It’s nearly noon when I finally rise. I fucking love
sleeping. I’d roll over for another four hours, but something isn’t right. A
light layer of sweat coats my body, and my legs are restless and achy. I didn’t
exert myself any more than usual last night, at least I don’t think I did. My nose
is runny, but that’s probably just my springtime allergies kicking in. I don’t
know man, it feels like I’m in the Twilight Zone or some shit. Something just
ain’t right.
I walk out into my living room on autopilot. I put
on a pot of coffee and have a seat on the couch. The room is bare save for the
couch, a beat up IKEA coffee table, and a cheap TV on an even cheaper
entertainment center. It’s Thursday, pay day, and I have the day off. That
means it’s time to get fucked up. I dump the last of my dope out into a Jameson
cap and mix it all up. My veins rise to the surface as I choke them with a
Gamecube controller. I push the plunger down as hard as I can, and slump back
as the rush comes on strong. No more runny nose, no more achy bones, no more
thinking.
Fuck. This is it, isn’t it? It’s really fucking
happening. God damn it.
“I really gotta knock this shit off…” I mumble as I
pour a cup of coffee. Sitting back down on the couch, I throw on my dope
playlist and light a smoke. Nahko pours through the Bluetooth speaker, singing
of prosperity, revolution, and nourishing the mind, body, and soul. I shoot
dope and eat Starburst. Whoever invented the unwrapped minis deserves a fucking
Nobel prize.
I’m out of weed. I don’t give a shit, but my
customers certainly do. I’ve been a shitty drug dealer these last few days. I
keep meaning to re-up, but then I get high. My connect practically lives down
the fucking street, and yet I can’t seem to make time to get over there. I open
up my stash box and count out my cash. Yikes. What was once a fat knot of
hunnids and fiddies is a crumpled mess of singles, 5’s, 10’s and 20’s, adding
up to $240, just enough to cover my next ounce.
I’m slipping, man. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The dope helps me push these thoughts from my skull
as I do some mental math. If I sell this 8th by 8th I
stand to make $400, $160 profit. I’m gonna be selling plenty of dubs to Abe and
Terry along the way, so it’ll definitely be more than that. Let’s call it $500,
assuming I don’t touch any of it myself. I couldn’t give a shit about weed
these days. It’s not the escape it was once, but a reminder of how far I’ve
fallen and how much further I’ve yet to go. $500 gives me options. I can bounce
back from this. It’s not the end of the world. I just can’t spend any of it on
dope.
My work money is a different story, though. $100 of
that is going right to Stan. I throw on my sunglasses and walk out to my car.
It’s fucking beautiful out. Spring is finally here, though it hasn’t come
without its problems. I need to come up with a story for the linear bruises
that map the veins of my forearms. No big deal, stories are the one thing I’m
good at.
“I
fear nothing!
No
thing fears me!
Justice
has different hats for…
Different
days.
Please
release my anger, love thy neighbor…”
“THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM, ASSHOLE?!”
The opi-rage comes without warning as I drive. I always
thought dope would chill me out, and it does, kinda. But when I’m on that
spike, I go zero to a hundred real fuckin’ quick. “This is fucking horseshit,
let’s FUCKING GO ASSHOLE!!” I shout, punching the steering wheel. I’m prone to
road rage to begin with, this is just dangerous. The old bat in front of me
makes a left turn and I speed up, flying down the street, music blaring.
Everything is just so god damn perfect right now. I’m high as shit, I got the
whole day in front of me, with nothing on the docket but dope and drug dealing.
Things could be much worse.
I pick up a ten pack of spikes at CVS as well as a
big bag of Starbursts. I withdraw $100 from the ATM and call up Stan as I get
back into my car. “What’s good, man? Nothin, just wondering if I could grab a
G? Awesome. Yeah, I’ll be home in ten minutes, come through whenever. Thanks
brotha!” I hang up the phone and speed home, excited beyond measure as I drive.
I’ve caught Stan at the perfect time: he’s just gotten back from the city with
a fresh pick up. I get home, crack a beer, light a smoke, and throw on some
music as I wait for him.
Stan appears at my doorstep ten minutes later. “What’s
up brotha?” He asks me, his voice a low, defeated mumble. He daps me up, though
it might be the weakest dap I’ve ever received. Stan’s wife beater is soaked in
sweat. His blonde hair is matted to his skull as he adjusts his New Era fitted.
He’s panting, and makes a beeline for my couch. “The fuck’s up with you? You
run here?” I ask him. He shoots me a confused look and dumps two bags out onto
the table, pushing one forward. “No…” I hand him my $100 and he stuffs it in
his pocket. “This shit’s pretty fuckin’ fire, be careful. You mind if I
straighten up while I’m here? Please?” Sweat pours off Stan’s face, making a
tiny puddle on the floor in front of him. “Oh, shit, yeah! Of course, man! You
uh… You want a controller…? To like, tie off with I mean…” I say nervously,
picking the Gamecube controller off the floor. Stan shakes his head. “I got
everything I need, man.” Stan rips the knot off the other gram bag of dope off
with his teeth like the pin of a hand grenade, spitting the top out on my rug. “I’m
sorry, I’ll grab that in a second…” He mumbles as he pulls a bottle cap and
syringe from his pocket. I slide an old glass of water over to him as he rips a
filter off one of his Marlboros. He dumps more than half of his gram bag out
into the cooker and stirs it quickly. Jesus, this kid doesn’t fuck around. I
mix a shot of my own while he works.
The rush courses through me as a lump rises in my
throat. “Fuck, man…” I mumble as I fall back into the couch. Stan sits leaning
forward, his head hanging low. “You alright, man? You can sit back if you want.
Make yourself at home…” If nothing else, I’m a hospitable host. “Nah, I’m
straight man. I don’t wanna get my fucking sweat all over your couch.” He
mumbles, sighing as he lights a cigarette. I bask in the high, scratching my
neck and chest with my eyes half shut, when suddenly, there’s a rumbling from
below. “Oh shit…” I mumble as I spring to my feet. Unable to make it to the
toilet, I rip the lid off my trash bin and throw up a dark mixture of candy and
coffee. I dry heave for a solid minute before my body says it’s done… for now. “Fuck…
I’m sorry, man… Shit…” I say between gulps of air. “No worries. Must be nice…” Stan
stands up and starts to gathers his things. “Who’s this?” He asks as I stagger
to my feet. “Huh? Oh, fuckin… The Disco Biscuits.” I croak back, high as shit. “Like,
rolls?” I laugh and nod. “Yeah, they’re pretty fuckin’ cool, man.” Stan laughs
to himself and stretches before heading for the door. “Be safe, man. Hit me up
when you need more.”
This shit right here, this is what I’ve been looking
for all these years. Not since Ecstasy have I fallen this much in love with a
drug. Weed doesn’t do it for me anymore. I fried my brain with Molly. Coke’s
too expensive. Meth gets too ugly too quickly. Alcohol is a mere distraction.
Heroin is contentment. I’m genuinely alright as fuck as I lay on the couch,
cigarette burning, staring at the ceiling as I drift in and out. I don’t need
anything. I’m comfortable right here, just like this…
My phone jolts me awake suddenly. It’s Bryan, my bud
connect. “Hello? Hey, what’s good. Oh, fuckin’… Yeah, sorry, I was taking a
nap. Fuck, um, yeah, yeah I definitely still want that. I can be there in five
minutes. Ok. Peace.” I pry myself up from the couch and stumble to the counter,
pouring myself a cup of cold coffee and chugging it down in a futile attempt to
stave off the nod. “Straighten up, soldier…” I mumble to myself as I grab my
keys and head outside.
“You look fucked
up, homie! Damn! What’re you on right now?” Bryan says as he leads me into
his apartment. His two roommates are putting together a giant puzzle on their
living room floor that I have to walk over awkwardly. “Really? I’m just fuckin’
grilled, man…” I say unconvincingly as I sit down on his couch. “You look
fuckin’ jammed.” Bryan’s roommate says nonchalantly before returning to his
puzzle. I stop scratching my back abruptly. It seems I’m not as good an actor
as I thought. “So, you got that?” I ask Bryan. Bryan nods and weighs out my
ounce. Bryan lives the fucking dream. The bud market here is beyond saturated,
and there are few that can make a full time living from it. Bryan is one of
those few. With weed decriminalized up to ounce, he doesn’t have to worry about
his customers getting popped and flipping on him. Lucky bastard…
“Yo, someone asked me for sheets the other day, can
you still get those?” Bryan asks. I hand him his money and shake my head. “Nah,
I haven’t gotten sheets in a while. I’m pretty sure they were bunk or
something. Towards the end, at least. I dunno, I got a ton of complaints from people
saying it wasn’t real Acid or something. I’m not a fuckin’ scientist, it seemed
fine to me, but I can’t move the shit anymore, so…” I usually lie way better than
this, fuck. I shouldn’t have gotten so fucking high. “Is that right? No
worries, man. Be safe out there, alright?” Bryan’s eyes look right through me.
His smile mocks me. I turn my arms over to cover my tracks, but it’s too little
too late. “Yeah, thanks man… Peace…”
I call Terry when I get back home. “Yo, I just
picked up if you still need that. Aight. Yup, I can do that. Alright. Gimme
five minutes.” Terry wants four dubs. One for him, three for Abe. Abe’s an
older guy from Jamaica, and has a limited understanding of the American drug
game. Typically I sell 8ths for $50, but Abe has no problem paying $60 for
three grams. I plan on exploiting his ignorance until he calls me out on it. It’s
a dick move, but that’s the game, I guess. If he doesn’t get ripped off, how’s
he ever gonna learn?
It’s 8 PM when I pull into the parking lot at Wilson’s
pharmacy. Terry is already outside waiting for me. He takes a final haul off
his cigarette and flicks it as he walks over to my car. “What’s good dude? Yo,
you look high as shit, haha!” He says. “Haha, yeah… My boy hooked me up with a
dab when I went to re-up. I’m high as shit… I like, shouldn’t be driving…” I
lie. I dump the four bags in Terry’s lap and he hands me my $80. “You fuck Abe
over so bad it’s hilarious.” Terry says. “Haha, yeah…” I reply. “You working
tomorrow night?” I nod. “Yup, I’ll be here.” “OK man, thanks for coming
through. Drive safe.”
It’s shoot ‘till I puke for the rest of the night.
These runs back and forth to the bathroom are fucking up my nod. Ugh, where
does this shit keep coming from? I can’t even take a sip of god damn water
without it coming back up. Fuck it, I’m high…
I kinda feel like a homo listening to The XX, but
then again, I’ve paid to see Krewella in concert. I sold a lot of drugs at that
show, but that’s no excuse. The XX just sound too god damn good when you’re
high. I embrace my Caucasity as I sit here listening and smoking and dicking
around on the internet. Angsty as fuck.
I hear a whomp…
whomp… and rattling sounds from my bedroom and decide to investigate. I open my desk drawer to find a new text
message on my old burner phone. Some guy named Ahmed. Who the fuck is Ahmed? I
can’t remember, but he wants Molly. I wish I could help you Ahmed, but my Molly
dealer’s in jail, and I haven’t had any in quite some time. I shut the burner
off and toss it back in the drawer.
Mark’s locked up. Rich left state three months ago,
or so he said. I haven’t heard shit since he left. I hope he’s dead.
Motherfucker took me for almost two grand. It may have been counterfeit drugs,
but a deal is a fucking deal, man. And Max? I don’t even wanna think about that
fucking snake. If he’s got any brain cells left he’s far, far, away somewhere.
Probably fresh out of a halfway house he crashed in for the winter. Ready to do
what he does worst until he’s gotta give up another name.
Dylan’s in Florida getting clean. So is Melanie,
though I’m sure she’s going by her government name now that her warrants have
been cleared up. I haven’t heard from Pat in years, he could be dead, who
knows. I should hit him up and see sometime. Damn, I really am the last man
standing. I used to think I got off cheap, but as I mix up this next shot, I’m
not so sure…
…But fuck it, I’m high.
