over to the doorway and pulled a pair of
nunchuks off the ledge. “You wanna see how I use these fuckin’ things?!” He
asked us. “Yeah man, show us!!” I realized what Jack was doing and my interest
in the situation was reinvigorated. “Alright, I’ll fuckin’ show you guys how
it’s done, just gimme one sec. You gotta see this shit dude…” Keith did his
lines and walked back to his spot next to the TV. He furrowed his brow and
stared at us deep in concentration as he swung the nunchuks around his body
spastically. I don’t know how the fuck you use nunchuks effectively, but I knew
Keith was probably doing it wrong. He looked like a stunt double for Kevin
James in that movie where they made him do Karate because he is fat. Part of me
was worried that the nunchuks would fly out of Keith’s hand and I’d be too
stoned to avoid getting hit in the face. Most of me was using every fiber in my
being to keep from laughing hysterically at the obese man doing Matrix moves in
front of me. My eyes watered as I bit down on my tongue. If I were to so much
as look in Jack’s general direction we would both lose it. The tips of the
nunchuks were getting closer and closer to the TV screen as he swung them around
and around. I cannot begin to tell you how badly I wanted to see Keith’s
nunchuks go sailing through his shitty Zenith TV. Just before I could get my
wish, Jack intervened. “Careful, man. Don’t wanna hit your TV!” Keith stopped
and caught his breath, his face beet red. “Oh, fuck! Thanks dude, I woulda
wrecked my fuckin’ TV!”
A few minutes later a
tall, lanky, kid in a wife beater and basketball shorts flung Keith’s front
door open and stomped into the living room. He completely ignored the two
stoned teenagers on the couch and walked right up to Keith. Keith easily had a
hundred pounds on this kid and the added advantage of cocaine, but still seemed
anxious around him. He nervously counted money out as his dealer, who I’ll call
Larry, pulled a half ounce of weed out of his pocket. “So it’s 140 right…”
Keith mumbled. Larry snatched the cash out of Keith’s hand and quickly thumbed
through the bills himself. “You know how fucking much it is, Keith, 150. When
the fuck have I ever charged you 140 for half?!” “Uh, I don’t know, I guess I fuckin…” Keith
stammered. “You fuckin’ what?! Don’t give me those fucking ten’s, dude!” Larry
yelled. He pulled four ten dollar bills out of the money Keith gave him and
threw them on the floor in front of him. “Let’s fucking go, Keith, I got shit
to do…” Keith frantically picked the money up and changed it for two 20’s. “I’m
fuckin’ sorry, man…” Larry said nothing as he grabbed the rest of his money,
walked right past Jack and I, and slammed the front door on his way out. I
couldn’t decide if Larry was a fucking asshole or the coolest guy ever.
Jack
and I got the fuck out of there as soon as Keith finally gave us our weed. We
told him we’d call him if we ever needed more and had a great laugh about the
whole thing over a few blunts that night. I never saw Crazy Keith again, but
every time I drive by the charred remains of that porno store (the owner burnt
it down for insurance money years ago), I think of him.
are these true stories? my wife and i are recovering 25 year old heroin addicts so some of these stories are fucking hilarious to us. keep up the good work. especially liked junkies day off.
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