Black Diamond, Chapter II

Protagonist without a plot. Cue the living nightmare of mundane drudgery and selling weed to a host of unsavory characters. The dismal scene concludes with a fit of drunken rage and property damage.

KNOCK KNOCK

I awoke from fever dreams overtaken by near-fatal crashes on velvet highways with snow banks for guardrails only to meet the pounding hangover of a bright new day.

Stale tobacco breath clung thick as dirt clods in my mouth. My throbbing head a washed-up, splintered piece of driftwood. Once submerged in the murky depths only to crash against the rocks of an unshakeable seasickness. Insides crawling, I rolled over in bed to soothe the tyranny of an overly acidic stomach. With no desire to ever get up again I planned to take refuge from the outside world altogether. Hidden away from what drove me to drink to begin with until it became too sour to stomach, causing me to prematurely break free from my bedsheet cocoon. Emerging out of it in a form far uglier than before.

I rushed into the bathroom where the faint recollection of last night shot up past my throat. Somewhat relieved, I pulled the toilet handle. The sickly yellow bile swirled around the white porcelain bowl. Back pressed to the wall, I slid onto the floor. I had only started to recover from my morning routine when another KNOCK KNOCK rapped the front of my brain.

Unmovingly I listened. Only the cold tile rang back in painful silence as patchy recollections of skiing and drinking filled the blank recesses of my mind. Still doubled-over with pain from an upset stomach, I passed through the hallway into the living room in search of what I last dropped.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

That same dreadful knocking from before. Only full force and persistent. Someone at the door? At this ungodly hour, I only had but one idea.

On my way to answer the door I pieced together the night before in fleeting bits of drunken conflict followed by more drinking and more conflict. Now vestigial imprints of an erased past. Completely lost to known memory.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, don’t bloody your knuckles already. Coming!”

I cracked the door open partway. Allowing enough space for a hand to push through from the other side.

“Can’t you hear me knocking? It’s been over ten minutes now,” spat my unwelcome guest as he crossed the threshold.

I rubbed my eyes. Hard. Hoping my problem would disappear when they reopened again. It never did.

“Look who it is,” I said. “What a surprise.”

No need for passing pleasantries. Especially so early in the morning.

Lefty Bellows, true to his many quirks and defects, was the type to bust inside your home at his own leisure and personal convenience. Sometimes sticking around the smoky living room haze like a cross between a permanent fixture and an abhorrent eyesore. Boisterous, abrasive, and preposterous on all counts, he was a ceaseless babbler with the gift of gab and a penchant for skewing social decorum to his will. Contradictory by nature, he was a walking paradox. An impractical gnomist of non sequiturs who always spoke in half-truths, and whose next comment was either genius or insanity with every trick at his disposal to needle and pry whatever he wanted from you. He had the squat stature of a wrestler with a flat, squashed nose, ruddy cheeks, and an uncanny smile. His otherwise clean-shaven face betrayed by an unruly mop, upon which rested a black pair of Ray-Bans.

I would have lit into him further if he wasn’t so helpful fixing my various home repairs. After which he enjoyed pointing out how useless I was with little quips like, “Everybody knows that”. The always animated character was clearly in a hurry and proceeded to root through the desk drawers and book shelves in a frantic search for what didn’t want to be so easily found.

“Look at you,” he called from the far side of the room as he hastily rearranged items on the mantel of an old, unused fireplace. “No plans, I presume?”

“Those are the best plans.”

“I shouldn’t be interrupting then.”

“Only my REM cycle.”

“Early bird gets the worm, y’know?”

“Except the late worm doesn’t get eaten.” My voice sounded distant and far off. My trailing thoughts becoming caught in the cobwebbed corners of the living room. Setting back to my previous task, I scrounged around the inside of an overly cluttered coffee table. Every square inch of its surface covered in empty bags of fast food, scattered bits of trash including cigarette packs discarded like husks, the finished half-gallon bottle of bourbon with dozens of leftover beer cans, some mostly untouched, and two ashtrays overflowing with discarded butts. I felt around for that smooth touch of glass which contained my sole motivation for getting through the day. Only the quart-sized jar held much less than I remembered. Even the pouch of American Spirit rolling tobacco was nearly empty save for a pinch or two of scraggly brown shreds.

“Speaking of worms,” Lefty continued. “I thought you’d never surface.”

“Thanks again for that.”

“I don’t recall you thanking me before.”

“Because I didn’t.” I unfastened the metal clip to pop open the rubber-sealed lid of the large glass jar.

Of the limitless ways to enjoy cannabis we unanimously opted for spliff bowl snappers out of a straight beaker bong. Simple. No frills. Without all the carbureted bells and whistles. Yet highly effective.

I reached for the bong only to find it knocked over on its side. Another casualty from what I couldn’t remember last night.

Immediately I flew onto the scene. Heart racing. Long-dried bong water had already spilled over the coffee table and onto the other side where the rank smell carried up from a carpet still slightly wet and smelling worse than a container of rotten milk left out during a heat wave. Thankfully unbroken, I set the bong upright onto its beaker bottom. I grabbed a cup of what I assumed to be water and dumped its contents into the top of the long glass tube. Just enough to cover the bottom of a standard gauge downstem so I could scrape the leftovers from the grinder and load a bowl mixed with a considerable amount of tobacco flakes.

One hit. That was all it took to get swept away. Even if not the initial spark to my flame, it inhibited the desire for anything else.

The flick of my cheap gas station lighter only intensified Lefty’s erratic behavior. Which soon devolved into more nail-biting and hair-pulling. He rummaged on, ransacking every conceivable nook and cranny one could think to stash something. Muttering to himself like a madman possessed.

“What’s the rush?” I failed to stifle a yawn. The delayed response was atypical for Lefty, who was far too busy tearing my living room apart like a sweeping hurricane passing through. The smaller couch was flipped over. Its cushions stripped off and strewn about the room along with other fragments from the night before. The events after leaving Drunken Moose remained fuzzy, disconnected and uncertain. Which yielded a multitude of possibilities. None of them good. But worse things had been realized through the harrowing lens of bright-eyed sobriety. My foggy recollection of what happened seemed to end in defeated resignation and a subsequent collapse into bed.

My head drummed to the beat of a pounding migraine. Pins and needles stung my palms. The balls of my feet radiated pain. Still shaken by what I couldn’t remember, the walls slanted askew. Leaving me one hit away from blissful nonexistence.

Then there was Lefty, working himself up into a mad frenzy. A minor distraction within the smoky contours of an otherwise forgotten history.

“Do you know where I hid my sack?” He sat in a squat position. “I do not.” I replied.

Defeated, exasperated, he keeled over on the floor. His arms outstretched and legs spread. “Aha!” He trumpeted in triumph after spotting its hiding place from upside down.

“Phew. I was afraid I wouldn’t smoke before work.”

“Is it a requirement?”

“It helps the going get.”

He strutted back to the couches. His scrawny sack (stashed inside a broken-stringed acoustic guitar) and the next topic at hand.

“Tell you what, ever since I quit the car dealership—”

“You mean fired?”

“My point being, I found a piece of us dies whenever we leave a post or position. In cutting ties with our titles we’re severed from our network. Only to pick up another thread and begin anew—a modern renaissance man! As such, Aristo’s is my rebirth. Being the city’s only premier upscale Mediterranean restaurant. It boasts customers of top-notch pedigree whose mere presence elevates gratuity as well as my social ranking.”

“If you’re into that sort of thing,” I said.

“Sure am.”

“How’d they hire you, anyway?”

“I bullshitted my way through the interview by saying what they wanted to hear. Like being a certified maître d’ of fine dining.” Master of nomenclature and random if not entirely useless facts, Lefty was a true salesman at heart. And any service job suited him like his tailored collared shirt.

“Your nametag says waiter.”

“Semantics. I’ve got an embroidered uniform like the rest. Except for kitchen staff. There’s a hierarchy, of course. That’s why we’ve got job titles. But I digress... what a privilege it is to alter the state of mind you work in.”

My brain hurt. Too badly to focus on what he said. I hadn’t been hungover like this in years and still felt wasted. “What even happened last night?” I asked aloud to myself.

“You don’t remember?” Lefty asked.

“Parts of it. Why?”

“Boy, do I have a story for you—” he settled onto the adjacent couch. His meager sack still in hand as he rolled up his sleeves past his elbows. Readying himself for the telling.

Lefty loved pleasing people and telling stories. Never exclusively in that order. A storyteller at heart, he was known for his tall drinks and even taller stories. Spinning heavily embellished yarns that stretched well beyond need or truth. More so, he especially relished in retelling those personal matters you didn’t want others to know about and prided himself on being the first to relay a scandal. Especially when concerning my drunken self.

A pink tongue darted across his splintered lips. He crossed his legs and rocked, holding me over in a suspense which soon got the better of him.

“So I’m working my section, right? It was one of those miserably slow shifts without a whole lot to do other than pretend to look busy—a normal and uneventful Thursday, right? Nope. My coworker shows up with half a dozen unfinished bottles of assorted reds (mostly our best cab) left over from a large lunch party, still untouched, and asks, ‘Want to get fucked up at work?’ To which I say, ‘who not?’ And I grabbed one of the bottles and kept it to my mouth as I stuck a couple more under the table for later. Like impulse. We traded pulls on break until our lips turned purple and we could no longer remember whose tables were whose. Needless to say, Lefty got fucked up. So when you didn’t answer my call I decided to drive through and see what’s up. No lights on. No car in the driveway. I nearly climbed through the basement window except I know how much you hate when I do that so we smoked cigs on the porch until you arrived.”

“We?”

He paused, dumping his sack into an available spliff card. One of those laminated cards which get left on your windshield at public events folded lengthwise in half and with an inverted triangle folded on one side to keep the ground contents from falling out. He added a fat pinch from the tobacco pouch before continuing on.

“Billy was there too.”

Bit by bit, the missing pieces came together. Which only created an image that further served to puzzle. In a clearer state I would have kicked the meddling fools out. But since I had let them in, I was the biggest fool of all.

“We did everything possible to keep you comfortable, of course. You didn’t even know we were here. Can’t say the same for your friend though. But wait—that’s not the half of it,” Lefty said, removing the bowl piece so he could blow out the leftover smoke from the female joint of the bong. “Billy can corroborate this, as I was rather sloppy myself—” he paused again to take a hit.

For a moment, there remained a small smidgeon of hope this wouldn’t end in complete and utter embarrassment.

“And? Then what happened?”

“What do you expect?” He continued on, working through a full chest of billowing white smoke. “She took one look around and asked if it was a frat house before disappearing into the night. Which, in those heels was quite impressive,” his tale ended in a fit of hysterical laughter between dry chest-heaving coughs.

I sank deeper into my seat. Dejected and speechless. Lost in thought while the walls of brick and concrete bellowed back at me.

“Don’t look like that, what could we do?”

“You couldn’t just leave?” I spoke through grit teeth.

“One could argue. But I won’t. Besides, Billy was gentleman enough to give her a ride home. Are you off at the usual?”

“I’m not working.”

“Nice. Day off?”

“No. I quit.”

“The call center? When?”

“Yesterday.”

His inquisitive expression begged for me to explain, but there was nothing to further elaborate on about not wanting to be stuck inside of a gray cubicle all wired-up to receive incoming sales calls. Sometimes you needed to shake up your snow globe existence.

“Any thought of what you’ll do?” He frowned.

“Not even half of one.”

“What about rent? Or the cost of living to sustain such a lavish lifestyle as yours?”

“There are plenty illegitimate ways to get the bills paid, and the hours are great.”

“You’ll keep selling then?” His eyes darted from me to the weed jar and back. “Kinda hard to make ends meet without a legitimate source of income.”

“No need bridging that valley in one day.”

“You’ll have to sell a lot more drugs.” His relief at the prospect was palpable. God forbid something drastic happened like me no longer dealing his daily dime sacks.

“Maybe. Maybe I’ll get out of the game altogether,” I tempered his excitement. But it was like we were having separate conversations.

“So what you’re telling me is you need a job? Look no further.”

“No thanks.”

He was back on the edge of his seat. Cellphone in hand. Eager to sell me more.

“I know a guy,” he began. “Don’t bother.” I stopped him short. Lefty knew a guy for everything. But more often than not these connections were faulty at best, and expecting any promise to come to fruition was more pointless than planting seeds at a landfill.

I reached for my jar while Lefty rebounded with the pitch to his proposal.

“You know him. Rob. Real tall. Ginger. Kinda talks like a hayseed but a great guy though. We ran into each other at Batter’s Up the other day and get this, he sells paint jobs door-to-door and made over 20K last summer. Better yet, you set your own schedule and there’s ample opportunity for growth. He got promoted in under three months and is now managing his own team. He comes from good people so you know he’ll take care of you too.”

I knew him all right. He came over on occasion to buy weed and hammer down a bottle of gin with his best friend before driving off to different parties. Only his spitter of chew remained behind where he left it on the carpet.

“Almost sounds too good to be true,” I said.

“Right? I’d take him up on it if not already established at Aristo’s. Might not be bad to put yourself to some use.”

“So dealing drugs is bad now?”

“On the contrary—my how words do get ahead of themselves. But you can’t only think about today.” He began repeatedly tapping the glass bowl piece against the side of an orange glass ashtray that looked to be picked up from somebody’s late grandma’s estate sale.

“I can as long as business keeps booming. Today’s vices are tomorrow’s profits—please stop doing that,” I about snatched the bowl piece away from him. “If you break it, you replace it. Not that any head shop is open this early.”

“This isn’t my first-time smoking bong. Besides, your pokey stabby is too coated with resin to clear the hole.”

With a final clink the gray cone of ash from Lefty’s cashed bowl fell into the ashtray to burn out in a pile with the rest.

“Apparently Rob’s been on campus every day recruiting new prospects. I’ll arrange a time for you.”

“Play matchmaker all you want. I’m not meeting him.” I loaded another bowl with a stream of smoke still issuing from the top.

Lefty pushed some of the clutter on the coffee table aside to clear space for him to set his phone down.

“Too late. Mull it over for now while I help keep the heat on.” He ended on a high note.

I stuck my face into the glass chamber. Filled it.

Having been confined to a work schedule long enough I preferred my own dealings. My chances of holding down another soul-sucking day job were grim, and the silver lining to my humble side operation was having no schedule to adhere to or boss to answer to other than the clientele and their exorbitant demands. For once I might be able to squander life’s ambitions on my own accord. No mind having nothing to show for my years of poor investments.

“Before I go, can I get another dime?” Lefty snatched the bong again and tipped the last scraps from his card into the bowl.

My agitation burned hotter than the smoldering ashtray as he added the last remnants from the tobacco pouch to ensure his preferred 70:30 mixture of brown to green.

“Do you have money for the last one?” I pressed. The seconds ticked as Lefty sparked the dry papery flakes in the bowl before pulling it.

“Of course, I do. But I need a couple dollars for the gas tank. Here’s a fiver for now. I’m bound to get the other ten in tips at work.”

“You mean fifteen?” I took the crinkled bill before it could be taken off the table.

“That’s what I said.” He was now in front of the mirror attempting to pull his tie even straighter.

Whether he had that (or any at all) he would still need another sack tonight. No wonder we’re forever caught in a web of perennial debt. Like flies.

“OK,” I conceded. Adding: “But only if you leave a couple cigs.” There were some upsides to keeping company with chain-smokers and fiends.

“That’s much better than smoking a slappy,” Lefty said, then paused to smile. “Which does hold a special place in my heart for those rainy days when certain dealers I know are dry.”

Ever the enigma, it was hard to believe anything spouting from his mouth. What exactly was a slappy? The equivalent of resin hitting a pipe but for the bong. Reserved for those desperate moments when you resort to smoking tobacco bowls topped with a healthy heaping of kief. Once the bowl ignites you start to sweat. As if a Bunsen burner was lit beneath your skull. The body rocks in convulsions. Making it helpful to stay seated while you gasp for the oxygen stolen from your lungs. It was enough to make your internal organs cringe at the mere mention. Nonetheless, the grinder’s catcher never lasted long under such times of duress.

I further indulged him by breaking apart one of the sacks, a pre-weighed half-single, setting aside 0.6 grams for him while keeping the rest for my personal knowing perfectly well I’d be paying for it later on.

Lefty’s smile reached up to the dark bags under his eyes. Giving him the appearance of a ventriloquist dummy. He snatched up the baggy. Then he tossed four cigarettes on the table and darted off before his shift started in five minutes.

Sinking, bong in hand, I promptly forgot what seemed so pressing moments before. My eyes shut. Despite the absence of last night’s clutter, there lingered a trace even the strongest chemical couldn’t remove. Like a coffee stain on a white shirt. Or the musky smell of bong water invading my nostrils. Burnt out, and suspended in my mindless stupor, my clean spring of thought became muddied at the muffled buzzing of my phone stuck between two couch cushions.

MEETING AT NOON. CAMPUS LIBRARY

My dried-out eyeballs rolled back until breaking contact with the message on the tiny screen. Time to relish in my recent unemployment, I thought as I deposited Lefty’s five bucks into the weed jar which held enough weight to last me through the weekend.

I plucked out another nug and tossed it into the grinder’s waiting mouth. Its’ silver teeth glinted back with hungry anticipation to crush up a couple more hits to start the day. I dumped the ground weed into a folded joker playing card and pinched the end of a cigarette to sprinkle tobacco on top before fluffing it with my fingertips. After using the bottom end of a resin coated pokey stabby to clear the bowl piece, I completed the ritual by loading it to the brim.

It wasn’t until the cool glass touched my smooth, bald chin that I realized one of the more important pieces was missing. I stripped the couch cushions and flung them around the room, cursing Lefty out all the while as I tore open drawers to dump them on the ground. Nothing. Not even a book of matches. The only thing worse than not having weed was having it and no way to smoke it! I collapsed onto the couch. Already resigned to despair until I happened notice a chartreuse lighter hiding in plain sight on the coffee table where Lefty sat moments before. Often what we sought lies before us unseen.

The torched bowl lit up like dry kindling. I drew in thick, pearly white smoke through the downstem. It yellowed at the base, milking the barrel before it reached my lungs where I held it in until forced to cough it out. The spliff hit to the dome was enough to thrust my surroundings into gravitational orbit. Objects in the room; couches, TV, coffee table and every item on it; spun and swirled around me beneath the ceiling fan. All of this to further augment reality by feeling that funny sparkling pop of your brain cells every so often. Being ripped is all you wanted, and more than you bargained for at the same time. Some think being a stoner is all hippy flower power bull shit. It’s also a revelator of the greatest terrors one never knew existed. Everything from manic fits of paranoia standing in a food line to feeling like a robotic alien out of its skin. A funhouse mirror of sorts in which I preferred the drug-induced hallucinations to sobering reality. As I tilted back to let the rush of a pyrrhic victory take hold, all inhibition and expectations were lost. But the spark of my discontent raged on. Building from a tiny spark into an uncontrollable fire. Eyeballs became dry as arid tracts of desert, revealing conditions which, like myself, were in a constant state of disrepair. Silky cobwebs topped the musty curtain folds. The walls bowed out in odd proportions where the old coal furnace was plastered over. Even the popcorn ceiling was yellow with the tar of smoke while stacks of empty 12-packs and 30-racks were heaped into towering piles in the kitchen.

Everything was right where I needed it. A life perfectly in disarray.

I locked the bowl piece into the bong and reloaded it with renewed vigor. Pointed it at my head. Pulled the trigger.

More time. More subconscious stirrings.

Lost inside the swirling vapors, like one prone to dreaming. And my case was as hopeless as it gets. I was a dreamer who dreamed about doing things more than I did them. Because I knew as soon as I dreamed about it that it would never come to be.

I considered the possibilities available to me with the gray wisps gathering overhead. I used to have time to burn. Now, days off had a way of singling out what needed to be done. Sometimes too much so. I confronted the same outlook as yesterday, and each day prior. The prospects of turning the page were bleak when I repeated the same chapter over and over again. As if locked on a continual loop.

Simply no escape from this palimpsest existence. Only earlier this week I considered washing my hands clean altogether and focusing on my sales conversion. Playing cog to a wheel much larger than me.

But no matter how many times I clambered out of this rocky pit, every misstep sent me falling further into its depths. And stepping out to meet that cold surface world was comparable to those passing shivers felt when a draft slips through the cracks.

Then again, what better day to cast off old habits and try something new? Apart from feeling like a prisoner made to do menial tasks for eight hours a day, work afforded the greatest opportunity of all: change. I dreamt of what lie beyond the hive mindset of needy customers and friends dropping by at their convenience but as usual I was too attracted by the allure of going against the grain.

Nearly a quarter past and I was late from the outset. But I decided to make a show of it regardless. One couldn’t expect any different from a prospective applicant perpetually stoned out of their gourd. If I were to leave any mark behind it would be by sheer merit of my many failed attempts getting started.

I checked the kitchen for some sustenance. All of the cupboards were empty and the fridge full of nothing but fermented barley and hops. I cracked open a beer and dragged my feet to the bedroom where I chose from a heap of laundry on the floor for what clothes to wear. I settled on a shrunken t-shirt with baggy jeans combo that was about as unbecoming as the faded leather belt fastened tightly to hold it around the waist. I was so high after struggling to pull on two mismatched socks I forgot to take another hit on my way out the door.

Almost.

The red “check engine” light bid me good morning as I turned the key in the ignition.

I took Main Street towards downtown. A view from which the high-rises making up the cityscape could be seen. The Grand America Hotel. Wells Fargo Center. The Walker Center. Its neon tower flashing blue to indicate cloudy skies. Just beyond cell and radio towers could be seen on the dome-shaped peak to the north. The city was abuzz with those racing through their day to get to the weekend. A frenzied swarm of activity which comprised those heading to work, currently working, and the loafers like me who were free to do as they pleased.

I passed a strip of scuzzy hotels with defunct businesses interspersed throughout which were slowly succumbing to crumbled brick, then I turned east; up towards the top of the hill. Past Liberty Park where I got lost in the neighborhoods of a historic district in which the avenues were named after Ivy League schools; Princeton, Harvard, Yale, and eventually reached a cemetery lined with fir trees and blue cedar. The sight of row after row of pristine headstones destined for ruin was a harsh sting which came accompanied with the recollection of days dead and gone. I couldn’t wrap my head around how I’m still stuck in the same spot. As if rooted; gnarled, twisted over, covered with overgrowth and spindly, far-reaching boughs prohibiting the chance to break through the lingering smog, which was also a byproduct of the city itself.

Upon entering the campus of our state’s flagship school, I took in in the familiar haunts of my old stomping grounds with a passing shudder. The curvy road which skirted past the Field House and football stadium that held the 2002 Winter Olympics memorial intersected with University Street. Its west side lined by weathered, rundown bungalows with sagging front porches that frowned at passerby.

I always seemed to be heading toward the places I’d rather avoid. Academia functioned largely by teaching you how to be like all the rest while hand-selecting the brightest stars. It should come as no shock to find higher education locked behind a paywall. The foundations of business being built upon the backs of the working class.

For my part, I didn’t have the looks, charisma, nor the smarts. My bulb being burned out long ago,

Little sun permeated the cloudy white sky but reflected brightly off slate gray streets smoother than sheets of glass. To match the apocalyptic ambience, there wasn’t a single student to be seen bustling around Presidents Circle or its poorly shoveled walks. The semicircle had one open spot in the metered parking in front of a shivering giant sequoia somewhere between the hall for performing arts and mathematics building. I had no eye drops to conceal my bloodshot eyes and just enough change in the car’s ashtray to feed the meter for an hour. Which should be plenty of time to meet with Rob and get a quick rundown of this new gig.

Now, if only I had started walking to the library I could’ve made a good impression.

I walked the opposite direction and crossed the street instead. Down past the print and copiers and down a flight of tiled steps to the red lantern at the bottom of a handrail which lit up the glass storefront of a local pizzeria. Lost somewhere between a neon orange open sign and a large white finger pointing to the entrance was a small white square which read ‘Help Wanted’ in small, bold print.

The brick basement was about as inviting as a nuclear bomb shelter. A dimness that, even during daytime, rendered visibility scarce when viewed through the brick arch beside the counter. Its drab, colorless walls brightened by colorful graffiti which got scrawled all over the walls, tables, and ceiling with beer-soaked proclamations of love and wisecrack adages to last well beyond the end of senior year. For years this underground establishment has been a mainstay for drunken college kids seeking late-night munchies until 3 AM on weekends. A film of grease coated every grimy surface. Accompanied by a yeasty smell that delivered a swift punch to the olfactory senses upon entry.

It was completely empty inside. No one could be found behind the counter either. I stood there absent-mindedly reading the specials on the chalkboard when someone shuffled into view. I turned to face a bleach white face stuffed into a loose collar of greasy neck folds. OTTO printed upon his crooked nametag.

Otto shifted weight from one foot to the other as he spoke.

“Erm, yes, how can I help you?”

The elliptical shape of his body made his height disproportionate to his weight. Bulgy, bulbous eyes fixed me with a blank stare as I inquired about the job opening.

His puzzled face quickly matched mine. Stalling, the gears whirred as he scratched a worn spot atop his sweaty, balding head. The perfect bulls-eye for passing birds.

“Help wanted sign?” He sputtered as if uncertain which words he wanted to choose. “In the front window?”

There followed a long pause before the malfunctioning automaton puttered again in a renewed surge of broken vigor.

“Not so sure we’re looking right now…” He mumbled in such a low utterance any objection could be mistaken for a deep exhalation amongst a host of other mechanical tics he couldn’t control or suppress. Doing so, proved to a great deal of strain. His gelatinous spine quivered. His chipped teeth clenched, biting lips which purpled like a swollen radish. In the end he whisked me back with the flash of a cracked smile.

“We could stick you on takeout, I suppose.”

Already caught in the web of my stony stupor I wasn’t one-hundred percent sure he even wanted me to follow along. But I crossed the divide anyway, walking around the counter and through a swinging door into a small kitchen area with a pizza oven and an even smaller side office.

The manager’s office was hardly big enough to cram a filing cabinet, its bottom drawer jam-packed and hanging open like an unhinged mouth with its tongue lolled out, next to a desk with stacks of paper which nearly connected roof to floor in precarious columns that made it so cluttered it was impossible to tell when someone sat there.

“There’s so much to put in order around here. But that’s what it takes to serve up the best pies in the state. As with all things, the show must go on,” said Otto with a shrug before shuffling through the mound of loose scraps long enough to nearly send me leaving.

Otto eventually retrieved from inside his desk a worn, crumpled hat with a spot of pizza grease on its bill. “This should be worn at all times,” he said. “Consider it your uniform.”

I fully surveyed my new employer for the first time. His frumpy work shirt had become so overworn that the billowing shirtsleeves cascaded in folds from the elbow and cinched off at the wrists. The stretched-out elastic showing like lacey frill. The old material fading further into a prune-like purple and sickly green. Turning him into a walking particolored pincushion complete with a ridiculous clownish smile.

“It’s a little big,” I said as Otto leaned back into his chair behind the desk.

“One size fits all. I know what you’re thinking. Don’t worry. The cost gets automatically deducted out your first check.”

It wasn’t until I donned my oversized work cap that I realized the gravity of my situation: blowing off one job opportunity for another I equally didn’t want. The absurdity of which needed no further validation as he handed me a stapled packet of papers along with a plastic pen that was running out of ink.

I began filling out the blank spaces between the lines. Otto lingered on the periphery. Checking his scratched wristwatch every couple of minutes.

I was midway through the packet when a younger employee clocked in. “I thought we weren’t hiring,” he made his presence known. No extension of the hand as he wheedled his way into the office.

Otto’s relief was palpable.

“Ah, there you are. Derrick’s the linchpin of our entire operation. He’s only been with us a couple months now but has quickly become our rising star.”

“I can take over from here. I’ll show the newbie how we do things until a call comes in.” Derrick spoke in a tinny voice that desperately needed oil. His smug face riddled in crater-sized acne that oozed pus just looking at it. With paper-white skin the same intensity of a lighthouse beacon during daytime. Spotlighting a ready eagerness to enforce his newfound authority.

“Great idea. I’ll leave you to it.” Having been absolved of his managerial duties, Otto saw us out the office and promptly shut the door.

Without any proper direction given to him my new trainer oversaw every pen stroke. Stooping to crane his neck over my shoulder as he hovered close enough for his hot breath to touch my neck.

“What is this?” He said, unable to contain himself at last.

“Paperwork for employment?”

I lifted the papers to show him.

“I’ll take that, thank you very much,” he swiped the packet from my hand only to discard it with disgust. “No use signing forms until you’ve been properly trained.”

“What about our manager, Otto?”

The corners of his mouth curled into a sneer.

“Who? Otto Pilot? What about him? He’s on automatic. A symptom of his long-term conditioning. But let me tell it to you straight,” he explained, then, using a breathless string of allegorical euphemisms, he broke down everyone’s specific role and function for what felt like hours.

It wasn’t even half past one.

I was quickly assigned my first task. Washing the stack of plates and dishes piling up on the reflective metal countertop to the left of the sink.

I would have been fine with any menial chore if only Derrick hadn’t stuck around to instruct me through it. I was told to spray them first with hot water and how to do it using a long retractable hose. Then load the dishes into a metal cube until the racks were stuffed to full capacity.

The door slid shut for a steamy ten to fifteen seconds.

Next, Derrick walked me through removing the clean dishware, still hot to the touch, and dry them before setting them in the black plastic bins to the right and repeat the process once the washer had emptied again.

2:00-3:00 PM. I was told to wipe the tables with a cold, wet rag and sweep the front lobby. Still, not a single call came through.

At a quarter to four he put me on line prep. Having me run in and out of the walk-in fridge to grab armfuls of ingredients to chop for toppings; sliced tomato, green peppers, bacon, onions, and mushrooms, each of them filling up a large plastic container. Derrick was there to supervise. Barking new orders at me to follow.

Afterwards it was preparing pizza dough made from scratch. Followed by hand-shredding the mozzarella. Even the pizza sauce was made in-house.

Then came maintenance duties.

Derrick lectured me throughout. The mundane drudgery devised to torture and kill faster than each task prior. Modern man’s workweek was by far our cruelest invention. Jobs were a career performance where the value of your role is measured by performance and its influence over others. Eight hours a day, five days a week, on maximum efficiency equated to a routine that ran like clockwork.

But I didn’t say a word. Except to ask if I could finish my W-4.

“I’m not done with you yet,” said Derrick, nearly tired from bossing me around when a smile lit up his face. Having dreamt up the perfect task for me to do.

“OK then. Clean the bathrooms.”

Deep down I knew this had no end. And the handwritten ‘Out of Service’ sign taped to the men’s door was where I drew the line.

“No.” I spoke back at last.

Derrick’s sinister grin vanished at once.

“W-what do you mean? Why not?”

“I’m on takeout.”

“Bullshit. You’ll do what you were hired for.”

By some miracle a phone came through at that exact moment. Each sustained ring echoed off the brick wall in our continued silence. Without another word about it I picked up the phone before Derrick could reach it.

It was for takeout. I kindly informed the customer that their order would be fulfilled within the hour and hung up the receiver.

“What they say?” Derrick asked.

“Two large pizzas. Both cheese. Three medium pizzas. Two pepperoni. The other pineapple with ham. Five salads. Four with house dressing. The fifth one ranch. And a large 2-liter of Coke. Or something to that effect.”

“That’s your job,” he smiled gleefully.

“Not anymore. I quit.”

Back in the manager’s office. I took off my grease-stained hat and I set it on the desk.

“Oh, right” said Otto, his watery eyes shifting between me and the TV monitor which showed security cam footage of the lobby. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“What for?” I blurted out. Normally I tried to contain my thoughts but couldn’t help loosening my tongue on this misfortunate soul. “I mean, don’t you get tired of carrying on with the same charade day after day? Or is there something else I’m missing here?”

His frumpy frame wobbled like a pitiful lump of minimal proportions. He stared off pensively.

“I too once desired to experience the inner workings of the magic backstage. To draw back the curtain: revealing the master control panel. It takes me back many years to when I first started during college. Oh! how thoughts digress. The Show Must Go On.” He finished with his oft-repeated mantra.

We took refuge in the tiny office. Watching the security monitor in silence as the pizzeria became lively with backpack toting, rosy-cheeked students whose mouths never ceased to stop talking while its only employee ran a one-man show desperately trying to meet their demands with each pass.

“Got some hooch if you’d like?” said Otto.

“I didn’t know there was a bar here.”

“Not officially, of course. I keep this stowed away for rainy days.”

He opened the keyboard tray. But only after checking the office door first. “Here’s to mud in your eye.” He nipped at a pint of cheap rye the same brownish color as his teeth before offering it to me. I kindly refused.

Otto blinked a few times. A vague expression pulled at the lining of his saggy face.

“Right. And what about the matter of payment?” He said at last. The show must go on.

“I’ll take whatever’s on tap.”

That was that. Back on the receiving end with a cold one I felt right at ease no longer having to integrate with an openly flawed system. Derrick even served me up a slice of pizza so I wasn’t only drinking. Per the mandates of state law.

Business really started to pick up. Derrick bused tables, fulfilled every order for takeout and dine-in customers, and kept my glasses filled. He wouldn’t hesitate to stop and scowl at me with each pass before the next hungry group flooded in. Eventually he got spread so thin he couldn’t manage to pour me another drink.

So I helped myself to a 32 oz tall boy from the dairy fridge and stumbled out to meet the familiar cold with open arms.

Free again. A cigarette stuck out my mouth.

It was hard to imagine all the pains which had troubled me this morning. Alcohol had plastered a smile on my face that even a parking ticket for an expired meter couldn’t take away. In fact, I even had the gall to joke about it being the most expensive valet service I ever received. I drove with a slight swerve in my lane from there. Musing over the sad reality of putting on a daily routine to earn a living. It wasn’t hard to leave that smudged storefront of the working world behind without a second look.

I had to make a pit stop to keep the buzz rolling. The gas station on the corner peddled more than plastic-wrapped sweets and sweaty hot dogs on rollers to the paying public. Transactions were made 24/7. Inside and out. The parking lot being a festering hole of activity with drug deals done under the narrow pines and where disease-ridden flesh in booty shorts shivered in the bitter cold. Displaying a remarkable resilience to their trade despite the elements. Shady deals in broad daylight were no different than the shameless storefront advertisements boasting a wide variety of snack goods, candy bars, and other sugarcoated toxins you shouldn’t want to eat. All at unbeatable prices. Along with extra-large cups of synthetically-flavored frozen sludge which got slurped up with long, brightly-colored plastic straws. There must be one of these convenient stores in every neighborhood across the nation. We were a culture dealing in excess, with age restrictions on booze and tobacco which accomplished nothing but making kids more creative to obtain it.

The bristly-headed clerk at the cash register watched me with dark, beady eyes which flitted from behind a bushy eyebrow. Built upon a wiry frame that hardly supported an equally bushy black moustache resting below his flared nostrils. His wire spring mouth set to scowl.

I greeted him with a friendly nod. His brows furrowed even further. The pupils in his eyes contracted to record my every movement like the glossy black cameras overhead. I bought beer and cigarettes from him almost daily and not once did he stop regarding me as if any other would-be thief.

His periscope neck extended for a better view over the aisle as I walked to the row of dairy fridges lining the back wall. Fully stocked with colorful cans of sugary colas, heavily caffeinated energy drinks, and fruit juice of every variety. I found what I sought tucked away in the far corner.

At the pull of the black plastic handle, I was met with a welcome cool blast of air. I scoured the selection with an eye shut in search of a golden case which didn’t want to be discovered at the bottom.

The chilled glass bottles chattered when I placed them on the counter.

“And a pouch of American Spirit. The light blue one, please,” I said to the clerk, already withdrawing my wallet from my jeans pocket.

He shot an impenetrable stare back at me from behind the cash register.

“ID?” He raised a brow in skepticism. His accent thicker than the plastic sheen of hotdogs in the roller. Fake or not, it was the same ID he’d seen countless times before. A phony laminated piece of plastic which legitimized my right to keep poisoning myself.

I slapped it down on the counter.

He picked it up. His searching eyes shifted from the face on the card to the one before him as if scrutinizing each detail before scanning the magnetic strip on back.

Once I had been deemed fit for transaction the clerk demanded payment in exchange, but not before remarking with added scorn. “Just old enough,” he said.

“And I’m not getting any younger,” I volleyed back. Sometimes it took a brisk tongue to understand another.

I swiped my debit card not entirely sure if I’d have enough in my account to cover payment. But half the fun was finding out whether it would be approved for purchase or not.

The night was young. Teeming with an abundance of potential soon to be squandered. A lit flame in my chest propelled me up to hot air balloon heights while the bottles jingled merrily in the passenger seat.

My cellphone rang.

All that used to glow burned out in an instant. I let the call ring straight through voicemail, wanting five minutes alone without any of the riff raff around as my tire jumped the curb leaving the parking lot. My suspicions were confirmed by the red jeep with a black soft top parked in front of 16 West. A sight which further extinguished any spark remaining inside.

Lefty was huddled on the top step of the porch. Shrouded in cigarette smoke.

I shut down before pulling in fully. Any window of time for myself was promptly slammed shut and I only had myself to blame.

The foul bastard descended upon me, swooping around the hood of my car still dressed in his full work attire. His clumsily carved face popped into my driver’s side window. “I was having drinks with Billy in the neighborhood and had nowhere to go,” he began. I said nothing.

Like usual, he needed a couch to crash on for the better part of the evening. Something I tried putting off as long as possible before the coming masses picked up.

Up the front steps, flanked by juniper shrubs with a rose bush growing against the brick of each column. I waited for him to proceed with bated breath.

“What? I had no choice. I tried calling you. No answer.”

“Phone’s dead.”

“Where you been?”

“Out.”

“Drinking alone? That’s the first sign of a problem. Ask anybody.”

“Says the one dressed for his own funeral,” I jested towards his ironed white-collar shirt with black bowtie noosed tightly at the neck, black satin vest and matching black slacks, and polished black shoes. The typical garb for an indentured servant of fine dining.

“Call me next time. We’ll go together. Also, I already told Billy to roll through. I knew you’d understand. Here he is now,” Lefty’s words got drowned out by the rumble of an approaching motorcycle.

Its rider came dressed in helmet, outdoor gloves, and a heavy riding jacket completely zipped up to the chin. All of which got removed like body armor, piece by piece, once he hopped off.

“How are you riding still?” Lefty asked him. More in the manner of a cool remark than a question.

Billy briskly answered, taking Lefty’s lit cigarette. “What? It isn’t that cold.”

He puffed on the cigarette. His helmet held underarm. Perhaps the last one in denial that summer fell straight into the cold season’s frigid embrace, he was far more groomed by comparison to us. A capricious, burly figure led by slight arrogance. With distinct equine features which sloped into an elongated chin suggesting classical handsomeness even while wearing his glasses.

“What you got for us, guy?” Billy asked me. His nonchalance contradicted by two jack-o-lantern eyes which lit up on the golden case in my hand.

“The champagne of beers.” Lefty answered.

“Ah, I see.”

Billy continued to mumble back.

I went straight for the door.

Whether at the click of a lighter or a beer cracking open, Billy’s ears would perk up and his eyes widen for any potential hand out. And being currently unemployed his mooching left him indebted to his bank, parents, friends, and every dealer who ever had the disservice of dealing with him. Despite all of this he still managed to frequent the bars and was notorious for picking up dime sacks with the ten dollars cash back from his 99-cent iced tea purchase to cover his last front. The wheel of debt spinning eternally.

Stuck. Like the front door key in its metallic grooves. Then the lock turned with a tiny click.

Even once the door clinked shut our frozen breath could be seen. Lefty cranked the thermostat dial. Side-eyeing the unopened case of beer until he couldn’t contain it any longer.

“Quit holding out on us,” he said. His words as irritating as stinging nettles. “If I knew you were buying, I’d have brought some money.”

“Me too,” Billy sucked down the last of his cigarette before extinguishing it. Smoke spiraled up from the glass ashtray on the coffee table.

“You can always pay me later,” I said.

Billy’s bottle hissed as he cracked it open.

“Maybe if it was PBR.”

“I’m not a fan of High Life either,” Lefty cracked his open. “But I’ll drink it.”

He tilted back his head and took a hefty swig.

“Help yourselves,” I said, knowing full too well nothing was long for the night. Which was why I preferred to live alone. With no roommates around to fill up the oven with dirty dishes or steal kief from the grinder.

I cracked open my bottle and the tension subsided at its quick release. I sucked down the bland, near flavorless lager along with the fleeting possibility of ever relaxing on my terms again, settling into the single-seated arm chair with the indented cushion which provided easy access to the pot smoking paraphernalia stowed beneath the coffee table.

Lefty, shifting to a tone of seriousness, then inquired about my workday: “So the real question is, how’d your meeting with Rob go?”

“It didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Work out.”

I tried leaving it at that. But my short answers wouldn’t suffice. “We never met,” I admitted to him flat out.

“Aww c’mon—I lined it all up for you! Last time I do you a favor.” He said, emptying a cigarette onto the ground weed in his card.

“I did get another job though.”

“You never cease to amaze me. When do you start?”

“Today. But I quit,” I said. To which, Lefty stood back aghast. I continued: “And I plan to keep it that way.”

The type to write in all caps, Billy spoke in short declarative sentences. “I used to have a job. Remember, Lefty?” He began, scrutinizing a speck of dirt under his fingernail as he spoke.

“You mean the one I set you up with?”

“You set me up all right. Set me up for failure from the start.”

“It’s not my fault you lost it so soon.”

“Oh, aren’t you adorable? Not only did they think I had a food-handlers permit but you blabbed to all of your coworkers about my sex life.”

“So what happened?” I asked, glad for a change of subject while knowing perfectly well the story might never end without some audience participation.

“Ask him. He knows damn well,” Billy spat at Lefty who was unable to bite his spade-shaped tongue. The dynamic of their relationship often being a querulous one. Filled with lots of back-and-forth banter and good-natured ribbing.

“This is where it gets good.” Lefty leaned in, digging one of his elbows into my ribcage. “Listen close. Because as luck would have it one of Billy’s flings now dates the general manager.”

Billy, who was clearly affronted by somebody else telling the story, jumped right in— “And get this, the kid gets so upset having to work with me, let alone share a room in the same building, that he gave the owner an ultimatum. Him or me. Lo and behold they chose him. Now thanks to this blathering loudmouth, I’m out of my side piece and a job. Cheers.”

I tapped the neck of his bottle.

Lefty gave no explanation for the inconvenience this may have caused. “I’d say you came out all right in the end. How many assholes do you know whose hook-up provides them free rent?”

“Who? Ash? That was a magical arrangement. Albeit short-lived. I didn’t cook or clean but offered her payment in another currency,” Billy’s face glazed over as he recalled the particulars. “The relationship remained amicable until that fateful night I brought another girl back to the apartment. I didn’t realize open still meant exclusive. As for that GM, it’s not my problem you can’t control your chick.”

His tirade ended with a defiant snort. A knit in his brow.

“That only proves you’re a bastard,” said Lefty with admiration. “Reputations get sullied for less than that.”

“No worse than by your own merit.”

“True. I’m simply waiting long enough for you to hit it big.”

“Don’t expect to ride my coattails,” Billy scoffed. Flattered, nonetheless.

“Speaking of, you owe me ten dollars.”

“What nonsense is this?”

“My what a feeble memory you have. You don’t recall our wager?”

“I don’t bet. Least not with the likes of you,” Billy said. Smoke streaming out his flared nostrils as he stamped out his fiery butt in the overflowing ashtray.

“Except you did. And fortunately for me, you always lose. Remember playing flip cup earlier at VFW? After our second or third round I said he wouldn’t last a week at his new gig. Actually, I said closer to a day or two tops, but rounded up to be fair. Don’t play dumb. We even shook hands. A dime bag should suffice. Let’s make it a single considering any future bets left to be won.”

“How do you figure that you won?”

“Closest without going over, baby,” Lefty said. “You can place the dime on your tab.”

“I didn’t even sign their paperwork.” I attempted to defend myself.

“Thus, he technically was never employed,” said Billy. “You owe me.”

Friends. Their one crowning virtue was picking out your every idiosyncrasy, warts and all. Exposing them like a freshly opened scab for everyone to see.

“What a lousy thing to be betting on in the first place,” I shook my head. “You better pay off the rest of what you owe.”

“But, but,” Lefty for once had no words and grumbled as he dug out his wallet. The argument lost.

Billy handed the ten-dollar bill to me, adding, “I needed a dime anyway. Want to make it a dub?”

I pretended not to heed his narrow gaze. But this was guaranteed money—only at the expense of convenience and time.

“When will you have the money?”

“You know I’m good for it.”

“You’ve been good for weeks now.”

“I promise to have some of it soon, if not most of it. I’ve got money locked up in a new venture—but can’t disclose more at the moment.” His response was too longwinded for me to bother with so I reached for the glass jar which held enough to tide me over the weekend. The rest already separated into pre-weighed sacks. An ounce. Two half ounces. Five eighths, and six half singles. This policy was the best insurance for never burning through profit with diminishing returns. Leaving the crumbs sitting at the bottom as my personal.

I dug out my digital scale which turned off automatically after five seconds of use and weighed out 1.2 grams. In the absence of a sandwich bag, I placed it in the plastic cellophane from an empty cigarette pack to hand to Billy.

All I wanted was to smoke a bowl and remove myself altogether. Only I had to wait for each of them to use the grinder first and find an available spliff card to better handle the ground-up nugs and spliff them to their preference.

Our talk soon devolved to pointless, mind-numbing drivel. Which, Lefty was always dripping with. As if drawing from a deep reservoir of absurdism using a bottomless bucket.

I fished out a couple of fuzzy green nugs from my personal in order to retreat to my only solace. There once was a time when smoking used to be fun and brought people together by pitching on sacks together or providing a commonality between strangers if there wasn’t one otherwise. Now it was primarily done in isolation. A temporary smokescreen placed between myself and the outside world to protect my last shred of sanity. Even if that would dematerialize soon enough.

My vision blurred. Some highs were creepers and you didn’t know how high you were until thoughts began to lag. Others hit you full force before the smoke ever left your lungs. Spliff bowls out of the bong left you focused, more alert. A bell ringer in which the desired effect could be likened to ramming a sharp instrument into the frontal lobe behind the middle of your forehead. A sensation so short-lived you couldn’t help from doing it again and again. That and it helped saved weed, or so I thought.

A not so foreign sensation creeped up from the pit of my stomach. Phantom pangs which lurched from the deepest fathoms below. Serving as a reminder that I hadn’t eaten for hours. My appetite had always been mercurial. With sporadic hunger coming and going depending on whether I was stoned or not.

In response to howitzer shells bursting into a vat of bubbling stomach acids, I opened the fridge to barren metal racks and a noisome smell, prompting me to slam it back shut again. The pantry and cupboards above the sink nearly proved fruitless until my finger touched the corner of a paper pouch in the back corner.

Hands trembled as I brought it out to the light. Revealing a peach-flavored oatmeal packet. The thought of steamy chunks sliding down my throat antagonized my already upended stomach. But it would have to do. I ripped the packet with my teeth and dumped its contents into the cleanest looking bowl to stick inside the microwave for a minute.

Another subterranean rumble passed. Louder than before. Demanding I shovel something, anything, of substance into that stirring abyss below so I gave my ceramic bowl a couple unenthusiastic stirs.

I lifted a heaping spoonful. I stuck it far into the back of my throat to bypass the taste buds. Swallowed it. I dug up a second helping of the colorless lump soon to be stuck into my unwilling mouth. But another bite proved to be one too many—forcing me to drop the spoon or risk spewing the meager amount I managed to bury already, my gums smacking in disgust.

Before I could even digest my cellphone buzzed with sudden urgency. Commanding my attention with the familiar call of a weary soul who sought salvation from their day.

I was officially back on the grind. Reducing another handful of fuzzy nugs to glittery green shavings.

All I knew was seemingly useless. The exception being this trade which constituted a means of surviving on my own and, judging how much I smoked, saving loads of money. Quarter-pounds I picked up for eight-hundred dollars and yielded four ounces that when sold at $300/ounce netted a total of $1,200 each up. That four-hundred dollars in profit got doubled by breaking ounces into eighths for fifty bucks a piece. Except that was before subtracting my personal smoking amount and what I lost selling dime sacks. Which was more than made up for on weeks I picked up two to three times.

My only success thus far in life, if you could call it that, was living as a professional shirker, and my desire to go against the status quo was embodied by an almost perverse pride in dealing illicit substances which justified not being another member of good society.

So, I stayed confined at home instead as a penance for my present idleness.

A knock on the door signaled the first of many customers I’d have to deal with. Those who picked up ranged from school friends and old coworkers to various acquaintances and their referrals. I smoked bowls as the regulars continually filed in.

Like Aaron. A red-blooded American and proud open-carrier who always left his firearm on the coffee table as he played video games. Or three musicians in a rock cover band who each picked up singles. The drummer loved to regale anyone who’d listen to him about the story of when someone smashed a glass on his face during a gig. They were followed in by Logan for a half-single. Tall, lanky, and uncoordinated, his ungainly movements were about as slow-moving as whatever thoughts occurred behind the goofy smile splayed upon his wobbly face. Garret came quick upon his heels. A quiet wretch with subdued, droopy eyelids which appeared permanently draped closed in complacent vacancy. His half-single purchase clutched in a balled-up fist. He was a kleptomaniac who couldn’t leave a gas station or grocery store without pilfering an item from the shelves. Pocketing snacks, treats, and odd household items like a pizza cutter. This compulsion eventually resulted in a citizen’s arrest over a three-dollar bottle of apple juice. Perhaps my strangest transaction involved a stocky kid from Tennessee with a mild southern accent who offered up two giant-sized jars of boiled peanuts as payment. I dealt with them all to cover the overhead while sustaining my ungodly smoking habit.

Each drop by seemed to leave within minutes of the next one’s arrival. Most transactions were a quick twenty-five to fifty dollars. The problem was never the regularity of those who came to pick up, it was having to keep a ledger of every front and the running debts. All too often that meant playing debt collector for those perpetrators who habitually picked up on the front. Some tended to disappear before I could collect, including more than one who were vouched for by a close friend. A slight, if not convenient, deficit for never having to deal with them again. The best of them were in and out after a bowl. Others became hangers-on who lingered long enough to overstay their welcome. Then there were those like Pat who always pressed for some special deal I had never offered before.

Pat shook hands with Lefty and Billy first before getting straight to it, asking the same as last: “Wanna hook up four grams for $40?”

The words were innocent enough, except the tone demanded. “No? OK how about a single for $45?” He pushed further. His cubed face glistening like a sweaty baked ham.

I told him prices were the same as usual.

“How much for a quarter again? Eighty? Ninety?”

“One-hundred,” I said.

“Gee, that’s a lot. I’ll take a single. Wanna pass the glass?” He asked before using the scale to check the weight of the sack.

I cracked open the last of the beers.

Much of my disdain for this ragtag group of stoners was that they didn’t consider buying larger amounts to avoid needing a new sack each night. Or didn’t care. There were rare exceptions, of course. Like the older brother of a high school acquaintance who picked up quarters or a past coworker who always ordered a “burrito”. His codeword for half an ounce. As well as a handful of smalltime dealers.

To afford this life of luxury was simple. Even without a job. I paid the bills while picking up some business acumen on the side. Buying in bulk to sell in smaller increments at a marked-up price. Not unlike any other legitimate business based on the great American model. Where flexible margins yielded even greater potential to increase your profits. Untaxed.

But this blessing of having my own space to operate in was also its curse. All personal time got taken away the moment I turned my home into a 24-hour business and safe house of sorts for every manner of debauchery. Being a drug dealer was essentially an on-call position which kept me on other peoples’ schedules and liable to receive requests any hour of the day whenever someone needed their fix. My other contention was having to constantly pick up and transport the product from one end of town to the other. Keeping one eye on the road and the other fixed on the needle of the speedometer as I drive. What was once fun learning the price increments and weighing out the sacks was quickly replaced by incessant customers who expected the best quality as if this were some sort of free market. And by far the worst aspect was in dealing with the dealers themselves who supplied weight. I only began dealing in the first place after growing fed up with unreliable hooks and predatory pricing in which an eighth of what was deemed regs went for fifty dollars and danks for upwards of sixty.

Stuck with what I knew: I subsisted on the meager earnings which financed every one of my vices while staying smoked out for free. Many nights had been spent lying dormant, high and drunk past the point of oblivion. My screaming skull disguised by a blank countenance. Yet one can’t escape what followed next morning. Stepping out the cold bedroom zombie-footed and with a twisted stomach that took several bong hits to unknot. With the rest of the day spent stoking new bowls to feed the dying embers in my mind. Thick smoke sometimes burned harsh enough to elicit coughs that drew too deep from the well of stomach acid and bile.

Grind. Grind. Grind. It felt exhausting doing nothing at all. Strung out, stretched beyond that which physical limits allowed. Another hit and my face hardened. Stonelike, immobile, like clinging to a craggy precipice and mining lofty thoughts out of endless mountains of cloud.

Another rotation of the bong and I was unable to cut through the cloudy mist, my throat caught with ashy breath as any sense of purpose receded into faded gray folds.

I would’ve stayed like that too if not for being reeled back from my fog by a knocking at the door. Not one of the usual friendly knocks either, but a loud, commanding one with a force that nearly caused me to drop the bong.

It was nearly midnight. Much later than I expected a normal visit. The room exchanged uneasy glances with one another as the knocking persisted.

With little choice I approached the door with caution. Through the tiny window I spied a dark figure with a downcast face.

Enter tragedy. Right on cue for the second act.

“There he is,” Lefty sang in excitement as the sprawling frame fluttered in through the open doorway. “What’s up, Niko?”

The little black raincloud blew right past him. His nicotine breath hung sickly in the air. Yellow and pungent as the accumulated layers of tar on the surrounding walls. Niko crossed the room in two to three strides, his enormous hands like baseball mitts which swung from long veiny arms. His boyish face grave and patchy, with blond scruff that counterbalanced his aquiline nose and shoulder-length hair which he pulled back into a ponytail with an elastic band. He sported a pair of jeans and jacket which he took off to reveal a black T-shirt with the word­—EMPIRE­—emblazoned in white block letters across the chest. Cool and placid on the surface, hot pressure inevitably built up within him.

“Brought something,” he said, producing a twist-cap bottle of cheap bourbon. Unopened.

Skinny. Gaunt. Niko Agonakis always had the weight of an albatross slung around his neck. His unexpected drop-bys were habitual and it was customary for him to show up late in the night after a long day helping his family build their restaurant from the ground up, already half-stumbling from a half-drunk bottle of liquor. He’d pour shots faster than we could drink them while liable to take yours himself if he deemed fit. Held over with reservations until he fully broke down due to his overwhelming stress.

He kept taciturn for now. Enthralled by one of his withdrawn states. It was never clear whether Niko was letting off steam for the night or about to blow. The largest source of his pain and grievances came courtesy of his father, a first-generation immigrant whose abuse Niko treated like some badge of honor along with his oversized hands. Each of them worked into a hardened callus.

Billy was in high spirits as Niko set course for the kitchen. His heavy footfalls followed by the banging of pots and pans. The racket mixed with Lefty and Billy’s overlapping chatter as they picked back up quarreling right where they left off.

Niko returned. His unbottled rage toted in one hand and four shot glasses, one in each finger, clutched in the other. He slammed them onto the coffee table, toppling and scattering the items atop of it. Then, eschewing a shot glass for himself he directed the open liquor bottle straight to his insatiable mouth and with a violent shake of the head swallowed.

No one spoke. Including Pat who hung about as if expecting a shot for himself.

“How was your day?” I addressed the elephant right away. To which, he replied with a simple shrug of his shoulders.

“I’m sure it was good for something,” Lefty said, setting out the four shot glasses.

“Good for drinkin’.” Niko hit the bottle again. Long enough for liquor to run off his chin in brown glistening beads.

Billy dug deeper.

“What happened?”

“Oh, you know, just busting my hump and getting yelled at for it. Nothing new.”

The room stayed silent.

Lefty instinctively opened his mouth to fill the void when Niko slammed the bottle onto the coffee table. Loud enough to turn every head his direction, as if they weren’t already.

“Shots?”

Niko filled a shot to the brim that spilled over the sides when he picked it up and handed it to me.

Between pours, he divulged more: “You know I had to quit my dream job? Something I loved.”

“Being a caddy?” Billy raised a brow, accepting the second shot glass Niko filled.

“Ah, the country club,” Niko paused. A faraway look in his eyes. “The most freedom I’ve had is working as a greenskeeper. I never once got reprimanded for being late. But why would I be? I couldn’t wait to start the day drinking beer on the green with my boss.”

“John Thresher, right?”

“No. Thresher got him the job.” Lefty corrected Billy for him and growing tired of the wait, took the bottle and filled a shot glass of his own.

Niko seized the bottle back by the neck.

“Now get this, last night my dad says ‘come to work early’, so what do I do? I come in this morning only to get bitched at for coming too early. On top of that I was told that I’m a good for nothing, spoiled, lazy son amongst a laundry list of other things until he was red in the face. All for being twenty minutes late once last week. No mind my brother being two hours late. Another one, boys?”

Niko poured another round.

“Whoa there, exactly who’s calling the shots?” said Billy. “Sounds like it’s time to stand up for yourself.”

“You don’t know my dad. He’d kill me if I talk back. Which would only be the beginning.”

“When’s your day off?” I tried steering the conversation in another direction.

“Never,” Niko lined up the next round without even bothering to ask. We were left reeling at the rapid-fire delivery, as if nodding our assent.

Niko sang and sang yet was never heard by his family. All of his built-up frustrations stopped up within him like a cork. But for the moment he was silent. Up until he sprang to his feet—and belched.

He fished out a white recessed paper filter from his pack of Parliaments with clumsy fingers and lit it which prompted Lefty to reach for his own pack and by habit, Billy couldn’t resist joining in.

The hazy atmosphere soon swirled, bone dry and near suffocating, so I relegated cigarette smoking outside. Whenever it became too stuffy with the cast of characters at hand it was necessary to step out for fresh air.

I flicked ash over the porch railing and watched it circle back onto the evergreen shrubs below. Stargazing into the sky which was almost painfully clear while the rest chitchatted away about girls and sports amongst other men’s interests.

And the more we loosened up, the more Niko remained on edge. Withdrawn, puffing thick tobacco smoke as he paced back and forth. Alcohol pumping throughout his body as he sucked his first cig down before we finished ours. He lit a new one with the tip of his butt before crushing the flaming crutch into a stand-up Camel ashtray stolen from a local bar.

He broke the silence again.

“I’ve worked every day for the last six months. Sometimes until midnight. And that’s the thanks I get? Even if I’m a co-owner one day like they say I’ll be, that’s only on paper. It’s my brother’s inheritance, really, not mine. I’m the fourth child and youngest by six years.”

“Does that make you the mistake?” Lefty said jokingly. But Niko was hardly listening.

“Twelve hours a day seven days a week and for what? A couple hundred dollars and a backhanded compliment in my native tongue? I’ve had enough with this fucking imperial bullshit.”

“Great to hear,” I said, treading that fine line required for discussing delicate family matters. I pushed more: “It would be healthier for you not to be under your family’s rule. Maybe get an independent source of income. Find someplace to live. What would you rather do?”

“Any job where not a lot is expected of me. Like cooking. Or dishwashing.”

“Don’t set your hopes too high.” Billy uttered with a sneer.

But Niko hardly minded.

“No need working out the specifics now,” I jumped back in the conversation. “You can work anyplace you want. Submit some applications and once you find something better put in your two-weeks notice.”

“Yeah, right. They would never let me. My dad says if I ever worked for another restaurant, I’d be abandoning the family and get cut off. Besides, what would they do without me? It’s just my lot in life.”

“Have you considered working somewhere other than a restaurant?”

“We’re going to figure this out, Niko.” Lefty butt in. “Every problem with your family along with the new restaurant and what not, all while keeping your job and good standing. Here’s how: your dad’s not that bad, or at least he’s nothing compared to my mother, and what I learned early on in life is that sometimes you’ve got to give an ultimatum. Treat me like a business partner. Or I walk.”

“I’d love to hear you say that to him,” Niko turned aside to puff on his cigarette, his profile highlighted by moonlight which cut through the dark. “There’s no discussion to be had with him. He instructs. I obey. Just like in the old country. My father’s head of the family”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the crux of patriarchy and your average American household.” Billy snorted pearly smoke from out of wide, flared nostrils.

“It’s our culture. That’s how it was for my father, and his father before that and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Blood’s thicker than water. Always. A sentiment this generation has lost touch with.”

I was no longer able to keep my peace. “Even if that only benefits the firstborn? Technically, you were doomed from the start.”

Niko gave a solemn nod. “That basically sums it up. When we were still laying the foundation, all they talked about was the larger role I’d play down the line. No mind the tax break they claim without my name on the license so ownership—along with everything else I want—is put on hold, not excluding my pay.”

“What’s that again? Fifty dollars a week?” Lefty blurted out.

“Fuck you. That’s none of your concern.”

“When’s the grand opening?” Billy asked.

“Thirteenth of December.”

“That’s coming up. Maybe I’ll apply.”

“Dream on, Lefty. We’d never hire you.”

“Because of that thing that happened with your continued to reel?”

“It’s called standards. And yes, because of that. He doesn’t like you.”

“And I’ll never understand why. At least I’ve got Aristo’s.”

“We may not have fine dining or white tablecloths, but they’re working on our liquor license.” Niko even failed to smile delivering this news.

“Welcome to the club.”

I turned back to Niko. “So what about tomorrow?” I asked him in the hopes of showing he had autonomy in the matter. But he remained unmoved from his defeated position and further solidified his fatalistic stance.

“I’m going straight to the restaurant to turn in my resignation to my dad.”

“Why bother showing? Sleep in, draw a hot bath, and text your brother later that afternoon. He’ll get the message.”

He sucked down his cigarette. “I need to go in and see their faces. They’ll be sorry for having pushed me so far.”

“What makes this different than the dozens of other fights you’ve had like this?” Lefty butt back in. “We’ve all heard this before, this time shouldn’t be any different. I bet this blows over by tomorrow morning.”

“Not this time,” Niko spoke with a conviction that wavered like his trembling chin. He had to hit the bottle to steady himself again.

With the liquor flowing freely everybody wanted to get their words in at once and Billy, now drunk enough to speak when he knew better, interjected during the brief intermission. His speech slurred not so much from being drunk but the carelessness of a delivery which resulted in a half-mumbled drawl.

“­It sounds like you need to stop beating around the bush and get it in already.”

“Come again?”

“Exactly. Time to get laid, Niko.”

“It’s not like that.” Niko quickly backtracked. “Besides, I’ve already been warned not to mess around with our waitresses—I mean, employees.”

“It’s ethics. If not a legal consideration,” Lefty nodded approvingly. He was about as separate as oil and water regarding the girls his friends liked.

“You need to experience a release,” Billy cut back in.

“Yeah, from my father’s hold around my throat—what would you know about it?” Niko’s lips twisted into a snarl.

“Nothing whatsoever. Only I am compelled to mention,” Billy positioned himself in the manner of a lecturing professor, even adjusting his specs as he spoke, “some people suck dick at fucking pussy—”

But before anymore of his sage wisdom could be imparted, Niko, who after a long day of bottling up his frustrations, finally erupted.

“I hear so much from my family every day and I don’t need any more. Especially from the likes of any of you.”

The door slammed behind him as he reentered the house.

Lefty and Billy followed suit with matching grins. Having no desire to join them I stayed behind to finish the last of my cigarette and stare at the jagged row of peaks. Anchored in the dark firmament above them, the bright moon cast its pale shadow over all. Winter snow had brought freezing temperatures to the valley making it too cold to stand out on the porch for long. If there was one shared condition we suffered from, whether it’s myself or friends, it was having too much privilege.

Back inside the house. Niko’s attention diverted back to the bottle. Which looked disproportionately small in his oversized hands. Like those miniature cocktail bottles that were more for show than consumption. He no longer offered shots. I wasn’t too begrudging as it was mostly empty already. Brown liquid streamed from out the corners of his mouth whenever the bottle lowered from it. His once taut cheek muscles softened and brow relaxed, no longer strained. But the most striking change was his disposition. Seen in his eyes which, although glossy and lifeless, no longer reflected any pain. His ire flamed out.

Niko smiled. Almost strangely. His unshackled hair, loosened from its headband, liberated two greasy strands which hung limply on either side of his pointed nose. A dark hue fell across his downturned face. His nightly transition occurred in stages, each cued by a contrast of demeanor signifying his waning civility. From taciturn to giddy, to nearly nonsensical. An almost drooling state when life’s woes happened to be off his mind. A rare privilege considering he talked absent-mindedly in volumes that vastly outweighed his alcohol intake.

Even in this fragile period, the slightest remark could set him off as he skipped straight to being overtly physical and handsy. Displaying his dominance with antics only found on the schoolyard such as talking right in your face while pinning you down. I could only wait for the climax. Complete darkness before the curtain call.

I seized what remained of the day with a lifeless grasp, burning my problems in a bowl to let them drift from uncertain yesterday to an already forgotten tomorrow. My weightless ballooned up head untangling from the neck to drift upwards until it caught between the ceiling fan blades.

Everyone was abuzz as Lefty and Billy sat on the couch reminiscing with Pat about college parties and what we couldn’t remember in our blacked-out states. Niko sat in the dead center of it all. Swishing liquor around his mouth. And gargling it.

“Ah, sweet alchemy.” He said after a loud gulp.

Lefty returned a look as if he might retch.

“Wha? It’sthah only thahng thaht werks fahmah toothachh.” Niko spoke while rooting around with a fist inside his mouth.

“That’s why you see the dentist,” Billy said.

“Haven’t seen one since I was a kid,” he said, grinning. Even with the hand removed his drunken babble left spittle on his chin.

The mood struck a lighter note despite the personalities vying for control of the conversation. With Lefty and Billy’s quibbling interrupted only when Niko launched into another tangent by slamming down the emptied bottle onto the coffee table.

The floor and walls shook. Books rattled on their dusty shelves, with a couple of them dropping to the ground as he spoke up again.

“What is there to drink?”

“I had beer,” I said. He glanced up. “But we finished it. Sorry.”

Niko paced the full length of the room. After a dozen laps or so he grabbed his keys and jacket.

“Wait a second,” Lefty stepped in. “I nearly forgot. There’s wine in my car.”

“What are you waiting for? Get it.”

Last thing Niko needed was more alcohol. But it was better than him driving off in this state so I agreed to his drunken terms with Lefty being all too eager to feed that beast each of us knew waited lurking inside.

He returned with two bottles of domestic red wine. A cab and a middle of the road merlot. One unopened, the other stopped with a piece of broken cork.

“Vinted and bottled by Napa’s best,” said Lefty.

Niko wrenched off the cork with his teeth and spit it out. We passed the wine bottle around until it stopped.

I retrieved a wine opener for the second bottle. One of those flimsy corkscrews which folded out of a pocket knife which Lefty used to open it.

Niko stood towering over the coffee table. His eyes dimly lit, yet wide, as he rocked upon his feet. Backwards, forward. Bumping into the TV behind him with every sway. In anticipation of his next outburst, I snatched the wine bottle away from him and stowed it under the coffee table. But not quick enough. This prompted him to pull me in with both arms and trap us in an iron-tight embrace. Repeated bourbon shots and cigarettes were breathed back in my face. Making any attempt at handling this heedless brute obsolete. Not that I had much of a chance to begin with. Despite his skinny frame, he carried a vice-like grip that was impossible to wrench free from. I was helplessly pinned, and sought any means of escape with the wine bottle hidden at our feet. I would have to distract him first with dialogue if I hoped to break free from his hold.

“Will you please stop touching me?” I asked. Polite, calm.

“You’re touching me!” He cried back. The alcohol on his breath made his speech syrup-like. His arms wrapped tighter around me.

“Will ya loosen up?” Billy said, blowing out a yellowish bong hit. “Those are hands for laying cinder blocks. Not coddling.”

Niko stared at his palms with a sudden change in mood.

“I’m always building for the family. Just not for me,” he said. His disjointed speech broken, almost crippled. The corners of his mouth no longer supported a smile. His deadpan expression worn like a mask that concealed nothing. “Have I ever mentioned *hiccup* that?”

“Once or twice,” I said, and without breaking eye contact, reached for the neck of the bottle as Niko’s grip loosened upon my shoulders. My outstretched fingers nearly touched the soft glass when he pulled me right back with the crook of his elbow.

“Every fuck-ing tile. Every fuck-ing wall. The kitchen, the bathrooms, the office. And for what!” He pounded the coffee table again. Causing the room to drop into silence. No one had the faintest idea how to react. Least I. Being pinned down in his clutches.

“What?” Lefty spoke for all, more out of habit than choice.

“I thought you fuckers would know.” His smile returned but there remained a melancholy air to his cracking voice. His hardened face breaking apart as he spoke: “Apparently, this is the best thing going for me.”

Tensions had eased. Except he still held onto me fast like dried adhesive.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, but where’s the bottle?”

Although calm, he vacillated wildly with emotion. On the brink of blackout rage.

“Oh, we finished that, but I’ve got a bowl right here with your name on it,” I handed him the bong. “If you can manage to sit your ass down.”

He swept it aside with one arm.

“You wish. I see through your shameless plot to put me to sleep.”

“I’m merely providing for a house guest.”

“Does that go for everybody here?” Billy jumped to the occasion. For him, I had no words.

Niko mulled over my proposition. Except a rogue flash in his eyes revealed he had called my bluff. Like any true drunk he gambled like he had nothing to lose. Which they often didn’t.

“I know there’s six glasses in a bottle of wine. We haven’t drunk that much.”

“Unless they’re magnum bottles.”

“Shut up, Lefty.”

“Who’s to know? Nobody’s drinking out of glasses,” I said.

“Just because I’m drunk you think I can’t do math?”

“We did take Math 1010 together. Twice.” Whether he passed or failed the second time I hadn’t the slightest idea.

“I betcha if I come around this side of the table… aah, so that’s where we’re hiding!” His hold loosened, trading me for the bottle. Only it was the empty one.

Like a matador taunting a bull, I led him side to side in a stutter step rhythm to his huffing breath. The coffee table rattled and shook at the thundering footfalls. Niko’s spindly legs soon ate the space between us. I was cornered.

As he leaped forward, throwing his entire body weight onto me, I tossed the bottle back to an unsuspecting Billy, who, slow on the uptake, passed it off to Lefty before Niko clobbered him as well.

The wild creature filled its flaring nostrils with air. In a panic, Lefty tried handing off the bottle to me when Niko swat it out of his hands and it bounced off the table. Lefty cried at the sight of red wine spilled on his white cuffs.

“Goddamn it, my work shirt!”

“To your health.” Niko said. Bottle in hand. A purple smile on his face.

“Quick, got any hydrogen peroxide?” Lefty asked me in horror. “Dish soap? Jeez, you’re useless.” He ran straight to the kitchen sink to soak his sleeve.

In an effort to avoid further catastrophe I snatched the wine bottle from Niko’s hands and corked it. Watery-eyed or not, Niko knew when he was cut off and, locked onto his target, launched himself full throttle my direction. Having no other place to escape I ran into my bedroom and shut the door.

“Don’t shut me out!” Niko redoubled with newfound rage. What followed was the top panel to my bedroom door exploding in a firework of woodchips as a result of his giant fist punching through it.

That was it. I dropped the bottle and let them have it. And loudly. Niko, Lefty, Billy, even the poor remaining stragglers on the couch were subject to my vexation which caused them to grab for their sacks and leave.

As if taken back by the affront, Niko stormed out too. But not before taking the wine bottle with him.

The porch door slammed shut behind him with the front door left wide open.

Lefty poked out from the kitchen, patting his arm with a damp bath towel.

“See, Niko? I got the stain out. I’m just a little wet.”

Niko held onto the bars of the porch door with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He swung back and forth before pulling himself up with his face pressed between the bars.

“Fuck off. Where’s my lighter?”

“Why do you deserve it?” I gestured towards the fallen wreckage on the carpet.

“Why do I deserve a fuck off?” Said Lefty. “You should fuck off.”

“Don’t tell me to fuck off. I don’t care if you hit me in the face. Lefty, you’ve hit me in the face before. Come hit me again.” Niko tried to open the porch door, even sticking a large hand through the bars to grasp the handle from the inside, but to no avail.

“Get the boy a lighter, already.” Billy said.

He violently shook the door. Threatening its hinges with all his weight which lacked an ounce of body fat to begin with. Niko took a swig from the bottle and what followed was a loud thud as he collapsed upon the porch.

I slammed the front door shut.

Lefty shook his head. “I worry about that kid.”

“I need a cigarette,” I said.

“Same.”

Billy followed us out where my foot slipped on what could’ve been described as a fleshy stone placed in front of the doorway, causing me to stumble forward into the night. Its darkness scattered by the light pole across the street.

“What the hell?” Billy cried out behind me after doing the same thing.

“That’s just Niko.” Lefty said. He looked out to the horizon with a blank expression. “Step over him like I did.”

“What you smoking on, Lefty?”

“Marlboro 27s.”

“Aren’t those shorter?”

“No. Those are the 72s.”

“I’ll stick to my P-Funks, Niko!” Billy raised his voice and kicked him with dull thuds. The lifeless pile remained motionless. Save for the rising and sinking of each breath. “Wake up, fool, I need a ciggy.”

Only loud sonorous breath could be heard over Billy’s frantic kicking, followed by more yelling.

“Can’t you see the poor kid’s sleeping? Is all that really worth a smoke?”

“Do you think he has one?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

“Shut up and give me one of your cancer sticks.” Billy retired after a final kick.

“With pleasure.”

“Shouldn’t we wake him?” Pat asked on his way out.

“Better let him rest for now.”

The raging beast may have been spent, but it was an exercise in futility not feeling guilty over how I treated an already abused friend. Even in light of his drunken antics. He only behaved this way to cope with what he couldn’t control. Yet, when was it otherwise? I felt downtrodden and defeated, anxiously awaiting my head and feet to share common ground. Hung up, pensive, my thoughts turned back to the sky, now clouded over as the first snowflakes began to drop.

“What time is it?” I yawned at last. Cherry-eyed and head spinning. My bladder on the verge of bursting. I couldn’t wait for everyone to clear out and call it quits for the night.

“Time is of no importance,” Lefty said. His intent to stay up later clear as the placid night.

Billy brought the face of his watch to his and squinted. “Almost a quarter past two, I reckon.”

“Turn off the lights and lock up when you leave. And don’t forget about Niko.”

“We know the drill,” said Lefty. “Don’t mind the rubble.”

“Or the draft.” Billy called out behind.

Once removed from the action I felt a tinge of guilt. I wasn’t even sure what my friends liked about me. I must have been a more enjoyable person at some point. Yet, I was just as guilty aiding and abetting the very culture I condemned by keeping other drinkers around out of convenience to hide my own self-destructive behavior.

Debts had a funny way of bringing everyone back into balance. I made eight-hundred dollars according to my ledger, even without considering the outstanding fronts still owed to me. All tax free and stashed away in the weed jar for my next up. My day ended right where it started on paper. At zero with nothing to show for it.

I stumbled inside through the living room to the bathroom, doing my best to humor the night’s events along the way. There you have it: the riffraff which constituted my inner circle. Misfits of our generation. My house brought us together in collective numbness and relief. The latter of which never came for me until the mongrels left. To witness a friend’s complete unraveling to their wit’s end wasn’t surprising. Bound by tradition the end resulted in the same problem, different day. By tomorrow morning today’s failures will have been illuminated by bright sunshine. With frustration equal to dealing with this buttoned fly on my pants I was unable to open and relieve myself.

Even once my head hit the pillow no relief could be found. Half-asleep half-awake, I never fully rested. The punched through hole of my door let in more than barred yellow light as the words of my captors trickled in. Falling deeper in a slumber, my present reality reverberated off barren concrete walls. Minutes slipped into hours as the remaining night petered out. Drifting in, drifting out of lucid dreams. An old wooden house. White-capped waves crashing up against it. Slowly reducing the structure to floating bits of driftwood carried off by the tide until the front door shut for a final time and activity in the house ceased altogether. Sometime around 5 AM, Niko rose from his drunken slumber to the bitter realization of having overslept for work yet again.

The last of them gone—only the muddy iridescent pools remained as the crashing tides withdrew. The repeated patterns of a generation once lost, then beat. Now doomed.

A new day.

A new strain.

All aboard the train of scattered thought. Where I was the conductor of a single passenger. Ladling the subconscious soup in which I dished up nothing but chunky, disconnected thoughts. I wore my robe and loafers well into the afternoon. The bong kept at arm’s reach while I took care not to jostle my ticking time bomb stomach.

It came with some satisfaction to have the day off to recover. Nursing my self-inflicted wounds like a patient who filled their own prescriptions. Yet it took a perverse type of dedication, no, devotion, to be this out of body, out of mind, and out of sorts all the time. And knowing no better cure for life’s hangovers it became a discipline to seek that awkward, disjointed, state of being stoned off your rocker at all times. While sizzling like grease into an unforgiving abyss, I stuck a cigarette into my mouth and flicked the lighter with a calloused thumb until the flame caught the tip. I turned sideways to lay flat by kicking my legs out and drew in a deep breath followed by a slow, sustained exhalation. I squelched any developing thoughts by staring at smoke patterns on the ceiling. In search of a sign. For whatever reason I chose to hide away. A modern-day troglodyte. The only way I liked it. Even in a place equipped with no household convenience like a washer, dryer, or dishwasher, and which only slipped further into dilapidation upon its cracked foundation. Support beams sagged under the strain of crumbling brick as if slowly collapsing from within. Unsupportable, yet where I chose to make my home. A little space where the porch door creaked and where the missing top panel of glass made the metal bars resemble a jail cell. Where I lay trapped in the windowless oubliette of my mind. Floundering in the uncertainty of abject failure—who wouldn’t cope using substances to put up with their embittered personality?

I had only begun to rue when déjà vu struck me like a boulder smashing a pool’s smooth reflective surface—shattering my ritual of self-deprecation upon hearing someone stomping up the porch stairs to the doorstep.

KNOCK KNOCK

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