Josh

 

Three Years Later

 

It’s 2 a.m.

Knock, knock.

Never answer anything after 2 a.m.

“Josh!”

Not the door. Not the phone.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Nothing good will ever come of it.

“Dude, are you in there?”

Midnight is the witching hour.

“Open the door, man.”

But 2 a.m.?

“We’re dying here.”

That’s the Devil’s daylight.

“We need your help,” he calls through the thin crack between the door and the frame. “We need to make a purchase.”

I groan tiredly, rolling off the couch to throw my feet on the floor. My toes recoil from the cold hardwood, making me hobble toward the door like a drunken cripple; blanket thrown over my hunched back, eyes squinting into the darkness. I grab blindly for the coffee table as I pass it, my fingers easily feeling out the cool metal laying there. The pebbled handle of my gun.

“Yo, Josh!”

I pound once hard against the center of the door, banging on the wood by his face. The guy jumps back with a muttered curse.

“Fuck off,” I tell him quietly. “I work by appointment only.”

“Dude, come on. It’s Bryan. You know me.”

“I know a lot of people. People I meet by appointment only. You know the drill. Make the call. Get an appointment.” I shuffle back toward the couch. Back toward sleep. “Get the hell away from my door.”

Hands slam angrily against the metal storm door, shaking it loudly.

“We have cash,” Bryan insists. “A lot of it.”

I pause, closing my eyes. Telling myself to ignore him.

First rule of being a dealer – never be needy. Desperate is not a good shade on me. It makes people think they’re holding all the cards. They think they can start setting their own price and negotiating deals.

I don’t negotiate. Everyone gets the same price on the same product. No purchase incentives. No discount for buying bulk. No markdowns because my pockets are empty and I don’t know where my next meal is coming from.

“Make an appointment,” I repeat blandly.

“We’re already here, we—“

“Do you have the number?”

“Yeah.”

“Call it. Get a location. Give your order. Follow the instructions.”

“You’ll deliver tonight?”

“Might as well seeing as I’m already awake,” I reply bitterly.

“Yes! Thanks, man. We owe you one.”

“Do you know how you can repay me?’

“How?”

I cock the gun audibly, making sure the moron hears it echo inside the empty house. “Don’t ever come knocking on my fucking door again.”

“Jesus,” he whispers, shocked. His feet scuffle down the porch steps. “We won’t. Take it easy.”

“Call the number.”

“Yeah,” he calls back, sounding farther away with every word. “Yeah, we’ll call.”

I listen to his car start up. I wait for it to peel out down the street. Then I wait a few minutes more to make sure he really is gone. That he isn’t doubling back.

All clear.

I check my locks before I go back to the living room. It’s an old habit, the paranoid mind of a dealer hard at work. The locks are secure. All four of them.

The gun I set down with a loud clatter. My ass I set down with a low groan.

I close my eyes as I wait because part of me is hoping I’ll get to go back to sleep. That good old Bryan will have lost the number or he’ll lose his nerve or he’ll crash his car and spend the night in the hospital trying to score drugs off a lonely nurse instead of me.

No such luck.

Five minutes after he leaves, my phone is ringing, the glow from the screen blowing up the room in stark white light, making me squint. Shadows take shape against the glow, the untouched corners of the room looking darker than before. Fuller and more dangerous in their condensed state than the all-encompassing black hole I’ve gotten accustomed to.

“Yeah,” I answer roughly, closing my eyes as the light dims down, the room sliding slowly back to darkness.

“Got a request,” Harrison says, yawning loudly. “It’s for tonight. I told him you wouldn’t do it but dude swore he talked to you. Said you said it was okay. I told him he didn’t need a hook up tonight. He was already high if he thought you were going to get out—“

“I’ll do it.”

My statement is met with silence.

“Harrison,” I prod.

“Are you for real? You’re going to go out tonight for this douche?”

“Which one is he? He said his name was Bryan.”

“Football player. He called you? How’d he get your number?”

“He didn’t. He came to my place.”

Harrison is suddenly very awake. “How’d he find out where you live?!”

“Yellow Pages?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” I deadpan. “I’m listed under P for Pills. Took out an ad.”

“You told him you’d agree to an appointment tonight?”

“That depends. How big is his order?”

Harrison sighs, settling down. Business soothes him. “It’s big. Expensive shit.”

“What’s he want?”

“Party drugs. Uppers mostly.”

“He ask for Flunitrazepam?”

“Jesus, man, use street names. You know I can’t say that shit.”

“Rohypnol. Did he ask for it?” I push impatiently.

“No. No roofies. No Ketamine.”

I sit forward, reaching for my shoes under the coffee table. “Good. He asks for date rape drugs and he gets blacklisted.”

“I know the drill, dude.”

“Text me the order. Tell him I’ll meet him in forty minutes at the park downtown, next to the fountain. Tell him to come alone and with cash.”

“You got it. You want me to come with you?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Text me when it’s done.”

“Yeah.”

I let the phone fall from between my cheek and shoulder, letting Harrison hang up for both of us. I slip my feet into my shoes, not bothering to undo the laces first. Pops would be pissed if he saw it. He’d smack me upside the head, treat me like a six-year-old kid and not the twenty-one-year-old man I’ve become. Not the dealer with a gun and a bag of scripts to deliver to some shithead in the middle of the night.

Sometimes I miss having him around. Other times, like right now, I’m glad he’s living in ignorance in a home, unable to see this.

When my cell pings with a new text message I turn on the small camping lantern next to my gun. The room flares again, brighter this time. The LED light gives off a blue hue that makes the room look more sterile than it is. It makes it feel emptier somehow, amplifying the dark color of the bare walls until they seem endless, merging with the dark wood on the floor. Engulfing the big black filing cabinets standing sentinel against the far wall.

I pull on the chain around my neck to bring up my key. It’s the only one I have, so I’m pretty paranoid about losing it. I wear it when I sleep. When I shower. When I fuck. It’s my lifeblood, the only thing keeping me even remotely afloat, so I treat it like the treasure that it is.

The order Harrison has texted me is coded using the Dewey Decimal System, like we’re a couple of drug pushing librarians. Looking inside the first drawer in my cabinet, I groan miserably. Filling this order will take everything I have on a few crowd favorites like Adderall and Benzedrine, meaning I’ll have to hit up the pharmacy in the morning before it opens.

Looks like I’m not going back to sleep tonight.

I grab a hollowed-out text book from my stack on the floor, a bunch of retired ones no class at the college is using anymore. I salvaged them from a dumpster behind the campus book store where I used to work part time. I brought them home, hollowed them out, and now I fill the carved out square in the middle with baggies full of pills, meticulously filling the order.

When I’m done I tally up the total. It’s small. Smaller than seems possible. It’s enough to cover next month’s bill from the retirement home, replenish what I’m selling, pay Harrison his cut for being my go-between, but that’s about it. Nothing for the school demanding tuition and nothing for the utility companies breathing down my neck.

I slam the drawer shut, locking it before shaking the key down inside my white thermal shirt. I’ll worry about money later. Right now I have work to do.

After texting the total to Harrison to pass on to the buyer, I cram the book into my backpack. Outside is colder than I imagined it would be; the desert at night is a real bitch when she feels like it. It’s probably only about sixty degrees, but it feels freezing compared to the eighty-five or so it was this afternoon. For a second I think about going back in for a jacket. Or going back in, throwing the bag down, and letting Bryan freeze his ass off waiting all night while I go back to sleep. It seems like the most satisfying plan, but it doesn’t put coin in my pocket, and no matter how small this payout feels, I need every dime of it.

“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself, forgetting about the jacket. “I’ve come too far.”

 To warm up, I take off at a jog down the street. If I keep a steady pace I can cover the two miles between the house and the fountain in thirty minutes. Opal, Nevada is a small town, it’s only attraction the Winslow College campus at the edge of it. There’s not much ground to cover in any direction, and besides, I could use the exercise. Cardio is surprisingly important for any dealer.

The town is fast asleep as I pass through it. Every storefront dark. Every window in the houses vacant. Everything about the town is old and tired, just like the people in it. Faded signs, saggy awnings, broken sidewalks. Even the fountain in the center is nothing but a sleeping slab of cement; a water feature in name only. I’ve lived here my whole life and not once have I ever seen water in the damn thing.

Lucky for him, Bryan is waiting next to it when I get there. Pain in the ass, yes, but also punctual. Gotta give him that.

I nod to him as I slow to a walk, my eyes scanning the surrounding park. It’s empty.

“Your boy said you had everything we asked for,” he says quietly, extending his palm to me for a shake. A wad of bills is expertly hidden between his fingers.

I nod in confirmation as I shake his hand, taking the money. I step back, surreptitiously spreading the bills quickly with my fingers, keeping it hidden close to my body. A quick glance and a little mental math says he’s all square, so I slip the money in my pocket and my backpack off my shoulder.

“I found the book you asked for,” I tell him, handing off the hollow text book. “All the pages are clearly marked. Don’t get them confused.”

He takes the book excitedly, popping the cover for a split second to guarantee his order is filled. He smiles when he sees the assortment of pills.

Snapping the book shut, he offers me his hand again. “Thanks, man. You really came through.”

I glance at his hand, making no move to take it this time. It doesn’t have anything I want. “I always come through, but never again at two in the morning.”

“Hey, bro, I’m sorry about that but I got people looking for a good time tonight and I couldn’t leave ‘em hanging. You know how it is.”

“Sure. Yeah. I get it.”

“Cool.”

“Which one is for you? Bro.”

His fingers curl into his palm, his hand slowly lowering. “Why do you wanna know?”

I shrug loosely. “Professional curiosity.”

“None of ‘em.”

“None of them? Really?”

“None.”

I smile. “Okay. Okay. If you don’t want to tell me that’s cool. How about I guess instead?” I look him up and down slowly. “Looking at you I see a big guy. Tall, thick. I’d say you’re on the defensive line, no doubt. You get hit a lot. Probably hurts like hell. Maybe you’ve got an injury that bugs you but the doc won’t let you play if he knows how bad it is. If that were true, I’d say the Vicodin was yours.”

He stares at me stoically, not amused by my summation.

My smile widens. “That’s not it, is it? No, you’re tight. Solid. You’re not hurting, but you like to make other people hurt. You like to get amped before a game. Come at guys hard. Hit ‘em even harder. For that you want speed. Amphetamines.”

His jaw clenches tightly. His fist clenches even tighter.

“Yeah, that’s it, isn’t it?” I continue softly. “You’re Adderall all the way, aren’t you?”

“You going somewhere with this?”

“What do you think?”

He scowls, his dark eyebrows knitting low over his eyes. “I think you’re threatening me.”

“I think you’re smarter than you look.”

“I don’t like being threatened.”

“Then don’t act like an asshole,” I warn him, my voice hard. My smile gone.

He breathes in and out heavily through his nose. “I could rat you out just as easily.”

“You could. Or we could come to an agreement. You don’t ever knock on my door again and I don’t tell the college it’s time for some ‘random’ drug testing. Deal?”

He stares at me angrily, debating. Wondering if I’m full of shit or not.

Spoiler; I’m not.

I don’t back down. I don’t look away. I hold his eye and I wait for him to make his move. Eventually he takes a slow step back, a tight smile on his lips as he lifts the book in a sort of farewell-salute. Then he heads out of the park without a word.

I wait until he’s on the outside edge to release the breath I was holding.

I grew up on the east side of Opal – the bad side. The poor side. I know how to fight, but the thing about fighting is you get hit. I’m not a fan of that. Only a psycho enjoys the feel of a fist connecting with his face. But as much as I don’t like getting hit, I don’t like taking shit even more, and Bryan started slinging it at me the second he knocked on my door. A point had to be made. Order had to be restored.

It’s three in the morning, meaning I have three hours to kill before Ritchie will wake up and open the doors to the pharmacy. I could go home, try to take a nap, but it never works. Once I’m up, that’s it. There is no going back. I could take a sleep aid, Christ knows I have enough of them, but I never tap my stash.

That’s the second rule of being a dealer.

I decide to hit up the gas station on the edge of town. It’s the only thing open all night, and with Bryan’s cash in my pocket I feel like splurging. Maybe I’ll buy milk. The refrigerator in the house shut off with the power over a week ago and I can’t remember the last time I tasted the stuff. My bones are probably turning to dust.

Aside from the random array of trash summersaulting in the wind, the parking lot is empty when I wander up to the door. I nod to the old guy looking bored and tired at the register. He eyes me intently before I hold up my bag for him to see. I put it on the floor by the newspaper rack. He juts his chin in thanks before returning to his boredom, staring straight ahead, still as a statue.

I take my time wandering around, checking out the aisles. I’m starting to wonder if this was the best place to kill time after all. It isn’t exactly the public library. It was designed to give you your Snickers and get you the hell out, quick as shit. The magazines on the racks are older than I am and I can’t even chat up the guy working here. He’s too busy playing possum behind dead, fixed eyes and a permanent frown. The place is almost silent except for the hum of the coolers and the buzz of the neon signs in the windows. The ding of the front door swinging open.

“Josh?” a woman asks curiously. “Is that you?”

I turn to find her standing behind me one aisle over, separated by corn chips, salsa, and three long years. I haven’t seen her since that night. Since I gave her everything I had, offered her every piece of me and then some, and she thanked me by disappearing. Leaving nothing but a blurry memory of peaches and cream skin. Tearful green eyes. Blond hair, pink lips, and heartbreak.

“Harlow.”