

THE FEEL GOOD DRAG/

A New Anxiety Romance

by Eli @KampSin

Copyright

© 2014 by Elijah Kampsen. All rights reserved

No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author.

Elijah Kampsen  
ekampsen@yahoo.com  
Visit my website at http://www.KampSin.com/ and follow me on Twitter @KampSin.

First eBook Edition: February 2014

For my M.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Each chapter title parallels a music selection (available in  this Spotify playlist) and each music selection was chosen to represent the chapter it titles. If listened to before reading, they should properly contribute to the atmosphere/set the mood.

Additionally, for those interested in the writing process, another Spotify playlist is available  here mirroring the sixteen single tracks the author listened to most (in descending order) while writing The Feel Good Drag/.

PROLOGUE. [AMERICAN TRASH /  
INNERPARTYSYSTEM](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_005.html#x_PROLOGUE__AMERICAN_TRASH)

  1. [THE KIDS ARE READY TO DIE /  
THE AIRBORNE TOXIC EVENT](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_006.html#x_CHAPTER_I__THE)

  2. [FEMALE ROBBERY /  
THE NEIGHBOURHOOD](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_007.html#x_CHAPTER_II__FEMALE)

  3. [NEVER MISS A BEAT /  
KAISER CHIEFS](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_008.html#x_CHAPTER_III__NEVER)

  4. [ULYSSES /  
FRANZ FERDINAND](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_009.html#x_CHAPTER_IV__ULYSSES)

  5. [SUMMERTIME SADNESS /  
LANA DEL REY](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_010.html#x_CHAPTER_V__SUMMERTIME)

  6. [THE DARK OF THE MATINÉE /  
FRANZ FERDINAND](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_011.html#x_CHAPTER_VI__THE)

  7. [FAR TOO YOUNG TO DIE /  
PANIC! AT THE DISCO](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_012.html#x_CHAPTER_VII__FAR)

  8. [A BEAUTIFUL LIE /  
30 SECONDS TO MARS](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_013.html#x_CHAPTER_VIII__A)

  9. [POWER /  
KANYE WEST](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_014.html#x_CHAPTER_IX__POWER)

  10. [CARAPHERNELIA /  
PIERCE THE VEIL](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_015.html#x_CHAPTER_X__CARAPHERNELIA)

  11. [EPIPHANY /  
THE WORD ALIVE](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_016.html#x_CHAPTER_XI__EPIPHANY)

  12. [TAKE THE WORLD /  
SHE WANTS REVENGE](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_017.html#x_CHAPTER_XII__TAKE)

  13. [MONEY MAKES THE WORLD GO ROUND /  
INNERPARTYSYSTEM](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_018.html#x_CHAPTER_XIII__MONEY)

  14. [DO I WANNA KNOW? /  
ARCTIC MONKEYS](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_019.html#x_CHAPTER_XIV__DO)

  15. [FEEL GOOD DRAG /  
ANBERLIN](tmp_af80ed3c81c26cc23202fa85105fd016_s8P1Ap.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_020.html#x_CHAPTER_XV__FEEL)

EPILOGUE.

# PROLOGUE: AMERICAN TRASH INNERPARTYSYSTEM

So, I deal drugs.

That's probably the most polite way I can think to put it. It's just not a polite movement.

The product is ever-changing, in quality that is. But the clientele is forever remaining. Probably 90% of the people I come into contact with on a daily basis have been there from the beginning. The beginning as in, when I first started dealing.

I guess you could call it the family business. Well, sort of. My spot was handed down by my drunk cousin who got caught up with the wrong crowd, and yes, even when speaking strictly in the realm of drugs, there is a /wrong/ crowd.

But there remains some loyalty in the game. So my "friends" of a dead "cousin" keep coming back to me. Actually, I don't think I'd call it a loyalty thing. Actually, I think most of these people would kill me in a heartbeat if I got in the way of securing their next hit. So I pretty much try and stay out of their way as much as practically possible, whilst still serving as their dealer.

I guess my price is just right, which is funny, because I don't even control that. It would seem my life, at times, is in the hands of the men (and woman) above me who tell me what I'll be charging that afternoon. But I also think that even if my price weren't right, most of these fools wouldn't know where else to go. Even if someone gave them a new street name, they wouldn't waste a penny on a map to find it. And they probably couldn't read a map even if they did. So we keep the business fairly consistent.

It's not the safest job, but it pays well. Pays about what you would expect a job requiring such risk-taking as dealing with the general public on a daily basis /should/ pay. Which is rare – a job paying what it should. Those assholes in the government get paid in a day what most people do in a year. But that doesn't mean their work multiplies 365-fold, no. I'd bet they do the same amount of work a year as your average Joe in your average manual labor job, just significantly less manual labor.

And do I feel privileged to be making the same amount of money now as my parents were when they retired? Do I feel like an asset to the community? Do I feel advantaged to make my own hours, situate my own offices? I feel lucky, I guess. The dopefiends will go wherever their supply takes them, which is to say the dopefiends will go wherever /I/ go (within reason). I am the supply.

My job doesn't require much in the way of travel – at street-level, the location is more or less constant. Obviously I have to make small changes here and there so as to not get picked up by local law enforcement, but that's not as demanding a chore as you might expect. You see, most guys like me (drug dealers, I mean) don't have a Mensa-level IQ. It's like the old-adage, "I don't have to outrun the bear. I just have to outrun you." I don't have to switch up my whole operation to avoid the police – I just have to be smarter about it than the other guys, which isn't really asking much.

I still don't want to meet the sheriff though. Because if I have to, I doubt that I'd be able to shoot him, if I had to. But I'm not about to go down without a fight. And that's really what I feel like it is, going down. I don't think you can come back up. If I go to prison, it could be years and years before my release, I'm estimating based on the weight I'm pushing weekly. But it's taken me something like years to build the confidence in contacts that I have.

The employee roster isn't exactly as constant as the clientele. To spend a year in prison could be to miss the toppling of an empire – and I don't have another cousin to serve as my in. My career would be over.

It's pretty funny, if you ask me, considering this a "career." But it's how I make my living, and it's not exactly a job I can just quit if I get tired of it. Nobody really quits this stuff. And I know such foresight seems especially troubling for someone in my unique position to possess. Honestly, it scares me. I know I can't keep this up forever, this way of living. Nobody can. Thus that ever-changing employee register. I suppose it's solid in the way of job security though. So long as I stick with it, there will always be addicts.

Then, there's of course the standing rule, "don't get high on your own supply." I hate the phrase, just the wording of it I guess, but there's definitely some truth to it. It'd be hard to maintain the domain I've claimed whilst doped out of my mind. The druggies are like wolves. They would sense the fear in me and tear me to shreds in an instant. I'm actually not the most emotionally-hardened drug dealer I know, but I'd like to think I've done a fair job of masking my emotions, so far.

Besides, I could definitely afford better shit than the garbage I'm peddling. If I'm gonna get hung up on something, it'd better be the best of the best, because shit, I can afford it. I can afford whatever I want (within reason). First-class escorts in my first-class Escort. I do pay for sex, mostly because the human debris I'm offered on a daily basis for a pinch of tar is less than enticing.

And again, I can afford it.

I guess, like all these addicts, it's a /need/. I /need/ human companionship, but I /need/ to protect myself too, from the threats of human companionship, so I get the next best thing. I've pretty much banned myself from the dope which could maybe bridge a connection between me and fellow users at least. Sometimes it's enough just to be in the same business. But they need me more than I need them. Much more, I think.

And I've got enough worldly possessions at any given time to support a basic lifestyle. But basic's not exactly what I would call this lifestyle. The people who buy from me are "basic." And I... well... Let's find out who I am.

# CHAPTER I: THE KIDS ARE READY TO DIE THE AIRBORNE TOXIC EVENT

It's Saturday night, which is not to say it's a night any rowdier than any other. You see, the druggies don't have jobs, so to them /every/ night is like Saturday night, which in turn makes every night like Monday morning for someone of my "chosen" profession. I don't really get days off, just times during the day when I'm off. The people are pretty much on my schedule though, and I coordinate the meets on my time. All other hours of the day, my "dealer phone" is turned off.

I have to specify my /dealer/ phone, because I have 2 cell phones. The first is, as I said, turned off most hours of the day. I give that number to the people who shoot me texts when their habits so direct them to, and whose needs I generally feed in a timely manner. When I feel like being on the clock, the phone comes on, usually to the ringtune of 20-30 texts and several voicemails.

I don't listen to the voicemails, but instead "delete all" once a week or so, when the box fills up. I just don't particularly care to hear the drawn-out begging of yet another withdrawing addict, or the strung-out threats of a client who feels duped, which is just about all of them, all the time, yet still they keep coming back. See what I mean about job security?

But the other cell phone is always on my side – if my bosses need to reach me, there exists no excuse worthy of their sympathy.

For my clients, I keep to a fairly constant schedule or as constant a schedule as a drug dealer can keep without getting caught at least. I turn on my dealer phone around 7PM and start fielding requests sorted by quantity requested. The higher the volume, the higher the priority. I do have my priorities.

I don't have friends whose needs trump other addicts'. I only answer to the call of money, which is probably why I spend most nights feeling so alone, which is probably why I spend most of my money on escorts. It's a shitty circle. It's just, the girls usually help to calm my nerves in one way or another. I've been known to pay for an hour of service and spend 60 of those minutes talking about the news – whether it be mine or the world's. The girls I call back are only the ones who have proven intelligent conversationalists.

There is also a deciding factor in the quantity of product I have on hand at any given time. Mostly it's more than a bit, but sometimes the real dopes with the real addictions are just shit out of luck. I mean, they're actually always shit out of luck, it's just sometimes they don't get to buy heroin.

Tommy's looking to score big tonight, and lucky for him (and me, I guess), I've got plenty of stuff to go around. I give him a call to let him know I'll be meeting him at the edge of town. He anxiously replies, he'll be there.

Funny thing about addicts – they're always on time. I usually make it a point to say "be there," but they /always/ make it a point to be there. It could be that they know I won't put up with any of their shit, namely because I can afford not to. I have plenty of other clients who /will/ arrive on time, if they don't. Or it could be that they've got a headache for which I have the only remedy.

Either way, I'm happy.

On my way out to that edge of town, I plug in my iPod Classic to the car stereo which I just upgraded, and queue up some Tyler, The Creator. Helps to create the gangster mood I prefer to roll up to a deal in. Puts me in the right mindset to deal with people in the wrong mindset. The soft shit can wait 'til the ride home.

Pacing at the corner of 3rd and Horizon, precisely where I told him to be at precisely the time I told him to be there, Tommy seems a little more on edge than usual. Like he's got somewhere to be, which I don't find especially likely. The guy doesn't seem the type to schedule himself thin. Whatever it is, Tommy's also not the type to willingly divulge such information, and he's not the type I'd like to deal with any longer than absolutely necessary. He's simply not the most compelling character. Shady I guess you could say, but then, aren't we all?

I pull up next to him and he hops in the car.

"Hey Ellie." Most of my clients call me Ellie – short for Elliot.

"Hey. Where we headed?" I ask.

"Oh, home I guess. Or you know, close to it."

I do know. You see, my rule is: I'm willing to drop them off within a few blocks of wherever they'd like to go (within reason, and that reason is stretched further the more product they're picking up). But not right outside, no. I'm not about to walk into some sort of trap in their apartment complex. And I'm not about to look conspicuous picking them up and dropping them off in the same place 5 minutes later. So I'll take them /just about/ wherever they'd like to go. And "home" for Tommy is about 10 minutes back into town. I'll give him 7.

"So, how goes it?" is what I'd ask one of my more sociable clients, but Tommy seems content to shut up, so I turn up the music and silently wonder whether the song's lyrics make him uncomfortable. This one's about a dealer who tends to pick up junkies just to pick them off.I mean, he kills them. And I'm saying I wonder if that idea bothers Tommy.

But Tommy appears unphased.

The 2 songs or 7 minutes go by rather slowly for a trip with Tommy. Most nights, I crank the stereo up to drown out the silence. But tonight it's like there's words caught in my throat, stuck on bitter thorns. I know I said Tommy and I don't usually talk, but it feels like the warm summer evening is just begging for conversation, and I swear there's something in the air, and I don't know what anyone could say.

I could swear I hear Tommy mutter "thanks" on his way out the door, stuffing his hands – and the stuff – in his pockets and leaning forward into the storm.

Next on my makeshift list is Miss Missy. I told her to meet me a few blocks in the other direction from Tommy's place in a quick text right after I picked him up. Surely this made for a short preparation time for her to get there, but the girl's got her priorities in order, and fortunately for me, my drugs are at the top of the list (I don't know if there's anything else on the list).

The windshield wipers are soon working overtime in a thundershower which I am almost certain wasn't slated to hit until a little after 9, and the clock on the stereo face reads something like 7:15. I make a mental note to check the Doppler radar when I get home – I don't have a smartphone to do it otherwise.

You see, smartphones have what they refer to as "location services," but which we in the business refer to as "a big fucking red 'X' for the police reading 'DIG HERE.'" Yes, I realize that "location services" is less than a mouthful, but I don't make the rules. Well, okay. I make some of the rules, but apparently that's not one of them. It's just, you get to the point in this lifestyle where you're living in constant paranoia, and you don't want to do anything that might make you vulnerable. And still, it really feels like you're always being followed.

That gives me a feeling of security too, in a way. Like if something were to ever go sour, the police and rescue would be right around the corner. But at the same time, this obviously creates a feeling of massive uneasiness as well.

This constant anxiety is a hard state to live in and only a border away from full-fledged insanity, which is why the bosses also act as prescribing doctors to their dealers. It's not just suggested that we take these special drugs, it's /required/ in order to stay employed, which as I mentioned earlier, is synonymous with staying alive. The pills are some sort of anti-anxiety medication. Well, I guess not just "some sort." They're Lexapro, so the name-brand sort. None of that cheap knock-off crap which is supposedly identical in chemical make-up. I guess the guys up top see the good stuff as an important investment. We can do our jobs more efficiently and more effectively when our minds are clear and we're not constantly on edge.

I swear by my pills; I really do think they help. The stuff they used to give us was notorious for making things a little foggy and supposedly, though never experimentally challenged, lowering our reaction times. And fog in my business is about as good as death. Just ask my cousin.

So they quit the old shit real quick.

I'm provided with a month's worth of pills each week, probably enough to kill me if I took them all at once, and I do believe I'm pretty well addicted at this point to the supposedly non-habit forming drug. I get this sick feeling deep within me when I don't take them, like a sort of nausea that never erupts. And the anxiety of whether or not it will erupt is as bad as the anxiety that the pills were made to protect against. Even being fully aware that mine are symptoms of a threat that's been dormant for ages, I still feel like they could become active at any given moment if I don't take these preventative measures.

These thoughts pretty much consume my next few minutes until I'm pulled up outside an apartment building nearly identical to the one where I'd drop Tommy off, were it not for my own near-say rule. Miss Missy's going out for a night on the town it sounds like. I'll be dropping her off nearby one of the inner-city clubs she frequents. These clubs have an atmosphere all their own – like the eye of a storm, the wall clouds outside always closing in ever-tighter around its patrons.

"That cloud's shaped like a patrol car."

"It is." I acknowledge Miss Missy's comment as she's been sharing my thoughts.

She's much more of a talker than Tommy, which is pleasant on the longer car rides and alright because she's actually pretty intelligent for a junkie. We really get deep into the heart of our problems, which between a dealer and a junkie, really aren't all that different. She likes to get philosophical and swims to a depth I didn't even know existed with each seemingly shallow topic. It's because of this tendency to philosophize, I believe, that I don't really know much about /her/. But our debates usually reach some sort of mutually satisfying, relatively elevating conclusion.

She's actually rather poetic, and her words stick with me long after we've reached our destination and I've departed.

"Miss, did you ever consider becoming a poet?" I ask.

"You mean 'do I ever consider becoming a poet,'" she corrects.

"Do you ever consider becoming a poet?"

"Well, the thing is, you don't really /consider/ becoming a poet. You either write your thoughts down poetically, or you don't. And I did for a while."

"You don't anymore?"

"You can't make poetry a career. It is a hobby at best, and one I find rather defeating. If you're asking me if I ever entertained myself via the creation of the written word, the answer is yes. I used to keep a sort of diary of my thoughts, until it got stolen like everything else I've ever owned. And I determined that I wouldn't like to waste my time re-reading old thoughts instead of creating new ones anyway," she says.

"I guess I never really thought of it that way" is a common phrase I employ in our conversations, and a fitting reply here. "Don't you think others could maybe benefit from your relatively revelatory thoughts?"

"What exactly makes them revelatory? I think they've all been thought before, and I think words don't really stick with a person unless they're the ones that thought or said them in the first place."

I find it ironic that she's saying this, being as she's my biggest influence lyrically in life.

The rain is gently swept away by worn out wipers, and it slowly returns to the recesses. The paint on the streets glistens in the light from the streetlamps and signs atop taxis dispersed almost evenly across the lanes. It occurs to me that I am a sort of taxi driver in my own regard.

It occurs to me that I've never seen the movie Taxi Driver. Maybe I'll pick it up from work next time I'm in.

I guess I didn't mention – my "day job" at a video rental store. In reality, it serves more as a front for my night job. A lot of my regular customers have sworn off electronics in a more radical demonstration of my "Location Services" rant from before. So they prefer to come visit me in the store, requesting in low euphemism movies like Johnny Depp's Blow or, for the more paranoid clients, Liam Neeson's The Grey, which I have understood to be a reference to the film's snowy landscape, and thus cocaine. I'm always telling clients I don't deal outside of heroin, and I'm always wondering if I could be making a heftier profit if I did.

It's important to note that only my current customers, or ones that I'm familiar with beforehand, can make requests like this. Anyone whom I don't recognize will simply get a copy of Requiem For A Dream on DVD or Blu-Ray.

"Miss Missy, you've got a point though. Rarely do you heed the warnings that others have relayed to you, unless you can in some way validate them by way of your own experience. It must just be that it would be a little too presumptuous to be quoting yourself, so you mostly just search for scholars who've said something similar at one time or another in one context or another to 'quote.' In many cases, you come off as a more intelligent and formidable opponent if you can namedrop someone like Walt Whitman in casual dialogue."

"Precisely my point." Precisely her point.

So this is what my meets with Miss Missy generally consist of. Well, that in addition to the exchange of money for addiction, you know.

Most of my other clients wouldn't appreciate the poetry in our daily struggles. They instead house the bitter feelings that reside in someone who just can't understand the situation. Sometimes I don't even understand.

On my way to pick up Jess at the corner of 6th and Heart, I return to my discourse with Miss Missy who left me a few minutes ago, and which I'm afraid won't stay with me, though I'd really like it to. Something particular she said now strikes me as compelling. She said that her diary was stolen "like everything else I've ever owned." Now, I've deduced based on her weekly outings that she's got her own apartment to return to, after what I imagine is an evening spent prostituting herself downtown. If this is the case, I have to wonder why she blows money on an apartment which she rarely spends the night in instead of blowing it on, well, more junk.

So what does she keep in her apartment then if everything she's ever owned has been stolen? And then, there's the trouble of bias. Say, perhaps, she's evicted from her apartment because she fails to pay her rent on time. A lot of tenants might believe then that their apartment was "stolen" out from under them, though I think we both know then that "stolen" wouldn't be the proper term. But that doesn't stop them from using it, does it?

In that case, I wonder how she defines "owning." Perhaps she had a significant other for some time who decided to leave her (which would probably explain then the resulting dope addiction). Maybe she thought she "owned" him, in which case he must have stolen... himself? See, things tend to get foggy when you consider the details.

I also imagine she was much prettier before we became acquainted. In fact, I think it'd be fair to say she was much prettier when we first became acquainted. I've been witness to the destruction she's inflicted upon herself since. The first time we met, she was a much more timid individual. Like she wasn't sure she should be doing what she was doing. Like she wasn't sure she wanted to be doing what she was doing. Like she wasn't sure if there were any other way to deal with whatever it was she was dealing with. And I, being I guess much less decent then, should've told her "no, stop. There's another way." I don't know what another way would be though, and so maybe that's where the phrase "the devil's in the details" stems from. If not, it at least applies here, wouldn't you agree?

But money speaks louder than morals, and hers was just begging me to take it.

As I'm rolling up 6th Street, the rain all but evaporates. What remains is a steamy summer landscape and air thick with humidity. I swallow it heavy into my lungs, and start to choke on the residue. In fact, I'm in the midst of a full-fledged coughing fit when Jess hops in at the corner. He pats me on the back, and I catch my breath.

I chose to meet Jess last because I think he's sort of a happy medium between Tommy and Missy. He likes to talk, but it's usually more in chase of a cheap laugh. He's sort of a palate-cleanser after the meditation of Missy, and as far as Tommy goes... well, I just like to get him out of the way early.

"So," Jess keenly observes.

"Yep, haha," we laugh. "So, how goes it?"

"Oh, you know. It goes," he says.

"I do know. /Where/ does it go tonight?"

"It goes to KFC for some fried chicken," he laughs.

"Uptown or downtown?" I ask.

"Uptown," he answers.

"Excellent," I say, and no, I'm not being sarcastic. Because with Jess I usually just feel like I'm cruising, me and the homey. It's a pleasant and fleeting feeling because this opportunity only arises as often as Jess' modest paychecks will allow.

"How's work?" I ask, referring to the aforementioned paychecks, which maybe surprisingly are legally obtained. Jess prefers not to steal to feed his addiction. He's something of a moral junkie, though I don't think he's ever considered this. Just doesn't think he should steal. Either that's all there is to it, or he prefers to keep his deeper reasoning hidden. Which is fine; I cover philosophy thoroughly with Missy. It's not his place.

So, "how's work?" I asked.

And he replies "I suppose I could ask you the same thing."

"So do it," I counter.

"Alright, how's work?" he says.

"I suppose I could ask you the same thing." We laugh.

"Fair enough," he says. "Work is fine. Kind of picks up during the summer months, and dies down in the winter months. You know."

"I do know that about you. But for me, the 'season' never ends."

"No significant increase or decrease in sales at one time or another?"

"Not really, no," I divulge. "The demand is pretty constant, regardless of the weather."

"Even in the heat? People still want to get doped out of their minds in the heat?"

"Even in the heat. People who are doped out of their minds don't know of the heat."

"Fair enough. But I mean, like in the snowplow business, the summer months are pretty dead," he says.

"You're not in the snowplow business."

"I never said I was."

"Fair enough," I settle.

"I'm just saying, needs are relative," he says.

"And I'm just saying, addictions are not."

"Ha, you don't have to tell me," he says.

"No, I would imagine I don't," I say.

"But yeah, the rental season is upon us, what with the city carnivals in the summer and the school carnivals in the fall."

Jess works for a carnival rental company (rides, tents, tables and what have you) as a sort of ride mechanic or on busier days a front desk clerk. Much of the year sees him in a garage making adjustments for a smoother ride. Seems like an underappreciated job, but it funds his tastes for "Mary Jane" and "Brown Sugar," so I don't think he really cares. I wonder if he ever smokes and then rides the rides. I would.

"Do you ever smoke and then ride the rides?"

"Do you sell me drugs?" he responds.

"Uh..."

"Hahaha, exactly."

"Oh," I say.

"Yes. I smoke and then ride the rides. You should join me sometime."

"Definitely."

At home now (my home) I pour wine that I picked up on the way home into a glass that I pulled from the dishwasher, which I'm not actually sure I ever ran. While I was in the store, the name of the wine didn't matter, but the price tag did. I just wanted something that tasted expensive and this stuff does (I think), so mission accomplished (I guess). I wonder if my knowing the price /makes/ it any better. I wonder if I could tell the difference if I staged some sort of blind taste test between this and the $6 bottle that was a little to the left on the second shelf. I wonder if any of this really matters.

I throw on the new Franz Ferdinand record (and when I say record, I really do mean /record/), and sort of dance absentmindedly around my bedroom, after assuring myself that the blinds are shut and no one can see in or out.

I don't know if the vinyl sounds any better than the mp3s, but it costs more, so I guess I'm applying my wine rule to music as well, which as I'm sure I've prefaced by now, I can afford to do.

But it sounds great, so I don't think it really matters if it could sound better than it already does, because it sounds great and I think great is good enough in this case. I have to remind myself sometimes to be content.

This is an issue for me, being content with what I have. Because I don't really need anything more. But I'm in a business that prides itself in making the rich richer and the poor poorer. I wouldn't particularly care to continue this trend, but as I'm sure I've prefaced by now as well, I don't really have a choice in the matter, do I?

Around the room I go, straightening books here and there. Mostly "collector's edition" editions I bought on Amazon; some signed, some first editions. Some both. I probably couldn't tell you what they all are off the top of my head, but I also probably shouldn't tell you I've read them all. I'd be lying, and I don't want to lie to you.

What's the point, you might ask, of owning a book you've never read, nor will ever read? Shit, I don't know. Looks, maybe? I wanted, so I bought it.

I pick the mail up off the floor which I stepped on again on my way in/out the door, because apparently I'll never remember to look for the mail where it always is. I carry the modest stack to the bedroom and toss it on the dresser, which is also adorned with a matching mirror. They came as a set. In it, my eyes catch my eyes and so I stop to stare.

I know what I look like. Shaggy, dark brown hair, but I keep it clean though. No dirty hair, that's gross. See, I've been unwilling to fully commit to the look of a drug dealer. But I figure the longer hair covering my forehead will suffice as some sort of confidence-booster for my clients. Some sense of security, that I'm not a narc. Narcissist maybe, but I'm no narc. A straight-cut just wouldn't convey the look I'm somewhat going for which I guess is something like "clean because I can afford to be, yet still dirty by design." Shit, I don't know.

My eyes are a lighter shade of brown, and I wouldn't have them any other way. It seems they shouldn't be darker than my hair, and they're not so that's good. The pupils always seem a bit enlarged, bigger than the lighting should afford in any situation, but I don't have much control over that. Might be the anxiety pills. Maybe I'll look up the side effects.

My teeth are crooked, and I'm sure I could afford braces, but I've never seen an adult with braces who I thought I'd want to look like, and we couldn't afford them as a kid, and besides, I think the crooked teeth thing is another sign to the junkies that I'm cool.

I'm cool.

What maybe bothers me a little is that I can't see inside me. My merrymakings with Miss Missy are as close as I think I'll ever come to identifying what's within, and maybe it's just the wine numbing me, but I think I'm okay with that.

# CHAPTER II: FEMALE ROBBERY  
THE NEIGHBOURHOOD

Now, I've always strived to keep my business relationships platonic. Granted that isn't saying much – the people I associate with truly aren't the prettiest bunch. But still, platonic. And furthermore, relatively uncomplicated.

Enter Anna.

The first time I saw her (and at this time, I didn't have a name to associate, so I'll refer to her, for now, as the "silent client"), she was at the back of the video store. The tin bell hanging above the plate-glass door had gently announced her presence, and it really wasn't the most fitting of soundtracks, because she looked... sketchy, to say the least.

In fact, what struck me first was her darting eyes. I wouldn't say it was the most attractive of traits, but it is what I noticed first. She looked guilty and I thought about confronting her. Whatever it was she was doing, she wasn't being very sneaky about it. But I guess the fact that I had no idea /what/ it was she was doing would suggest otherwise. Maybe looking to steal a DVD or 2 or 3, but honestly, they're used DVDs, and if the girl needs to steal used DVDs when the neighborhood WalMart sells new copies for 5 bucks a piece, then really, doesn't she need them more than my store does?

I'm guessing my boss wouldn't agree with this line of thinking, but I'm also not trying to get shanked over a used DVD.

Here lies Ellie. He died doing what he loved – defending a scuffed copy of Speed. Actually, now that I think about it, wouldn't that sort of be a fitting way to go?

So she's scanning the back aisle of "Action/Adventures," while I scan her for a little action/adventure. From what I can see over and between the rows of 5-foot DVD racks, she's fairly skinny. Maybe a little too skinny for her height, which puts her about 6 inches above those DVD racks. And yes, she's pretty well-... well-endowed, if you will.

I will.

And she's cute too. That's for sure. Even with the sort of hoodlum look she's sporting. Soft complexion stretched delicately across healthy features. She could definitely have suffered a chubby period earlier, but she also definitely grew into whatever extra weight she'd been carrying. I wonder if she was bullied as a kid.

Her light brown hair is accented by strands of blonde placed unassertively throughout, and her bangs are probably the most attractive thing about her amid a face burdened by beauty. I can't see right now what she's wearing, under the hoodie. Probably something hipster and artsy, judging by the haircut.

I think instead of admiring her from afar, I might kill two birds with one stone and offer to help her out in whatever it is she might need help with. I'll be introducing myself, and the boss might commend my eye for outward anxiety, be it a mischief-maker or just a concerned customer.

Shit.

Predictably, just as I've finally built the courage to do so and round the checkout counter into the square store, my cell rings. And my dealer phone's not even on me – if anyone of that regard wants to get in touch at this time, they'd know where to find me. So it'd be my /other/ boss.

I'll have to take it.

"Hello?" I inquire, knowing exactly who I'm getting myself in to.

"Ellie."

"Yes, Mr. Bulbrook."

The silent client is milling about like she's got time to kill. You know the type; they look a little uncomfortable, because they have no intention of making any purchases. They're just wasting time. But what they don't realize is, I'm fine with that. I sort of just enjoy the company.

Mr. Bulbrook: "I've got a couple guys coming up to drop off some inventory this evening, and I need you at the warehouse to help them unload. 9 o'clock."

I'd like to tell him "no, I have plans tonight. A date," maybe, but this job is one that dictates my schedule and accepts no excuses. I'll be there to help them unload. He's not asking if I might. He's just giving me a little forewarning, so I might cancel any other "obligations."

"Got it," I say, and in the corner of my eye, I watch rather disappointedly as the silent client swiftly exits the store with a tiny ding. The product detectors at the exit which are supposed to alert me of any potential thefts going on don't go off, but then that might be because we don't actually have any of those product detectors at the exit.

"Great," Mr. Bulbrook says and *click.*

It drives me crazy that he doesn't say "bye." You know, like the way any normal human being might end a telephone conversation. But I guess the finality of that click gets the job done most efficiently. Mr. Bulbrook's all about that efficiency.

I mentally write off the silent client as yet another "missed connection" that wasn't even really much of a connection, if we're being honest. She's definitely not the first girl I've thought I'd fallen in love with in a hummingbird's heartbeat. One might say I believe in love at first sight.

Not me though. /I/ wouldn't say that.

I crack a Coke (of the soda variety, as evidenced by its capitalization) from the fridge under the counter and lean-back on the stool so that only 4 legs remain on the floor, 2 of them being my own, and muse of loves lost, this week alone.

There was the girl in line at Starbucks. I don't drink coffee. I think that's an addiction in its own regard, but my boss at the video store ("Dave" for future reference) does, heavily. And he seems to turn a blind eye to any slipups at work in exchange for a morning cup. I also think he's been crediting me for them in my bi-weekly paychecks, but I honestly haven't been keeping track if he has. Those paychecks are merely for tax purposes. In fact, I think it'd be better if he weren't crediting me. Lower income means lower taxes. He'd actually be costing me more. Maybe. Or maybe it would even out. They wouldn't tax more than you initially made, right? Shit, I don't know. Doesn't really matter though, does it?

Anyways, this girl in line at the coffee shop. Yes. She's got long brown hair and this time we actually made eye contact and so I was able to look for a second into her pale blue eyes. They were almost ghostly, which I found mildly, disturbingly attractive, because what, I'm attracted to ghosts now? I don't know.

I guess, sure... I'd fuck a ghost.

No, maybe it's that I'm attracted to flaws. Attracted to flaws even moreso than perfection even. But would her indistinct irises constitute as a flaw? No, not necessarily a flaw. Maybe just a uniquity. Yes, that's it; maybe I'm just attracted to uniquities.

In fact, I think I would've proposed to her on the spot if it weren't for her extremely pretentious coffee order.

It was actually kind of funny, the "barista" and the girl going at it, in fierce competition over who could spout the most inane grounds awareness. Every time the barista would offer her another variation, thinking this time he'd /had/ her, she'd answer without a hint of hesitation. Like she'd had the proper response prepared for every possible concoction he might concoct.

No, not necessarily a flaw either. But fairly unattractive. I'm probably looking for a girl who has more interest in, well... literally anything else. To waste all that knowledge space on something as insignificant as a coffee order... or maybe it was significant to her. But that's certainly no better.

So yeah, she was a bust. Then, I thought a girl at the grocery store was my soul mate, maybe. I mean, isn't that how all the greatest love stories begin? A random chance meeting at a grocery store?

She was sexy, and probably taken.

And if not, she should've been.

Maybe by me. But I guess I'm not as quick on my toes or as confident as I might lead on. Do I come off as confident? I guess someone confident in themselves wouldn't be asking such a trivial question as that, huh. I should talk to Miss Missy about this.

Regardless, she had long blonde hair which I was highly attracted to, because I apparently also don't have a type.

Ghosts maybe.

No, just kidding. I'm just interested in... women? No, I definitely like the more artsy ones. Which she definitely didn't fit. She was less pretty I guess, and more... just... hot. I'm less interested in the hot ones and more interested in the ones that start to become hotter as you get to know them better. But maybe that's just me.

I'm not really in the market for a long-term relationship though, I don't think, so I probably would've been just as well to talk to her. But of course, I didn't.

But still, love stalks in the strangest of places, right?

The silent client's entry into my life, I would soon find, was no instance of random chance. But until then, I'd be just as justified to assume I'd never see her again.

Which won't stop me from lamenting in the misery of love lost.

# CHAPTER III: NEVER MISS A BEAT  
KAISER CHIEFS

But before long it's 8:45 and I live approximately 10 minutes from the warehouse, according to Google Maps. Yes, the warehouse has an address, but I'm not at liberty to divulge that information. What do you mean, Google Maps keeps track of all my destinations? Well, that's being a little /too/ paranoid if you ask me. Relax. Take another pill. Everything's going to be fine.

Best to be a little early though, so I'd better leave now. Punctuality is the best policy.

In the car, which is a flat black '87 Acura Integra if you must know, it's Kendrick Lamar's "Backseat Freestyle" and I am the DJ. Again, it's all about the mindset, and somehow I think a kid from Compton might be sympathetic to my situation. Well actually, not sympathetic per se, but he might at least get where I'm coming from. Or I get where he's coming from, you get where I'm coming from?

For having warranted some 4 lanes on each side, the highway suffers from severe traffic deficiency at this hour. Too early for the drunk kids, too late for the sober ones, I guess. The sun dips into the valley of the horizon and peaks through the trees in rays so brilliant that it makes it hard to question the existence of some master artist.

And I am calm.

Everyone is calm.

As I roll up to the warehouse on the East side, the last remnants of sunlight are urged from their presence. They can feel us coming.

It's our time now.

Mr. Bulbrook greets me outside the giant garage door, along with some new acquaintances that I might get acquainted with and that I'm sure I can trust because Mr. Bulbrook seems to, and that should be good enough for me. I'm sure if it were the other way around, if they were my guests, Mr. Bulbrook would be shameless in his fat suspicion.

Eddie is one's name, I think. I recognize him from around I guess. Eddie's a good name for a drug runner. Fitting I think.

The two other guys, both sporting some major 5 o'clock shadow and looking like mirror images of one another in some really dirty mirror, offer what I guess could constitutes as nods, but they're more like very minor bobs. They keep that bobbing up as music seeps from the garage; something of the classic rock variety judging by the screaming guitars, and they seem to move with the beat in some very unconscious way. They're like slaves to it, though slaves is a very relative term. I'm sure they're being compensated handsomely for their dancing. I know I am.

The commercial truck pirouetting around the corner is a smooth ride and one I'm certainly familiar with. It's been the same one about every other week for as long as I can remember, which I guess would be as long as I've worked this work, which I guess would be something like a year and a half now. The driver is a very friendly bloke named Sam. I can tell Eddie's uncomfortable in his presence. It's not so much that he's a large man; he's just got a big personality.

"Bulbrook! Ellie!" he shouts. He might be the only one I know to not address Mr. Bulbrook as /Mr./ Bulbrook, and I can see in the synthetic light from the garage as skeletal suspicions of a smile creep into Mr. Bulbrook's complexion.

"Sam!" I say, attempting to return his level of enthusiasm which is a bit of a chore, really.

He pats me on the shoulder before raising the corrugated cover at the back of the truck's cargo bay. The insides stink of sun and fertilizer, a balmy aroma floats out of the dozens and dozens of bags, which is about the usual take.

This warehouse is owned by a lawn care company, which in my estimates is probably a front for the company which employs me. This way, a delivery of tons of fertilizer like this seems standard.

It's not the fertilizer so much that we're interested in, though I've been told that such fertilizer is an ingredient in some lower-grade methamphetamines. I don't remember who I heard this from.

But the real product is what's buried inside the bags.

Yes, this method is fairly predictable if your lawn care company ends up being investigated for the import of illegal drugs; it's right where you'd expect to find it. But if /I'm/ not even really suspicious of the business, knowing full-well what it might stand for, how might anyone else make such a leap? By all accounts, their business seems legitimate. If I had a lawn, I'd employ them.

Eddie doesn't seem to be the most help when it comes to lifting the bags – one at a time isn't quite gonna cut it. We're looking to unload and unbox the product as quickly as possible and I can see Mr. Bulbrook aside the truck taking copious notes with his thin eyes of the quality of our work. His skin is stretched out over a large frame and the harsh white light finds no wrinkles to fall in.

I sling a bag over each shoulder and hop off the loading platform and onto the smooth cement below. I don't think it'd be fair to ask any more of me, seeing as I'm no body-builder, and I was here on time which is more than I can say of someone...

A "fellow" dealer, street-level like me, but he doesn't pay so much mind to the scheduling chucks of the job. He's actually the boss' boss' son, or step-son, which would account for his sustained employment despite such tardiness.

In being tardy, and in many of his physical characteristics, he really does carry the drug dealer guise. I think he looks down on me too, but I don't really pay him the mind.

I'm not even jealous of his certainly comparable paycheck. If he gets paid the same amount to do half the work, fine. I'm in no position to question his salary. I do wonder what it is he's so busy with so as to account for his consistent inconsistencies, but never out loud.

He's here now though, and that's what counts, right?

Yeah, whatever.

His name's Danny and he's half-black, if that makes any difference, which I don't think it does. His step-dad's white though. It's really none of my business. He actually looks a lot like Earl Sweatshirt from Odd Future, in that goofy serious kind of way, where he looks a little goofy physically, but he makes up for it by being super serious (except about being on time, apparently).

I'd venture to say Mr. Bulbrook only treats him favorably because /his/ boss makes him. But then why does the boss' boss have his own son, or step-son working at street-level?

Maybe it's to teach him some sort of life lesson or something. Like the way you gotta work your way up.

I'm not sure that's how this business works though, because I don't believe I've gained any favor in the past year and a half. Maybe I'm just a bad worker, but that's definitely not true.

Maybe I should ask for a raise. Or a promotion.

Yeah, and then maybe I could ask for a bullet to the head as well. I'm sure I've earned a favor by now.

Mr. Bulbrook motions wordlessly to the truck as Danny hops out of his ride, one much flashier than my own, but probably in about the same age range. A Buick with rims. Real subtle.

I'm sure you can tell by now – Danny's not my most favorite person in the world, but we do get along fairly okay. Or at least as well as someone can get along with such a pompous asshole.

"Hey Danny."

"Ellie, how's it going?" he asks in a condescending tone. At this moment it occurs to me that both our names end in that –ee sound. Is this just a coincidence, or a hazard of the job? I'll ask Eddie.

"It's going good. Good," I say.

"Good, that's good."

"Yeah, you?"

He sighs and takes a moment to set down the bag of fertilizer he literally just picked up.

"I'm good." Again, a tone that suggests his "good" is in some way superior to my "good."

"That's good," I say, trying to imitate him a bit without his catching on. He's probably too caught up in loving himself to even realize it.

"Yeah."

"How's business?" I venture.

"Business is good." Ah, yes.

"That's good."

"Yeah." Obviously he's not the most interesting of banters. I'd like to think he's so vague because he's trying to maintain that shroud of mystery, but I really think there's just not much more going on in his life wherein "good" wouldn't suffice. Yes, things are good. Good job. Good car. Good house.

I think nothing will ever be great for him. I think he'll never appreciate anything in his life enough to consider it "great." But I'm just hazarding.

Mr. Bulbrook is still standing at the right corner of the truck, scowling at Danny. He must be as underwhelmed by his boss' son as I am.

"NONSTOP CLASSIC ROCK" blares from the garage and I think to myself "please, make it stop." It's really not that bad, I tell myself, and I guess I believe that. I really don't mind some of the /classic/ "classic rock." I think it's just that these other guys are enjoying it which makes it hard for me to. Or that I just don't like it. But they keep to the modest rhythm dictated by the radio and their tempo in unloading is laudable at least.

I guess I don't mind them. /Anybody's/ better than Danny.

Unfortunately I have to tolerate all three, until now.

"That's the last of'em, bub," Sam decrees.

"Good," Mr. Bulbrook tells Sam, citing a line from the master of human interaction himself.

"I'll see ya later, Ellie. Keep on keeping on, bub." I both like and dislike the jolly man calling me "bub."

"Will do!" I respond. I think it's that his "bub" is a recognition of friendship, but it's also the same name he literally /just/ called Mr. Bulbrook, and besides our shared opinion of Danny, I wouldn't really like to be lumped in with Mr. Bulbrook in any other way.

Sam brings the back door down violently, but thanks to its weight I believe there's really no other way.

About the same time Sam's pulling away and giving me a tip of his hat in the driver's side mirror, another man is rapidly approaching our group.

We've shut the warehouse up, and we were just getting to our final farewells I guess, when the man enters conversating range.

"Hey. Hey!" he says/shouts.

"Oh shit," Danny mutters and I can see him reaching for the piece he's had perpetually tucked in the back of his pants since I met him. I quickly reach for Danny's shoulder and whisper "wait," as in "don't pull your gun on this fool, you fool. Let's find out what he wants first."

I have to tell myself to relax too. The man's gaining at a discomforting pace, but I want Danny (and Mr. Bulbrook for that matter) to see me as a guy who's got things under control.

"Hey," he says again, now a mere feet away. "Would you guys happen to know where I could find an ATM?"

"No," Danny grunts, now cloaked by shadow where the light of the garage lit moments ago.

"I just nee–"

"I said no," Danny reiterates, but I interject, "sure. There's one at the corner of 7th and Common, underneath the flashing light."

"The flashing light, I know the one! Thank you. Got it," he says, clearly made uncomfortable by Danny's threatening presence, as he hurries around the corner of the warehouse and into the street, lit by streetlamps.

"Oh, real nice, Elliot." Danny spouts.

"What?" I wonder if the man realizes how close he just came to dying tonight. I wonder how this potential revelation might affect his future being.

"Real nice."

"Okay." I turn to give Mr. Bulbrook an obligatory goodbye nod, only to find that in the midst of the chaos (which was only really made chaos by Danny's bumbling display of authority), Mr. Bulbrook and his two quiet, too quiet companions have disappeared. Bulbrook's car is still parked where he left it, but the man himself is nowhere to be found.

As I slide into the Acura, roll the windows down, "see ya later, Danny."

He scowls I'm sure. I smile, but mine too is lost in the darkness.

Turning around the same corner that Sam and the ATM man did, I think I spot Mr. Bulbrook and his men heading back around the warehouse. I give him a nod, though in the dark of the night in the summer heat still, I don't think he'd have noticed or cared.

I'm not going home, no, not yet. I think I'd like to have some company tonight and I know just where to find them.

The Blacklist is a club frequented by Miss Missy, so it should come as no surprise when she's the first one I run into inside the door.

Still, I'm a little startled by the starlet. I do believe she works in the same profession as I'm looking to employ tonight, but I'm not especially attracted to her. And I don't date clients, if you could call it a date. Whatever it might be, I won't do it.

Though she actually looks fairly fabulous in this light. I know it must be the light or the atmosphere or something beyond her own control, because outside I remember some rather unpleasant scars/scabs and her smile showed gaps now hidden in the skipping shadows.

But inside, in this light, she's vibrant. Like she belongs here, which is both a happy and a sad notion. Everyone's searching for that sense of belonging, and so I'm glad she's found it. It's just a shame she had to find it /here/.

Her long black hair (which I'm sure she dyes, because I've seen the black splotches at the base of her skull a time or two) cascades over her jagged shoulders, in loose waves. I know her right eye is just a smidge above her left but when she cocks her head at the prime angle for recognizing me, it's imperceptible. And her nose is a bit crooked too, like maybe it's been broken before, but it's at that same angle, so it looks alright now.

"Ellie!" she squeals as she runs into my arms, in a rare display of unbridled emotion.

"Well if it isn't Miss Missy."

"It is!"

"Well if it is Miss Missy, tell her I say she looks great," I say.

"She is pleased." A genuine smirk. "How are ya, kid?"

Apparently in this rather adult location and situation, I'm just a kid. I know she's always talked to me like she's bestowing upon me some great philosophy, but I never knew her to see me as a kid. Formidable opponent, I'd hopefully thought.

"Good, good," I reply.

"Good comma good? Or good good?"

"Both," I say.

"Neither," says she.

"Why's that?"

"I can see you're searching, for /what/ I don't know, but I doubt you'll find it here."

"I always do."

"Do you really ever?" she asks, and now that I think about it,

"I suppose not."

"Right. Well, let me know if I might be of some assistance in your hunt. Good to see you. Good to be you?"

"Alright to be me."

"Alright," she smiles.

I slide my way up to the bar and nod to the tender who recognizes me and who I think I recognize, but it might be just that I recognize his character, because he is the exact image of a movie bartender. Whatever you're picturing right now, that's him.

He nods to a marginally attractive woman at the end of the bar who nods back to him and then he nods to me so that /she/ knows who /I/ am, then I nod to her and she nods to me and rounds the bar and before she knows it we're outside the club and inside my car and I've queued up a Flux Pavilion DJ mix I found for free online and with its dash lights the car becomes the club she just left and so I imagine she must feel perfectly okay here, which was my goal for now. I'm not looking to scare the girl who's now putting on lipstick in the passenger flip-down mirror and looks, at most, 18 in this light, but I place a hand gently on her shoulder and say "no more" and she nods, understanding that I don't want the marks of her sex on my sheets, and besides, her lips are plenty pink enough, and we don't talk the rest of the way home.

As Jess strips her pastel pink blouse and black leggings, I queue up Innerpartysystem's "Never Be Content" on the turntable in the apartment which is actually in my bedroom and not in the living room like I imagine you were imagining.

I thought making love to a female "Jess" might be a bit weird, but I assure you, she was nothing like the friend I know. Much more timid attitudinally, yet still willing to turn things up in more way than one.

All things considered, hers is a very pleasant stay or 2 or 3.

When I awake lazily in the late morning, Jess is gone and so is my record collection.

# CHAPTER IV: ULYSSES  
FRANZ FERDINAND

I'll take 2 pills, though not because I'm necessarily super upset by the theft of my turntable. Really just inconvenienced.

I don't own any type of insurance to claim. I don't because, as a dealer of drugs, I do my best to avoid associating anything of legal significance with my name. I don't know that my employment status would have affected in any way my ability to buy and borrow against insurance, but I didn't really want to bother with it anyway. Besides, I can easily afford new stuff, and it might be fun to go buy all new records.

I'd really like my Doors one back though – that was a gift.

She didn't even take any of my cash – likely because she was unable to find any of it. I wouldn't say that I went to great lengths to hide it, but I also wouldn't guess she went to great lengths to find it either. She only took what was apparently easily accessible, and for that I am thankful. She probably had no idea that I was sitting on a cool 20Gs – income that I, too, would rather not be reporting.

And then there's the fact that if she was selling her body and resorting to petty theft, she probably needed those records more than I did anyway.

After I make a few exchanges with a few of the regulars, I think I'll hit up the record store by the Hy-Vee. After, because I don't care to be transporting my product any further than necessary and I also wouldn't like to make two separate trips, so yes, after will do just fine. That is, of course, if they're still open, which according to their webpage, they won't be.

I'll have to adjust my schedule accordingly. The addicts might have a bit less time to come up with their money, but I don't think this is my responsibility. I don't have to cater to their every need.

Tommy says he's ready for another score and Jess is too. The fact that they're both in need again so soon makes me wonder. Because that means either their addictions are growing, or my stuff is weakening. I'd be willing to bet it's the latter, which is frustrating since I have no control over the quality of the product I'm selling. And the quality of the product is kind of a reflection on the salesman I think.

I'm at odds here – on the one hand, my clients are already coming back for more, which means more weight I'm pushing and more money in my pocket. On the other hand, I feel like I'm cheating a friend (Jess) out of his hard-earned money, which he probably needs more than I do to feed his addiction. I don't /need/ to be unfair.

I have to be. Maybe I'll charge him a bit less for the same amount, since it's worth significantly less, and cover the difference out of pocket. I also wonder though, is his income inflating as prices do? I guess, like I said, the prices aren't really going up. It's the same amount as it ever was, about, but the highs are lower, and in turn, the lows are higher.

I haven't heard from Miss Missy today, though she appeared pretty preoccupied last time I saw her. Maybe she's coming off it. Or maybe she just hasn't had time to kick it and hit it. Whatever the case, I might miss her tonight. Though I'm sure some nobody will be anxious to pick up her slack.

I'm in my day clothes and picking Tommy up outside a grocery store and he's got a lot of bags he wants to throw in the trunk and they look heavy, so I let him as I'm wondering to myself whether I'm willing to drop him off a little closer to home than usual to account for the heavy weight he'll be transporting, and I mean that in both the grocery sense and the drug sense. Tommy's always been a good sell.

But that's not my responsibility and besides, I'm sure he had a plan already.

He swings back around the car and slides in the passenger seat just as I'm hitting play on the latest from Shad who I think I heard first featured on someone else's track, but the name's not coming to me, but I know it's going to drive me crazy until I figure it out.

Where did I first hear Shad?

Tommy seems content with my music choice, though to be fair, Tommy pretty much always seems content no matter my music choice, so either we have similar music tastes, or Tommy really just doesn't give a fuck.

I'd be willing to bet it's the latter.

I don't think Tommy and I say another word to each other for the remainder of the car ride and then I can't actually remember if I actually verbally told him that he could put his stuff in the trunk or just gave him an affirming nod. It's quite possible I haven't said a word to the guy, though I'm sure he must have asked me if he could put his bags in the truck. Otherwise how would I have known he wanted to put his bags in the trunk? I think I'd remember the motions if he motioned to put his bags in the trunk.

The grocery store is pretty far from Tommy's place by foot, but as far as via car goes, it's not too bad.

I let him out a couple blocks from his place. I'm happy to get rid of him, but mostly I think because I just want to change the music which I haven't really been groovin' to and I wasn't sure if it would irritate him if I did it while he was in the car.

It's just, Shad's beats are garbage, and unfortunately I feel like the guy's wasting solid raps on shitty beats. I wish someone else would've produced his record instead of whoever did, because I feel like they really did him a disservice. I almost feel bad for the guy.

I switch it over to Magna Carta... Holy Grail instead and sit for a moment in sincere bewilderment, contemplating what the hell Jay-Z must have meant in naming it "Magna Carta, Holy Grail" before I recognize Tommy's raggedy beard in my peripheral and his blistered outstretched hand adorned by 2 plastic grocery bags hanging from the wrist that's attached to the hand. He probably wants his drugs then, huh.

I give him what I calculate is his money's worth and he doesn't argue, so that settles it, I think. Not a single word.

This is nice because then I didn't have to look into the thick film developing on his big teeth which I think would do quite well by a single brushing.

I sit in the parking lot a moment longer wondering where Tommy's income stems from, and then it occurs to me that it's possible he employs someone like the Jess I met last night in robbing their patrons blind. I realize that might be a bit of a stretch, but it's definitely possible. I wonder too if Jess frequents The Blacklist. I've been there a few times, obviously enough for the bartender to recognize me, or maybe he just recognized my type and what I was soliciting. But I don't think I've ever seen her there before. I don't think I really care whether or not I'll ever see her again.

It's a bit of drive out to meet Jess, but I think his company's worth it, and even if it weren't, I'm sure his money must be. But it's too long to tolerate Jay-Z's horrible rapping (this is my opinion and you're not obligated to agree, though if you do, seriously, am I right?!) I realize I'm really only enjoying the beats on the tracks, and then I realize that if Shad rapped over Jay-Z's beats everything would be great. And then Jay-Z could have Shad's beats which are more comparable to his own style which I'd personally categorize as shit. Expensive shit.

I guess it's just the way of the world though – Shad probably can't afford quality beats, even though he's a much more talented rapper. I'll have to see what Jess thinks. We tend to agree on music taste, and I know this because we've talked about it on more than one occasion.

Jess doesn't have any grocery bags though I don't think I would have minded if he did.

"God, I hate Jay-Z" are the first words out of his mouth upon entering the car.

"What about his beats though?" I venture.

"His beats are great. I mean, 'Tom Ford'? Badass. But his flow is about as passable as constipation."

And there you have it, folks. Guy should write for Rolling Stone.

"So, what's the word?" I ask. I should've asked where we're headed, but we're headed in the direction of his house and he's yet to object, so I think we'll be alright.

"You know, I wish I had something to report, but I don't actually think I've left home since the last time we met," he says. "I suppose I could tell you what's streaming on Netflix."

"Alright. So what's streaming on Netflix?" I ask, figuring this might be just as good.

"That '70s Show."

"A-ha. Any good?"

"I wouldn't know. Dexter's also streaming. But really, Dexter gets too intense for my taste sometimes, or at least too intense for when I'm having a taste."

"So what do you do?"

"Well, I usually just turn on season 1, episode 1, and see how far I can get from there."

"So how far can you get?"

"Eh. I wouldn't know. I really only remember that one episode. It auto-plays, so I'm probably at the end of the season by the time I turn it off and hit the sack."

"A-ha. So when's that?"

"About the same time as you, I'd bet."

"A-ha... How do you know?"

"I'm guessing. 2:30, right?"

"AM or PM?" He's just about right regardless, though it does kind of depend on the night, or rather whether or not it /is/ night.

"Eh," he says and reaches to adjust the stereo as I accept his half-response. He must be diggin' the track, which must be something on the Holy Grail half, though I couldn't tell you which one, because I on the other hand am /not/ "diggin'" it.

Outside, the city slides by as if the buildings were on giant skates on a giant pond – but it's much too warm for that, I remember. The air conditioning only creates the illusion of cool.

For a moment I feel nostalgic for the winter, but that's mostly I think because my choice of clothing and style is more fitting of the cooler weather, and therefore I look a bit sketchier in the summertime. I'm not really out with the intent to scare people or to make them feel uncomfortable in my presence, as it's much more socially acceptable to wear a jacket in the /winter/. But I'm not willing to compromise my look either, mostly because I am comfortable in it. It's not that I've worked so hard to perfect the look, it's actually kind of just fallen upon me as a result of combining my cruddy old wardrobe with the news threads I could only recently afford. But it's definitely more suited for winter.

I wouldn't say I've ever been really poor, but I've certainly never been rich up until just a few months ago when the new paychecks have finally begun to amount to something.

Jess on the other hand has a more direct style; one he's more committed to than myself. It's pretty much what it would look like if someone just wore all my hand-me-downs – that is, old, trashy clothes I'm not even willing to lounge in or combine with the new. But this is somewhat in contrast to his now clean-shaven face. It's not always clean-shaven. Usually he sports what I would guess is a day or 2 of growth, probably shaving every three. So today must have been the 1/3 days where he shaves completely.

His messy blonde hair, swooped to one side, reminds me of a rock star with an edgy, new, short haircut. I think you know the type. They've always worn it much longer, but in heading towards their 3rd or 4th album, they needed to redefine themselves and the band. So they cut it short, maybe leaving mostly the bangs. Now you can see most of their face, and it's actually a bit pale under there, because this is probably the first real sun it's got in ages, and even then, rock stars don't have to go out in the daytime if they don't want to.

And though he lives in the land of the sun, Jess too possesses that watery complexion. Probably because he spends most of his time camped indoors and doesn't need anything bad enough to go outside, excepting the drugs of course.

Judging by the way he's squinting his eyes now, I'd bet that this is the first real sunlight Jess has seen in ages. Everything else has been on the television.

Usually I pick him up much later, around sunset, and even then we're usually driving away from it – looking to meet the darkness direct. But today, in an effort to make the record store in time, I had to bump up our meet, and I wonder if this frustrates him. I'm sure it would have frustrated Tommy, pissed him off, my having to dictate his schedule in addition to selling him weak shit, except for he must have been a little bit thankful for the "free" grocery delivery I'd provided him ("thankful," in this case, being a very liberal term for a feeling I'm not sure Tommy's ever felt in his life).

Jess has also got a lot of tattoos. Like /a lot/ a lot. And that's not even counting the ones which I'm sure I can't see, which I'm sure is a lot, judging by the fact that the monster on his back only barely peeks out of its collar. I wonder if the symbolism of having a monster on his back was premeditated, or if the reference is lost on him.

I've never gotten the impression he's an unintelligent fool, so I'd guess that it was deliberate, but I don't really care to ask him. Though I'm sure we're probably solid enough that I /could/ ask him about it. I'd just be afraid to offend him by saying it reminds me (well, at least the bit I can see) of Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky. Maybe he doesn't like Alice In Wonderland.

Or again, maybe it was intentional. There's really no way of knowing.

Okay, there is a way of knowing, but we already discussed why this isn't a possibility.

It's a little depressing I think to think that I'm hosting this internal talk show, because realistically I think I could ask him anything I wanted to with no fear of repercussions because he counts on me for his drugs, and it's kind of hard to find someone else like me, even though I'd find it quite easy to find people like him (in the /simplest of needs/ sense). By being unsure of myself like so, I'm giving up the power prescribed to someone in my exceptional position. I guess I just think of Jess as something more than a regular client.

I wonder if he thinks of me as something more than just a regular dealer. I'd like to think I am something more than just a regular dealer.

On his forearm, Jess has a snake which coils itself multiple times around the entire circumference of his arm, ending with its fangs in the pit of his elbow. I'm beginning to convince myself that imagery like this could not have been accidental. I picture easily a needle sliding in from the tip of the fang.

It couldn't be as simple as his getting a snake because he thought it might look cool. It just couldn't be.

It's about time I let him out already and I feel like I've almost squandered our time together on pointless thoughts, but then I wonder why I would call them pointless, and then I wonder why I put so much value on our time together.

He's just another guy. Just another client.

I'm serious.

I guess I just feel like we connect on some level. Maybe we're just similar enough to be regular friends.

He gives me something like a high-five on his way out the door, which actually serves as a hand-off for his purchase, but also to affirm our friendship.

Or maybe that's just me feeling desperate for human connection, though I'd personally be more comfortable if the connection were bridged by a female instead, and if I didn't feel the way that I do.

I make it to the record store with an hour to spare, and it's the My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy triple LP, because I couldn't find 808s And Heartbreak, and Pendulum's Immersion, which was a very lucky find on my part, though it was priced as such a lucky find ought to be. Then, The Airborne Toxic Event's self-titled mostly just for "Sometime Around Midnight" and because I think any band that could write a song that good must be able to write some that are at least comparable at some basic level. Head Automatica's Decadence reminds me that I'd like to check their wiki and see if another album is yet on the horizon; it's been years. Then there's Major Lazer's Free The Universe which was a bit of an impulse buy and probably based on its featuring Flux Pavilion among many others, and a new copy of the new Franz Ferdinand to replace my old new copy. There's also Depeche Mode's Violator and Blaqk Audio's Bright Black Heaven to complement each other, just because I could.

A "like new," used Pioneer turntable which was probably near top of the line when it came out completes the collection.

On the way to the checkout stand, I spot The Doors' self-titled album on a clearance rack, but I really don't even think it's worth /that/ much. I didn't really like it, except for it being my own special copy which I'm sure this one is not because its paper sleeve isn't ripped at the bottom, among other things.

The next day sees the return of the silent client to my video store, and it would have likely ended in nearly the exact same way as her previous visit, I'm sure, if I hadn't made a move as soon as she entered the store.

But I did.

I think I caught her off guard, like she wasn't expecting to be approached, though to be fair, she looked just as suspicious as the last time she was in, eyes darting all around the room, zeroing in on me.

But in like a cute way.

Yes, suspicious in an endearing way, so she was asking for it. Like I wanted to hug her and tell her how cute she was to think she looked inconspicuous. Like a kids' game of hide and seek. I can see her foot under the curtain.

Like I couldn't even be mad at her if she /were/ to steal something. I'd look into her cute, puppy dog eyes procuring that perfect feigned regret. Like she wasn't sorry she'd stolen, she was sorry she'd gotten caught. /That/ look.

The thing was though, I hadn't actually caught her doing anything (that I know of).

"Hey, is there something I can help you with?"

"Uhm, no, just browsing." She stumbles over this very simple sentence and refuses to make eye contact. She needs to work on her nerve.

"Right. Well, we don't really have a fluctuating inventory. They're probably all the same movies you were looking at the last time you were here."

"I've never been here before."

"Right," I sarcastically confirm. "What was it exactly that you were looking for here?"

"Uhm, what was your name again?" she asks.

But "I never told you my name."

"Right. I'm uh, looking for an Ellie. Are you an... Ellie?" I guess I could've only hoped she'd be looking for me. Hope granted.

"I am. What exactly is it that you're looking for then?"

"It's actually an... uh, adult title." Code. Whether she knows the code or not, she's definitely speaking in it.

"Right." I don't think she could be being any more obvious either, beating around the bush like so, stumbling all over herself mentally and physically in an effort to not insult the prescribed secrecy of the situation.

But the only way she could offend me is to say she were an undercover cop.

"So, who's in this film?" I ask in Code.

If she recognizes it as Code, she'll certainly know how to answer. She should've been anticipating this question, because what I'm really asking is "who is your reference?" No one gets to browse the adult titles without a reference, though I could probably make an exception for her because I think she's super cute in a sort of trashy kind of way. The slight spaces in between her teeth are not turning me off like I thought they might. Why is that?

"Marlon."

"Wayans?" I ask jokingly, though she doesn't catch the reference, and so she quickly leaps to clarify.

"No, no. Jake. Jake Marlon."

He'll suffice.

He's actually not a client of my own, but rather Danny's, so it strikes me a bit odd that Jake would have suggested me over Danny. Though most of the people who know Danny in his business form also know me in my business form, and vice versa, so it's not surprising that Jake knows me. Just why would he pick me over Danny? I mean, in a business sense. I could list a hundred reasons he might recommend me over Danny in a /social/ sense, but okay maybe Jake just wasn't comfortable with divulging his /own/ dealer's identity and so gave my name instead.

I always have to wonder too how something like this would come up in conversation. "Hey, I shoot up." "Cool, me too. Where do you get your stuff?" "Ellie." "Okay."

Okay maybe with a bit more emotion than that. I don't know. I've never been in quite the same situation. Maybe there's a connection between junkies where their addictions don't need to be addressed verbally to know that they're shared. Maybe I'll ask her sometime.

If there ever is a sometime.

So she knows Jake. I wonder what she thinks of the guy. I wonder what there is to think of a guy who steals from the rich to give to the "needy." Probably nothing more than I think of him; I'm sure that most of the people I come in contact with in this business are the proverbial "mooches" of and off society. Really the scum of the earth. I wonder if I, as a drug dealer, get lumped into the category as well. Oh, I'm sure.

And I fear that the silent client is fresh off that mold.

And I wish I could say honestly "I'm not afraid of anything." But it's this fear of emotional abuse that prevents me from doing so. I guess it'd be fair to say I'm not really afraid of anything physically. Snakes don't scare me. Heights don't scare me. Guns don't scare me. All of these things to me are just an extension of a basic fear of dying, and I'm not really afraid of dying because, at least emotionally, it won't affect me at all. I'm only afraid that other people will hurt my pride, or my trust, if I have any left.

But it wouldn't really be fair of me to expect anything more than emotional distress from a junkie. The very definition of a junkie is a disconnect from basic human sentiments.

But I feel like I'm going to make this mistake anyway.

I feel like I can't help myself.

"So Jake Marlon, huh? What do you think of that g–"

"He's an asshole."

"Great! Then we're on the same page." But he did help me to meet you, so...

We have some common ground. It's always easiest (in my opinion) to bond over a mutual distaste for someone/thing. Maybe this has something to do with the depth of our hate for things.

Like, I could say, "I love The Doors." And then you might ask me, "Why do you love The Doors? What about The Doors do you love?" And then I'd reply, as expected most likely, "I don't know. Just their music, I guess," and that would suffice.

But hate is a much more complicated emotion, I think. Or at least, it's easier to delve into the specifics of hate. It's more of a conscious emotion than love, I think. You don't spend your time thinking "why do I love this person?" It's just as well to know that you do, love them.

But you do spend time thinking "why can't I like this person?" Because they talk too much. Because they're full of themselves. Because they break one of the commandments which is "thou shalt not steal."

And maybe it's even more deep-seeded than that. You don't like the guy because he steals, and you don't like guys who steal because you've had a personal experience with stealing that left a bitter taste for it in your heart and soul. Your dad's car was stolen when you were in high school, and so you had to watch him ride his bike to work in the cold every morning for a year until he could afford a new one. Or maybe he had to take your car instead so he could get to work to pay the bills and the lack of a car left you socially-stunted. I'm only theorizing here.

But I think love is such a communal emotion – it's the baseline for life. So to find something that conflicts with this basic human sensation throws off your swagger and you want to be able to explain it.

We don't feel the need to explain why we like things, because that's the way things should be. We /should/ like things. We want to like things. But we live in fear of our ability to hate and we want to explain the things we can't explain and it scares us that there might even be things that we can't explain.

But we'll try anyway.

Now I'm not saying I was in love with this girl. I mean, we just met. Or maybe it was love at first sight. So maybe I am saying that.

"I'm Ellie," I say, reaching out, knowing full well that I've already introduced myself, but hoping that the prescribed response to this gesture incurs her to do the same.

My plan works. "Hannah," she says.

"Hannah."

"No. /An/na. /An/. No 'H.'"

"Ah, Anna. Nice to meet you, Anna, no 'H.'" It now occurs to me that if she is in the market for what she said she was in the market for (or rather didn't say, drugs), this might dictate an introduction's progression a little different than if I were just meeting a cute girl for the first time.

And this would explain her fidgeting. She's probably never met a drug dealer to introduce themselves as such before. And the unfamiliarity makes her quite uncomfortable, I can tell.

I try to defuse the situation, but it comes out as /me/ sounding like an undercover cop, trying to bust her instead.

"So, you want to buy drugs?" Wow! Okay.

"I mean, uh, you don't have to answer that. That was a dumb question. Have you been informed of the proper procedure?" I say, taking on a much more business-oriented tone, which also sounds out of place and way too formal for a damn drug dealer. Shit, I don't like how I'm feeling right about now, out of control. It's like goshdamn Elliot, you're the person in charge. You're the one who's in charge.

I'm in charge.

"So, do you like movies?"

# CHAPTER V: SUMMERTIME SADNESS  
LANA DEL REY

I finally remember where I first heard Shad – featured on a track by the flawless LIGHTS saying, "show 'em how you bend without breaking." It's been so long since I first heard that, I guess I kind of just forgot. That's not to say it never meant anything to me, because it used to be one of my favorites, "Flux And Flow." I even considered having it tattooed on my wrists at one time. I just couldn't remember it in the moment.

So I guess you'd probably like to know that it's been something like 3 days since I met Anna, and I regrettably have nothing to report on the subject. I gave her my number, unbeknownst to her, my /boss/ number, so I'll certainly never miss a call or text from her, but I certainly haven't gotten one yet either.

I've been thinking a lot about our conversation though and her paranoia, though certainly not uncommon for a junkie, still seemed something out of the ordinary. It's almost as if she hasn't yet been hardened to the drug trade. Like maybe she's new at this. Like maybe if she buys from me, it would be her first time.

And I don't want to be her first time. I really don't want that. Drugs will ruin your life, and though I don't know now if she even has a life to ruin, I don't want to support this decision. Like we're in a relationship and my support will make or break her, yeah, right. But I still don't have to take an active part in it. I wonder if she realizes the vitality of her decision, its potential consequences. I don't think I should be the one to show her though.

When I turn my dealer phone on this evening after sleeping until 4PM after staying up watching romantic comedies which I get to take home for free each night, a few messages are blinking, one in particular from Miss Missy.

I hate romantic comedies generally, but apparently Anna's got me in the mood. I feel like my dilemma is some twisted version of a romantic comedy and that if I watch enough of them, I can see how to untangle myself. And I hate this feeling, feeling cheesy. I feel like a giddy teenager again (if that's what I ever was), and like I can't control my emotions, and so I take a few extra pills spaced out between the movies so as not to overdose (if I even could), but in the hopes that they might make me a bit drowsy, at least in bulk, but it's still much too late before I finally nod off on the futon and it's a deep sleep I fall into, which would've been alright and nice if I were in my bed, but for the fact that I was lying on the futon, which is about akin to just sleeping on the floor. My back hurts, so I'll take another pill for that too. An ibuprofen this time. I wonder if ibuprofen shouldn't be taken in addition to my other pills, and I wonder if they're still in my system, and I wonder if any of this matters anyway as I take another pill to ward off these thoughts too.

Now as you know, Miss Missy's one of the clients who I'm a bit more partial to, so I schedule her early, and then Tommy needs more shit too, which makes me a little nervous because I'm afraid he's gonna get frustrated with me and shoot me over a bad deal, but then I wonder what it is exactly I'm nervous about because I thought I wasn't afraid of physical ailments.

What is this bullshit?

After I pick up some groceries, I'll meet them. Or maybe vice versa – I don't want the milk to spoil riding around in the car, but if I have the air conditioning on, would it even?

I let Miss Missy decide where to meet this time, maybe because I'm feeling generous. She chooses an entrance to the city park, which doesn't really make me nervous, but does make me wonder if picking up a client within 50 feet of a city park constitutes as dealing within 50 feet of a city park, which I think I remember from an episode of Law & Order as being an additional offense or something.

But, if I were to get picked up for dealing, what's an extra charge like that anyway? People will already look down on me – but maybe I'd be doing them a favor. Maybe they'd feel more justified in their hate if they could say I deal to their kids at the playground, which I'm sure is a leap they would make if someone like me got picked up like that.

But I would never deal to kids, no; just another one of my rules which make me feel like I'm a /moral/ drug dealer. If that's even a real fucking thing.

I'm real.

"So, what's the word?" I ask as Missy slides into the passenger seat, while thinking that there must be a better word to describe the action of my clients climbing into the car than "slide" which makes them sound like kids on a playground, which we already talked about, though nothing comes to mind and I don't feel like buying a thesaurus. I might already have one at home, though I then wonder why I would have one if I really only have collector's editions of books, and then I wonder what a "collector's edition" of a thesaurus might entail.

"So, what's the word?"

"What /is/ the word," replies Miss Missy, and I am thankful for this response because I feel familiarized with these conditions, but the end of her sentences seems to trail, leaving room for more and this is /not/ something I'm used to with her and I wonder what she could possibly have left to say.

"No, really. What's the word?" I ask, wondering if a more direct reiteration of the question will warrant a more direct response.

"I lost my job," she says, most directly. This is utterly disturbing, coming from her, due to its tone of finality and surety, implications not usually conveyed in conversation with Missy. I too have to wonder, what "job" did she have which she was able to lose? I didn't think you could be fired from being a glorified prostitute.

"Wow... I'm... sorry to hear that," I think/say. She does seem disappointed in her situation which makes me think, because I think /I/ would be relatively happy if someone were to tell me I was fired from /my/ job and if I could just walk away from it, like I think she'd be able to.

"What was your 'job'?" I ask.

"Working for my boss. He doesn't want me anymore. He thinks I'm not high enough 'quality.' He thinks that I'm too introspective for his average consumer." Yeah, I could definitely see that, but "not high enough quality"? Well I do believe she must be the highest.

"What do you mean 'not high enough quality'?"

"He thinks his patrons expect a higher quality product than I am. I believe 'loose' was the term he used."

"Shit..."

"Yeah. Shit. I don't know how to describe the feelings I'm currently feeling."

"Maybe rejection? Offense?"

"No, not offense. He's the only one who's ever made a comment like that to me. I just wonder now if other people were thinking it all along, or if this is something new. Have I always been this way? Am I losing it? It's this insecurity. I'm not used to it."

I think by the standards of her conversations, she /is/ "losing it." I fear for her, though not for myself, because secretly I'm thinking it's good for me not to be feeling the things she's feeling, because they sound pretty awful and they must feel pretty awful too, and I want/need to stay disconnected from her like she usually makes somewhat easy.

"But rejection?"

"I do feel rejected. Though, it's this partial form of rejection wherein I don't believe he's qualified to speak to such an effect, seeing as that he's never even had me. I then wonder though if my clients were commenting to him. I'll never have the chance to ask them though."

"Oh? Why?"

"He'll see to it that I don't. Because he's got this rule for his clients. They sign a contract stating that they won't go fishing elsewhere than his lake for a full year, and I am no longer part of his lake since I escaped out the spillway. So to them I'm off-limits."

"And you won't be around in a year to find out?"

"I don't anticipate being around in a year to find out. Full disclosure, it's quite possible this will be the last time I'll see you. And I wanted to say 'goodbye,' I guess. And I was afraid that you wouldn't see me if I wasn't buying. You've always been good to me."

"You don't have to buy. I would see you either way. You're not addicted to the drug though? You think you can just walk away?"

"If you'll let me, that's the case. I only took the drugs to numb myself mentally to the demeaning acts I was performing, and the only reason I could think to stick with it now would be to remain numb from the memories. But I don't want to be numb to it. I should reflect on the utterly depressing reality that was my life. I should lie in the regret, so that it might persuade me to try and make a better future for myself. I wish you'd go with me."

"Where do you think you'll go?" I ask, making a left onto the highway that wraps around the city, so that I might give this conversation the time it needs to breathe. I want to make sure that it ends in closure for what I guess you could call our friendship, for fear of what emotional effects such a swift departure might have on me.

I'd take a pill now if I thought it wouldn't put Missy on edge, my doing so.

"Around. I'll travel," she says, I think sarcastically. This conversation is killing me. I think as far as /real/ people go, you know, real people with real problems, Miss Missy was the closest I knew to having things figured out. I wonder if this is because I thought she had determined that you just can't figure /anything/ out. That the questions are infinite and so you just have to learn to live in uncertainty.

I want to console her, but I don't quite know how.

Or even if she needs consoling at all, for that matter. "I feel free," she says. Maybe /I'm/ the one who needs consoling.

"Tell me about it," I ask her to.

"It's a fresh start. Opportunity is knocking on my door. I can do whatever I want, be whatever I want. It's like my graduation to reality has finally arrived, but these past 4 years went by so fast. I've now made all the mistakes I didn't make in high school and couldn't make in college, because I never went to college. That was my first mistake."

"Do you wish you'd gone?"

"Yes, but wishing does me no good when I have the ability to grant my own wishes. I could enroll today."

"Where would you go?"

"Somewhere like here but far away from here."

"I'm really pulling for you, Missy. I mean it," as I realize this might be the first time I haven't formally addressed her as she introduced herself all those months ago, and in a much more confident way than Anna. She had essentially come straight out with it. I mean, she stuck to Code, but there was no sidestepping around the words, no fear in her stride. She knew exactly what she was getting herself into. Or maybe she had no idea whatsoever what she was getting herself into. I think these two options are synonymous for her.

I imagine it was a rebellion in some way, against some values instilled by her parents since birth. It's funny – those kids who are raised in strict households, how they tend to be the more liberal of us when they finally shed their parental restraints. Irony at its finest.

I don't think I ever want to be parent. Though I've heard it's the best thing any person can do for themselves and that may be true. Maybe it'd help me to settle down. But I wouldn't want the weight of another human being's very existence on my conscience. Because in a way, I'm doing very well for myself. But in another light, I suppose I am quite the failure as a real contributing member of society, and mine is a regrettable presence. I guess I'd be scared that I'd raise them too liberal and they'd end up conservative or something, I don't know.

I really do hope Missy finds her way. I think she deserves it, though what I'm basing this decree off of, I'm not very sure. But I think that's the lesson she's taught me. You don't /have/ to be sure. It's not going to make things any more or less meaningful.

Maybe I won't waste my time searching for answers like maybe she did.

"Farewell, my love," were her last words to me, but followed by a kiss I won't soon forget. It was a kiss that carried the regret of all our time wasted not kissing. It was a kiss with the urgency of a final rendezvous. It was /the/ kiss I would now compare all future kisses to.

And it wasn't so much that she was a particularly /good/ kisser. It was moreso the meaning behind it, the significance of it rather than the physical act of kissing itself. She was finally living, and this was life.

A week later, she'd be dead of an overdose. So it goes.

Tommy also broke out of his mold tonight, reaching out to change the radio. I didn't make eye contact with him and he made no other amendments to his normal behavior or lack thereof. Maybe he sensed that something had shaken me up, that I was vulnerable. But rather than inquire about what that might have been, he instead chose to take advantage of it.

It doesn't matter much to me though. I imagine he was taking a big chance, channeling previously unchanneled confidence, really going out on a limb here to do it, and then to know that in reality I just do not give a shit, it's kind of funny.

Now that's not to say that this is the beginning of me giving in, no, not at all. I just think it must've taken Tommy a lot of thought to choose this battle, and I thought it might be nice to let him win one for once. He probably needs it more than I do.

But if he thinks this is going to become an ongoing goingon, he's sadly mistaken. Maybe he really just didn't like that song. Maybe it was getting to him for some reason.

Maybe it reminded him of a time long ago, maybe with a girl. Maybe a girl he lost. Whatever the case, this one's his and he can keep it. But moving on.

I let him out a couple blocks from home, but on a different side of home than last time, and make my own way to the grocery store.

Now, I think it's important to realize that I could've chosen to go to the grocery store at any time of day, day or night, at any time of week, work-week or weekend, and so it must've been mere chance that I should end up there when I did. Or even that I should end up /there/ at all. I mean, there are dozens of grocery stores within reasonable distance of my apartment, and the price of gas to trek to any one of them is no issue.

But no, I chose this store, at this time.

And you know what? /Nothing happened/. Nothing special at all. Nothing exciting. There was no chance meeting of a significant other when we both happened to reach for the same blood orange at the same time, no. Nothing so romantic.

And this is how every trip to every grocery store in my entire life has been, inconsequential (so far as I can possibly know).

I pick up 2 gallons of milk, because for whatever reason, I've been going through milk like crazy. And to go through something like crazy actually has a definition all its own in my book, because in my line of work, I go through a /lot/ of crazy (people).

So that and cereal for the milk, and also some cereal for without the milk, and also some milk for without the cereal. Because lately I've been waking up late at night from restless "sleep" and just craving milk. I don't even particularly like milk. And I put "sleep" in quotation marks, because I thought the definition of sleep was to be rest/ful/, and that's certainly not a benefit I've been reaping. Just white milk, too. No additives. Or are there additives in normal white milk?

Who cares, really? Well, apparently me, because this is what's on my mind as I'm filling the cart with groceries which should last me a reasonable amount of time, seeing as it's just me consuming them, though I tend to eat a lot when I'm just sitting around watching movies, which I have had so much time to do lately. Just stupid, pointless shit.

But the milk is not the only thing I'm thinking of which I think falls into that category of stupid, pointless shit, like what I'd like to say to Anna the next time I see her. Would it be crossing some sort of doctor/patient line to ask her on a date? Probably. Maybe she'd like to shoot up together. But I don't shoot up, and maybe neither does she. She could be snorting the stuff, I don't know.

Maybe /she/ doesn't even know. I might ask her if this is her first time, so that if it is, I can maybe try and talk her out of it, because really it's a horrible fucking idea.

Why do I feel so differently toward the whole situation based on whether or not it's her first time? Like I'm being moral by supplying my supply only to the people who are already hooked? But if she wants to get hooked, she's going to get hooked. With or without me. She doesn't need /my/ help, no.

But then again, she kind of does, right? Which is probably why I'm thinking like this. But I don't want to be thinking like this.

Would it make any difference if it were some /less attractive/ person's first time? Would I have a problem with that?

And what exactly makes me think this is Anna's first-time? She seemed so damn paranoid about it, I guess, but paranoia tends to be a symptom of addiction, so maybe it's just her first time with me.

And maybe I shouldn't get involved with a damn addict.

And maybe she's /standing right next to me right now/, picking out her own Pop-Tarts.

/Holy shi/–nope, just somebody who kind of vaguely looks like her, but only by way of very peripheral vision, because upon some closer inspection (and by "closer inspection" I mean inspection whatsoever), this woman standing next to me is probably at least 50 years old and really looks about as much like Anna as I do.

But if you're still trying to make some significance of this simple trip to the grocery store, like I apparently am, it'd be fair to say that /something/ phenomenal did happen while I was there.

And that's that I got a /great/ deal on V8.

Just kidding, I don't drink that stuff.

It was actually a great deal on cereal.

No, just kidding. Well, kind of. Because, while I /did/ get a great deal on cereal, there was something else.

My phone buzzed – a text from Anna, asking if and when we could meet up for an "exchange" as she put it. It was the first time she'd made contact with me since the video store, and I have never been more excited for a text from that phone, or to meet someone who wants to buy drugs from me.

Because I wasn't threatened by her at all. Much the opposite actually. Endeared, though I am still juggling this whole "may be her first time" conundrum.

And then I started thinking, is there some way I could make this into a date of sorts?

And the answer I came up with was a definitely indefinite "yes."

# CHAPTER VI: THE DARK OF THE MATINÉE  
FRANZ FERDINAND

I'd simply tell her that in order to avoid any suspicion of the transaction, I always make my sales in a crowded movie theater, before or after stopping at a drive-thru for lunch.

And it doesn't matter what we see.

"Are you free tomorrow afternoon?" I ask, after what I deem a proper interval between receipt and response.

"Yes," she answers, very matter of factly.

"All afternoon?" I ask.

"I think so," she answers. "But why all afternoon?" Valid question.

"It's a time-consuming process to keep it discrete. How's 2 o'clock sound? Where would you like to meet?"

"2 is fine. How about outside the east DQ?"

"Yes," I respond. I would've probably chosen to go with "outside the DQ is perfect," but I really don't want to come off as too eager, right?

Right.

Then it occurs to me that I should have probably asked her what kind of product volume we were talking, because it might dictate more roomy attire than my current jeans, and so I do, and she replies with a very guileless "5," which I take to mean 5 bags, or 5 doses, and I wonder if that's what she intended.

Then I spend another night watching crappy movies that I'm actually quite glad I didn't pay to see, because they're really crappy, and even though I have plenty of money to just blow on crappy movies, I don't /want/ to do that. It's about principles. And my principle is that I don't pay for crappy things. And so I always get my money's worth.

I wish I could say the same thing for my clients. But again, it's not /my/ fault that the shit is shit. I would make it better if I could.

But that's not my place.

Apparently, my place is at home, on the futon, eating movie theater butter popcorn (which I actually picked up at the movie theater; though I didn't stay for a movie) and drinking expensive wine. Doesn't matter what kind it is, so long as it was expensive and tastes as such.

In the late morning, I decide I need a haircut or at least a trim, and I wonder if Anna will notice and think I did it for her, which I did of course, but I don't want her to think that. I don't want to creep her out. If this /is/ her first time though, she might end up thinking that this is just how it always goes down, no matter who your dealer is, which is also regressive towards my goal.

Still I go to the local mall, because they have a salon accepting walk-ins and seeing as I waited until just about the last minute to decide that I wanted a haircut, I couldn't very well make an appointment. But that's alright. This is the way I usually go about it anyway. Because I get these ideas in my head like "I need a haircut. Right now." And then I don't want to look at my disgusting hair a minute longer, though it wasn't at all disgusting only yesterday.

And I don't have the patience to schedule an appointment. No, a mall haircut will suit me just fine.

The woman cutting my hair really wants to chat and I really want her to shut up, but that's because I really just want to get this over with so that I might be closer in time to meeting Anna, until it occurs to me that actually conversing with the woman might actually make it seem like the haircut's going faster anyway, and I don't know why I'm in such a hurry because I've got plenty of time, but I just really want to get all this uninteresting crap over with and jump straight to meeting Anna, but unfortunately that's not how /time/ works Elliot.

"So, what do you do?" she asks, and for whatever reason, I have no answer prepared for this, even though it's really common banter and I should've been expecting it. "What do you do?" is also the quickest way to allow yourself to jump to conclusions about someone, which is likely why it spearheads most conversations. So, what do I do?

"I deal drugs." What in the flying fuck brain are you serious.

She quickly laughs it off. "Right," she says sarcastically.

Good one.

I've bought myself some time to collect my brain which is scattered across the cool tile, and to piece something together, while anticipating her next question, which logically should be "okay, now really."

"Okay, now really. What do you do?" Great! Now what's the answer?

"Ah, I'm in sales." Better. Not even a lie really. Though, why I'm choosing to tell the truth to this woman is beyond me. Now the next logical question would be "sales of what, exactly?" But I've found most people are turned off by the word "sales." They're not really interested in what you have to say beyond that because they don't want you to try and sell to them even if they might actually be interested in whatever it is you're selling, which is also frustrating to me in this particular case because now it seems we have a hit a wall in our conversation, and if you recall, I had a revelation that conversation might speed up the process or at least make it /seem/ like it's been sped-up, so this silence is allowing me to become uneasy.

"So, what do you do?" I accidentally say without thinking because duh.

Luckily, "I, well, I'm a mother," is the much more enlightening response I receive, rather than the logical "I cut hair, you stupid fuck." Instead, it gives me something to pick up with and continue. Let's talk about that.

About the time I finish probably saying what I intended to say ("how many kids?"), it occurs to me that this first-time-meeting conversation could function as good practice for my first-time-meeting conversation with Anna this afternoon. I really should be taking advantage of this.

"A little boy and a little girl." But I don't think Anna has kids. That I know of.

"A-ha. How old?" I say, genuinely interested in appearing interested.

"Both 3. Twins, actually."

"Well what're the chances?" I smile.

"I don't know exactly what the chances were, but I must say I feel truly blessed to have been on the winning side of them. I have the opportunity to meet and shape not just one, but 2 little bundles of pure joy."

I sell little bundles of joy, though their purity is debatable.

She shows me a picture of them lying side-by-side in matching outfits which dammit is cute and I can't help but smile, genuinely. Maybe having kids wouldn't be so bad after all.

"They're really a handful though, what with the feeding, and crying, and diapers."

Aaand it's gone.

"How old should they be to stop wearing diapers?"

"Soon, I think. We're planning on potty-training soon, but I think it might still be a little early."

"So you're married?"

"Oh, happily. From what I've heard, we've still got a few good years left in us too, until it all goes downhill." I can't tell if this is a glass half-full or glass half-empty outlook.

"You look like you've got more than a few good years left," I say, smiling and mostly honestly.

She blushes, this married woman I think I just accidentally hit on, then she says, "Yeah, but don't get me wrong. I love the guy, and I would love even more to be the exception to that rule."

"What rule?" I ask, having apparently suddenly totally lost the conversation path. "Oh, right. The couple years thing. Well, I'm pulling' for you guys," I smile. She smiles. A little human decency goes a long way in this world I think, and I wish that I could be the source of a little more of it myself.

And just like that, she's finished and it looks crisp, though I did tell her to keep some of the length and just take out some of the bulk, so now it looks just a bit more like a style and a bit less like a big mess. Still a mess, maybe. But not a big one.

I thank her and leave a very heft tip, in hopes that she'll invest it in her family.

"Maybe a nice evening out with your man?" I suggest.

"Oh my, you must be a very good salesman." She nods in the form of a most sincere thank-you.

But I still have an extra hour to kill before I'm supposed to pick up Anna at 2 o'clock which, if you recall, was the time I was supposed to pick her up. And I say "if you recall," because apparently I do not, seeing as I've checked the time I wrote down maybe 10 different times just to be sure. Yes, still 2 o'clock. I stop in another store at the mall, Journey's I think it's called, and glance at their shoe selection until it occurs to me that I must look exactly like how Anna first looked when I first saw her. Suspicious, because I'm just killing time until my datmeeting with Anna, and I don't actually have any intentions of buying anything. One of the salesman on the floor recognizes my discomfort and so chooses to add to it by striking up a conversation like salesmen tend to do. Do I look so approachable all of a sudden? Maybe it's the haircut. I feel pretty. Shitty.

"You're not looking for shoes, are you?" Good grief. Is the guy trying to descend deep into my soul? Maybe he's got some dating advice he'd like to offer me, too. Maybe it's even on sale.

"Honestly, no. I have a da–meeting in a little while and I just have some time to kill."

"A-ha. Gotcha," he says, smirking. "Well, let me know if I can help you with anything," he says and seals the deal with a wink and so I seal that deal by getting the fuck out of there. I mean, what the hell /was/ that? Was he hitting on me? Did he assume my "date" slip was a date with another guy? Did he assume that because of my clothes? What's wrong with my clothes?

"Nothing's wrong with your clothes," says the pill as it slips itself between my teeth.

"Yes, you look fine," agrees the second one.

And so what if I get to the DQ 15 minutes early? Better early than late, right? Shit, I really don't know. I think I'm going about this all wrong anyway. I mean, shit. I'm a drug dealer trying to take a client on a date without her' realizing it's a date – this is stupid – while at the same time apparently trying to sell drugs. I don't want to sell her drugs, but it's an excuse to see her, and I really need an excuse to see her.

Or maybe I could've just asked her on a date like a normal person in pursuit of a normal relationship might have.

Oh, what am I doing?

I'll just wait here. She'll see me.

Except for I didn't tell her what kind of car I was driving. I should definitely do that, now.

"I'm in a black 2-door Acu" is what I've got typed so far, and I don't know how much more detail I'm going to go into, but evidently she didn't need the help anyway, because yes, that's her knocking on my passenger window.

I swing it open for her from the inside, wondering if doing so is considered chivalric, or if I should've gotten out of the car to do it, but then reminding myself that doing so would likely have been crossing that line between a business meeting and a date and as she slides into the passenger seat, I wonder if I'm going to do anything this afternoon that might lead her to believe that this actually is more than just a business meeting, for me at least. Actually, it would be better if I could ease her into it, to the point where it would seem more than just a business meeting to /her/, I guess. It's like, what do I have to do to make you want to fall in love with me?

Maybe I could ask her that, straight-up. Leave nothing to the imagination. I feel like we're living in an age of sexting and Skype where that might actually be considered a totally alright thing to say to someone. It's definitely a step down from a dick pic, so it'd probably be alright. I think anything more subtle than that though might be lost on her, but then I wonder to myself if I'd even like to be with a girl who could be oblivious to the lesser clues and cues.

Right. Like I get to decide who to fall in love with.

That would've saved me a lot of heartache, in the long-run of life I think. I might not even be where I am today.

But you don't get to do that. It doesn't work like that. But I wonder if it does work the way that you can decide to make someone fall in love with you, because that's really what I want right now.

Alright, enough introspection. I really need to be living in the moment here.

"Ellie? Did you hear me?"

Seriously. "What's that?" I say.

"I said, what's the plan?" She sounds a little irritated that I wasn't paying attention, and I wish there were some way I could communicate to her that what I was actually doing was paying /extra/ attention, but right now that seems like possibly the most ridiculous thing I could say to someone who I've kind of just met, so I decide against it.

"We're gonna hit up a movie. Doesn't matter which. Your choice when we get there," I say.

"Good deal." Yeah, because I don't know many other /drug dealers/ who you'd wanna go see a movie with. Or does she even want to see a movie with me? Maybe she's just doing it for the dope.

Maybe I'm the dope.

I don't know what the movie we saw was, but it must've been funny, because Anna was laughing pretty much the whole time, which was interesting for 2 reasons: 1. I was surprised Anna seemed so comfortable as to really let herself go like that (which isn't to say it was unattractive, no. Quite the opposite actually, but it just seemed so odd that she would be so at ease) and 2. I don't know if it was truly funny or not, because /I/ spent pretty much the whole movie watching Anna out of the corner of my eye and wondering if I should make a move and inching my hand closer and closer with each passing minute until she might retreat a little bit for whatever reason and then I would retreat too in reaction to her reactions like a damn pre-teen.

Towards the end, as I could feel the movie wrapping up, I had determined that the hand-holding gesture was a lost cause, and also that I had yet to give her, you know, /what she came for/, so I placed the 5 bags in my hand and laid my hand on hers and she cupped them in her palm and silently slid them into her purse without breaking eye contact with the silver screen.

Next, she lays her hand, which is filled with bills on mine, and I know how much she owes me, but I don't bother to count it, because honestly her trip to the movies with me was payment enough, but that definitely might be weird to tell her seeing as that would imply that a date with her is worth >$100. Her hand lingers for a moment too, and I wonder if she is simply waiting to be sure that I have ahold of the money, or if there were other reasons for the delay, but that's just me being extra hopeful.

Regardless, I enjoyed it.

After the movie, I thought it would be reasonable to suggest getting something to eat, so I suggested it and she reasonably agreed. We decided on a local drive-in. We ordered, I offered to pay, and she agreed.

Waiting on our food, we sit with the radio on, tuned to M83's Hurry Up, We're Dreaming, mostly because I enjoy the idea of "Midnight City" (i.e. "waiting in a car," etc.) scoring our first "date." It might not be something she'll remember, but I definitely will.

Now, M83 is probably as "hipster" as I get. Not because I don't like indie and alternative music. I do. But because I hate sounding pretentious when someone says "what kind of music do you like?" "Oh, M83. You probably haven't heard of them." That's not cool, and most people /have/ heard "Midnight City" anyway. I'd like to be able to agree on something with someone, even if it's more generic and mainstream than "dream pop." I don't like people to think I think I'm better than them, but I think we've already covered that by the appearance I keep. And M83's almost mainstream alternative at this point – /lots/ of people are saying "you've probably never heard of them."

Or maybe I'm over-thinking it.

So I turn to her and she turns to me in anticipation of whatever it is I turned to her about, but I don't say anything, and then she says "is this you, taking me on a date?"

To which I reply, "I don't know." Yes I do. "Would you like it to be a date?"

"I don't know, because you did just, well, you know," she says, motioning to her purse. And I do know. "So that's probably weird."

"Fair enough," I say agreeably.

"So no, probably not a date. You seem like a good guy though, and I am enjoying myself," she says. "If you don't mind me asking... How did you end up, well, you know..." So she's not /overly/ comfortable then.

"It's sort of the family business," I say. "Well, at least me following my sketchy cousin, uh... Anyway, he was kind of my introduction to the world – took me under his wing, if you will. But it wasn't until he was gone that I really got into it. Kind of took his place, I guess. It's actually kind of fucked up, now that I think about it."

"No, I think it's alright," she says, almost consolingly and though I'm not really in need of consoling, I do like the soft edge of her voice, sliding into my ears so smooth.

"How about you?" I ask.

"How do you mean?" She seems almost unaware of her own situation – or at least unadmitting.

But I stick with it, kind of. "Well, how did you, you know, get into this..."

"Oh, I'm not hooked." Okay, not exactly what I asked but –

"Well I mean..." I say, not sure where I'm going with this one.

"I guess it just seemed like the right thing to do," she says, pulling us back up from my nose-diving sentence.

"How do you mean?" I echo her own line.

"Well, I guess I always thought I'd have a happy life if I did the things I'd like. But I've spent the last several years chasing some serenity that never arrives. No matter what I did, no matter what I had, I just couldn't be happy with it. I always wanted something more, to be richer maybe. And then I heard about the stuff that actually takes away everything you've got, but makes you okay with it. And I just wanted to feel okay...  
"And I just want to be content. I never thought I was asking much, but when I found out that this feeling was one I could literally buy, I just said 'okay. Why not?' And whoever said money can't buy happiness... was probably super right. But whenever I'm high, I don't even need to be happy. I'm just content with whatever it is I'm feeling..."

Damn. I wonder what she's feeling right about now.

"That was a very... revealing and... honest answer."

"What can I say? You bring out the best in me," she jokes, laughing to herself in self-pity. I can tell she truly believes that I am bringing out the best in her, and I can also tell that she and I both realize just how fucked up that must be, given our arrangement.

"Listen," I say.

She perks up, "listening," she replies so quickly that it catches me off guard and I look away, giggling a little bit or whatever it is that guys do that's the equivalent of giggling but more manly.

"Listen, would you like to come back to my place?" I ask, immediately regretting whatever momentary indiscretion would cause me to say this, to cross this line after she's already told me she doesn't want this to be a date, and it's like what the fuck, dude?

In fact, I'd be fine if that's how she replied. I'd deserve it.

But "sure" is her response after a moment of deliberation, and it's really a dictionary defining use of the word "sure" as she doesn't seem to be at all affected by its implications, which are the fact that she'll now be following her drug dealer into his residence, which is something I wouldn't even do, I don't think. "What about our food?" she asks. Oh yeah...

"We'll take it to go."

"Sure."

When she gets inside the door of the apartment, she looks around in a sort of genuine amazement as I apologize for the mess, which is admittedly non-existent. I'm sure most junkies don't realize how well they afford their dealers to live. Should I be thanking her?

"Wow, you've really got it made, huh?"

"Yeah, but what have I made, really?" I ask, without expecting a response. I think she understands then that despite our varying positions, I understand what she said back in the car, about being content.

It's a wonder I haven't turned to drugs.

# CHAPTER VII: FAR TOO YOUNG TO DIE  
PANIC! AT THE DISCO

We're sitting together on the futon sharing a bottle of wine now. I'll be disappointed if we don't finish it tonight, because I suppose I bought it for just such an occasion as this, or I didn't really, but I should have. I've been wondering the whole time if maybe Anna's been itching to shoot up, or you know, however she gets high, but I don't really want to ask her and she doesn't really seem anxious now. I guess she must figure if anybody were to get busted for something here, it'd probably be the big dealer and not the measly buyer, which would be a reasonable assessment I think, but I also don't think anyone's going to get busted here.

"What do you do?" I ask.

"Oh, not much these days," she replies, and I wonder what she means by "not much" and "these days." What is "not much" to her and what separates "these days" from "those days"? I feel like she'd be perfectly okay with me asking either one of these questions, and that's even though I feel like I might/should be cautious for fear of offending her.

So, "how much is not much?" I say.

"Well, I guess I'm pretty much living paycheck to paycheck and sleeping most of the time in-between, so I guess what I mean by 'not much' is actually so much that I don't have any time for something like a hobby or an act of free will."

"Oh? Where do you work?"

"Just checkout lanes at the grocery store."

"Ah, not for the cover of Maxim?" is one option I consider, as well as "which grocery store?" but I opt for the maybe less-intrusive, "I see. Do you wish things were different?"

"Well, sure, I think," she says, sipping from her glass and looking toward the candle I lit on the coffee table which hasn't been lit in months or maybe ever, but still smells the same. "I think I'm taking a proactive approach to achieving difference, and by a proactive approach, I of course also mean a degenerative approach. I'm just sick of my life the way it is. So yes, I wish things were different. But the drugs tend to fix that for a change."

"So this isn't your first time then," I daringly infer.

"Oh, no." She sort of laughs. "No," she confirms then sipping her wine again, apparently without the intention of elaborating, and though I'd maybe prefer a more detailed answer, I really don't need one and her answer was actually pretty telling too, I think. I got what I needed, which I guess was some sort of suggestion that I'm not responsible for creating a junkie and somehow that makes me a feel a little better, and maybe loosens the knot in my stomach a bit, and I bet that she could untie it entirely if she felt so inclined. Women tend to be good with knots. At least this kind of knot.

I can see the silence reflected in the shadows flickering on the walls and the candle looks for a moment like it might burn itself out, but I think I've only ever burned it once before, so there's really no reason that it should be approaching extinction like such or I definitely didn't get my money's worth. I suggest some music and Anna smiles and nods politely, and I would love to pair our wine with some vinyl ("winyl," if you will) but as you may recall, the turntable is in my bedroom and I briefly consider bringing it out into the living room and I briefly consider suggesting that we go to my bedroom and then I decide that mp3s would suit the mood just fine and then I wonder to myself what exactly type of mood I'm going for and how I could know that mp3s would suit the mood just fine if I don't even know what the mood is.

I decide to just pick back up where we left off on M83, but then I think that she might be sick of M83, but the atmosphere is right, so I just hit "Play similar music" to M83 and let it do its thing. M83's "My Tears Are becoming A Sea" is the first "related" track, which I quickly skip because I thought I literally just thought no more M83. At least not from that album. So you could say the playlist actually began with Empire Of The Sun's "Ice On The Dune." That album was one perfect for just throwing on in the background; nothing too obtrusive, no flagrant lyrics or driving melody.

She seems however unaffected by the music choice, but she doesn't object, so I assume it's alright. On my way back towards the couch from the stereo on the stand across the room a short argument takes place in my head wherein I must decide exactly how close to sit back down next to Anna. It's almost as if I created that original silence to create a reason to get up to entertain this exact dialogue and sit maybe 3 inches closer upon returning.

So I do, sit down maybe 3 inches closer, which is still maybe 6 inches away, but the especially unsupportive futon "mattress" has me sinking an extra 3 inches closer to her thigh with an excuse at the ready in case she readily objects.

But again, she does not. For somebody who speaks so much of not being content, she sure seems to be getting along just fine right about now. She turns and smiles at me, and we sit and listen to the music for a moment though it's not exactly active listening but instead it's more like we're just hearing it because that's how sound works, but really I'm thinking about what she's thinking, and I can't decide what she's thinking, so I venture "what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking for a drug dealer, you sure seem to be going to a lot of effort to make your customer comfortable. Is this customary?" I haven't really done anything /obviously/ in an effort to make her comfortable, or so I thought, so it's impressive and pleasing to me that she's picked up on this. The candle for light, the stereo for sound, the wine for taste.

"I don't really like that term."

"What? 'Drug dealer'?"

"Yeah, that," I say.

"Okay, well how would you prefer I refer to you?"

"Ellie's just fine."

"Right," she smiles a little embarrassedly and bats her eyelashes maybe on purpose or maybe totally unconsciously. Maybe she's just this beautiful by way of coincidence.

"So Ellie, what do you do? I mean, in your spare time of course, not when you're working." She says "working" without any sort of sarcastic implications, and this eases me a bit although I know that I don't necessarily deserve such a luxury. I'm just lucky I guess.

"Well, I watch a lot of Netflix. Though I don't particularly enjoy it – it's just something to do."

"Netflix, huh? Seen anything good lately?" is I believe what she says, although I can't be 100% sure because "Cubicle" by Rinôçérôse just came on the stereo and it's a little more... /punchy/ of a song than I was going for, but she doesn't seem to be phased and so I answer the question I think she asked, but as soon as I reply "not really" I wish that wasn't how I answered it at all, because that's really a dead-end in the direction of conversation, and I didn't want to stop us up, so I quickly amend my response with "'Breaking Bad,' but it's been a while since I saw that."

"Yes," is her matter of fact response. Just "yes" which I take to mean she must agree with me fully that "Breaking Bad" is "good," which I think is what I was implying. I really shouldn't have turned on the stereo now. It's distracting me. But it would be weird to just sit in silence and she doesn't really care about it, and so I should stop worrying about it. It's not a problem. I see that her wine is nearly empty though which might be a problem, so I lean in to offer her another glass and she kindly obliges and so I slip off to the kitchen for a moment to the counter where I left the bottle to refill her glass and to try to collect my thoughts and to discreetly pop one of my pills, because if there was ever a time I needed one – scratch that – if there was ever a time I needed 2 or 3, that time is now.

From the kitchen which is connected closely to the living room and about half its size, I can hear a muffled Michael Angelakos crooning a live version of "Take A Walk" I ripped (legally?) from a YouTube performance, and then I chuckle to myself that I would even worry about whether or not I downloaded it legally, when my other option would've been to pay for it with drug money. Except for it was just a live video, so there was probably nowhere I could have paid for it anyway or I would have because the quality of a YouTube rip is significantly lower than I'm used to with vinyl. I'm not trying to sound hip by saying that – it's just the way that it is.

When I return, Anna is up, scanning my DVD collection, which is not exactly /my/ DVD collection, but just a mostly random stack I pulled from the store.

"Do you get discounted movie rentals, working at a movie store?"

"Free, actually. So long as I have them back the next morning before opening."

"Makes sense. No harm done, right? 'Silver Linings Playbook,' huh?"

"Uh yeah, I j–"

"And 'Crazy, Stupid, Love.' Well, I must say I'm... surprised."

"Well, I've seen a lot of movies, and romantic comedies are one of the few genres I haven't really delved into," I say as she admires(?) the big flat-screen TV on top of the stereo stand which I guess would also make it a TV stand, and I can't remember the TV's exact dimensions. I just know that it was the biggest that I could fit in my car.

"Wanna watch a movie?" I suggest.

"Eh, maybe later," she says, sitting back down next to me and I have to wonder to myself if she fought that same inner battle that I did a few moments ago and what she came up with apparently was nearly touching me she's so close, but still just not quite touching me, and I think I actually would've preferred either nearer or farther, anything but this in-between, and I wonder if she notices me noticing. If she did make this decision or if she does notice, it doesn't show. She's just so calm and comfortable, and I have to wonder if I'm coming off as comfortable too, because I'm really trying, but I can't quite get exactly comfortable, but not because I'm not happy with my current condition, because I am. I like what's happening right now; it's just driving me a little crazy.

Up next on our playlist is a track from the Drive soundtrack, College's "A Real Hero" and it gives me that perfect feeling like there's really nothing out of place here and I like it and I can see that there's something on the tip of her tongue, but she's just not saying it just yet. And I'm thinking to myself, what do I know about this girl?

Not a lot, really, but the stuff I do know is deeper I think than what I should logically know by now, like kind of why she turned to drugs. That's a big one, considering I don't even know what kind of music she likes. Apparently it's just about anything, or she's oblivious to it, or I'm just killing it as DJ. Maybe it's a compliment.

We just sit there for a while until she finally says what it feels like she's been meaning to say for a while now, which ends up being "are you afraid to die? Are you afraid that you might get killed, in your line of work?"

Damn.

And again I can't think because for whatever reason, Knife Party's "Destroy Them With Lazers" was the next track on the "similar to M83" playlist and I need to skip it before it gets to the "drop" because this is just too much. It's killing the mood for sure – my mood at least. So I hold up an index finger which I hope doesn't come off as rude, as in "hold on" while I go and skip to the next song – Metronomy's "Corinne" which I don't know by heart but which already seems like a better fit. I found Metronomy through their über-pop single "The Look," which I found out has a sweet intro by way of the song before it on the album (3. "Everything Goes My Way") and though I'd rather just be listening to that album right now, "Corinne" will do and when I sit back down this time, I know it doesn't seem like it, but I did take a moment to plan a response, which is meant to come off as not being /too/ apathetic about death, even though yesterday I would've said "not at all." But if I die now, I probably couldn't hang out with Anna anymore and this is nice.

"Not really. I mean..." I'm not really stammering, just pausing. "I've thought about it. It's definitely a risk I take I think, but I'm not too worried, no." I think that was alright. "Can I ask you the same thing?"

"Alright, go ahead."

"Well, aren't you afraid you'll overdose, and end up killing yourself or something?" Or something.

"I'd like to think I'm careful enough and smart about it. I mean, as smart as you can be while shooting heroin." I don't flinch at the words because they slip off her tongue so easily into my veins and when she says it it's not apprehensive, and I think a feeling of euphoria is imminent.

"I guess I'm just scared for you," I accidentally say, most definitely crossing into what I believe is new territory, but which judging by her soft facial expression is just as safe as anything prior.

"That's sweet of you to say," she says. "I'm scared for you too I guess, which is why I asked I guess," she guesses.

I smile in response to Wolf Gang's "Lions In Cages" on the stereo, and it's nice calm pop music that isn't asking anything more of me than I'm asking of it which is to just chill. When I hear it again, it will bring back pleasant memories. And then my smile is bigger in response to what I'm sure she just said to me.

"Why are you afraid I might die?" I ask, thinking that the answer I deserve would be "because then where would I get my drugs?" but the mood is light like her light brown eyes, which I think must be even lighter than my own, and she says "because, I like you" and she gets up to go get the wine bottle, I think, which I would have gladly done for her and probably should have brought back from the kitchen in the first place but she didn't ask, and I think it's a sign that she's something like contented and goshdamn, I think that's really all I'm going for here. I sink into the futon and relax for a moment, sipping my own glass of wine, or finishing it rather, and everything is alright.

She returns to the living room and tops off my glass and then finishes the bottle herself without pouring it into a glass and I have to wonder if she's not just a little bit drunk then, but she hasn't had too much more to drink than I have, I think, and I'm alright, and it's only wine, so she couldn't really be too tipsy, even if her tolerance for alcohol was low, right?

Foster The People's "Miss You" is up next and it's a little more up-tempo than Wolf Gang, but just a little bit and Anna grabs my hand and pulls me off the futon and dances maybe more wildly than the drum-break warrants, but then the sort of dancier part of the song drops and it's all in time and I'm smiling and "dancing" I think, but I'm mostly just watching Anna dance in her tight jean shorts with a waistline a bit higher than her waist and her blouse which floats like a sheet on a clothesline in the cool breeze when she spins, but it's really just a loose-fitting top like all the girls wear in this weather; nothing phenomenal, but she's smiling through her big, pink lips and they're really not any more pink than my own, but that's alright and I'm smiling too. I can feel it, though it's not on purpose, and I wonder if smiling /not/ on purpose is really the only /real/ smiling, but I'm having fun and she wraps her arms around my neck and spins around me and the music, and the wine, and the girl are all good.

I would feel ridiculous to move the way she does but she makes it seem effortless as she's laughing and smiling as she pulls me down onto the futon with her and damn, I wish I had a comfier futon. But I shouldn't waste this rare feeling thinking about getting a better futon – a futon's a futon and I'm sure she realized that when she went to lie down on it, and now I'm falling sort of and lying on top of her definitely as she's kissing me and I'm kissing her and we're kissing and she's smiling so they're actually not even the best kisses because she's laughing through them all and I start to wonder if she really is drunk or if this is just her happy and then I wonder if she's like this all the time and with other guys, but then I realize again that I'm wasting time thinking trivial thoughts when I could be just enjoying myself and so I kiss her back while she pushes her body up against mine and she's not giggling so much anymore but she's really getting into it and I guess we're making out and it's really great.

And then she pushes me away and she's giggling again, this time at herself I think because she knows that for a minute there she really lost herself and I think that it's great and it's over too soon and I just want more, because I'm never content with what I have, though to be fair I don't actually have it anymore because it's not happening anymore and so really I only have the memory, and she's not smiling anymore.

"This is really uncomfortable," she pauses. "This futon," she says.

And I have to laugh at that. "I don't know what you were expecting," I say jokingly, and she takes mock offense which I actually don't really like it when girls do, but it doesn't matter because now she's slid out from under me and left me lying there by myself, face buried in the pillow and I don't want to get up and I could just die right here, but now she's grabbing my arm again and pulling me along and that feeling is quickly past and I don't know where she thinks she's going. This is /my/ place.

And this is my bedroom. We're lying on the bed now with the silky comforter surrounding us and I just recognized PlayRadioPlay!'s "Decipher Reflections From Reality" playing in the other room, and it's muffled but that's alright, because she's lying on top of me unbuttoning the dress shirt I didn't just "throw on" earlier. And her hands are all over me, and I'm content just wrapping my hands around her but that's not the direction this is headed and I think for a moment that we're moving too fast, but then I think that life is short and we won't have time to fit in all our loving even, and so I hush that thought too, and I'd really just like to remove all thinking from the situation because it's not necessary right now and is only hindering my enjoyment, and so I decide to do just that.

And it's then, while she's lying under me, so anxiously kissing me, expecting me, welcoming me; that's when my boss' phone rings.

# CHAPTER VIII: A BEAUTIFUL LIE  
30 SECONDS TO MARS

I should really answer that. I really, really should. "There's no excuse" not to answer it. That's what I was told, and up until now, I'd firmly believed it. Nothing takes precedence over that phone and whoever's at the other end of it, which to be fair, could only be 1 of two people; my boss or /his/ boss.

But surely present company's excepted; I've never been so busy. I've never had an excuse not to answer it, because up until now there'd never been such an excuse to exist.

Surely they'll understand.

No, no they won't. They foot the bill for that phone specifically for moments like this – whatever this moment actually is. I'm their employee. I'm their callboy. No excuses. But maybe this excuse is the exception. I'm sure they'll understand if I ignore it, sure.

No, no they won't. They said, quite specifically, that there are no excuses. There are no exceptions to the rule. It is a /rule/.

So what makes this time any different? Because I'm about to sleep with a client? Right, because I'm definitely the first drug dealer to do that. Though I might actually be the first to (possibly naïvely) honestly think that that client won't ask for something in return.

But even if she did, that'd be alright. This moment and every moment before it is a gift that deserves my full attention, and I shouldn't be distracted by a stupid fucking cell phone.

This is ridiculous.

But I have to answer it. I'm sure she'll understand. And even if she didn't understand, at least I'd be alive to try and explain it to her.

But they wouldn't kill me over a single missed call.

Or maybe they would. I'd better just answer it. It's actually been ringing for a while now, but it's still ringing so I suppose there's still time to answer it. /Answer it Elliot/.

But I at least owe Anna an explanation as to why I'm crawling out from under her and away from her pure goodness. Why a phone call takes precedence over this and how I can move from this absolutely stunning moment. I'm asking myself these questions and their potential lack of discernible answers is actually making me really mad.

But it could be over so much sooner if I would just /answer the phone/.

It's probably not even an emergency. It's probably something that can wait until later, so long as I /know/ about it now.

"Anna, I–" I start, but she presses her finger to my lips and shushes me and that's all I really need to be convinced adversely and it's stopped ringing now anyway, but I'm still distracted for the next 30 seconds or so wondering if it might ring again or if they will leave a voicemail. Honestly, I'm not sure I'd even recognize a voicemail notification sound because I've never let that phone go to voicemail since the day I got it. I never even recorded a greeting.

"Ellie, what is it?" Anna croons, clearly aware of my clear unawareness and I don't quite know how to talk my way out of this one because there's really just no excuse, and she's been trailing south this whole time trying desperately to keep my attention all to herself (which she justly deserves) and I want to apologize, but instead I just pull her close and kiss her hard and run my fingers through her hair and tell her "this is amazing. You are a*ping*ing."

That *ping* is the last I hear of the phone. It does not ring again and I don't think about it any longer. And I could waste more of this precious time being mad that it rang in the first place, or thinking about the potential consequences of ignoring it, but this is about the here and the now which is all I'm guaranteed and so I just need to seize it for the time being and just forget about the past and the future, because realistically that future's passing presently so I return to the now and everything in it which is so great and pull her close while reluctantly making a conscious effort to push away the ringing in my head.

In an effort to fully return myself to her, I slide my hands up under her blouse and trace the edges of her bra with my fingers and her skin is softer than the sheets, which I didn't think humanly possible. Then I pull it up and over her head in such a fluid motion that I don't even really get a glimpse of that awkward moment where someone's shirt is halfway off and pulled over their head and that's why I wear button-up shirts to avoid this step altogether but now I'm focused on that racy, lacy bra of hers which is glossy black and I have to wonder if her panties match too, and then I have to wonder why I'm wasting my time wondering because it's looking like with the way this is headed I should know for sure soon enough.

Her tongue slips between my lips and in between my teeth and caresses my cheek from the inside while her fingertips caress it from the outside. Then she's grabbing my hands and pressing them up against her stomach which is curvier maybe than would be considered "flawless," but then I wasn't exactly looking for flawless so it's perfect in that way and her skin is so soft that I even wonder what kind of body wash she uses and this direction of thought I choose to /allow/ as I'm fantasizing about her in the shower lathering herself and this is really working for me while my hands are wrapped around her and massaging deeply her lower back and her fingers are up under my shirt pressing into my shoulders and I wonder if she's impressed by their muscular... ness or if they're even muscular. But now she's maybe a little sick of being inconvenienced by my shirt so she unbuttons it seductively, seducing me while I need not be seduced and then she hangs above me for a special moment of anticipation before our skin touches and it's so amazing and I wish I had a better vocabulary to try and describe this but if you understand what amazing really means ("to be amazed") then you'll know that I am truly amazed by Anna and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't even mind if we didn't go any further than this, but that's not usually how something like this goes so I am content to be content and happy to know that I will soon be graced with even more than I'm asking for, which is a very rare occasion indeed!

Then she's dragging me to the bathroom and I'm coming along willingly, though maybe a little sluggishly because I don't want to move /too/ fast and maybe she's got ADD about where she wants to make love or maybe she's just high on life, but I guess she's gonna turn my shower fantasy into a reality and who am I to argue besides, you know, half of the moment.

She tells me to go in first, while she waits outside the bathroom door, while I finish undressing and slide into the shower after turning on the tap and it's cold at first, but that's alright because I'm so hot. And after the water's been running a minute or 2 and I'm just leaning up again the wall under it letting it drench my dry skin, I can hear the door open and then the lights go out and I smile as I hear the shower door sliding open and can feel the cool air from outside as it flows in and it brings with it an invisible beauty and I can feel her warm embrace from behind as her fingers dance across my stomach just softly enough to drive me crazy like those softer touches tend to do, which to me doesn't make much sense, but who am I to argue? She turns me around a little aggressively but in that passionate, loving way and I pull her tight up against me and her legs wrap around mine and she climbs into my arms and we just stand like that for a while and I can't think of a feeling better than this, and I wonder if she can, being a user, and I kind of hope that maybe this feeling will top that feeling and she'll choose to make me her drug of choice but I don't think she can just choose like that and then her tongue is trailing up my side and across my chest and across my neck and she must be standing on her tiptoes because she's generally a little shorter than me, so I pick her up to ease her strain and she's flicking my ear with her tongue and this is all almost too much. I know it's cliché too, but I don't care because I've never felt like this before and I want to tell her that, but I don't want to kill the mood with all this cutesy bullshit, and before I could even tell her any of this her tongue is in my mouth again and it's sort of wrestling and I'm only putting up a fight because in a moment like this, putting up a fight is a way to let you both win the game – no ties – just two full-blown winners. Otherwise the game might be a little too one-sided and that's not much of a game at all. And now my hands are trailing down her back, and she's got goose bumps which I'd like to think I can read like braille, and they say "don't stop Elliot."

But I do, stop, right at her waistline because I have an idea that I'll lather her up with soap and it turns out to be a great idea as I rub my hands together and then massage her skin deeply but my hands are slipping all over and she's giggling as they slide towards her butt and it's soft and round and weighty in my hands, like not /too/ perky, but just right for me and my fingers are sliding all over and she turns around and starts to grind on me and the slick surfaces create no painful friction, but just the warmth that comes with the rubbing and fun, and I realize that I didn't find out if her bra and panties match, but then I realize that this is definitely better anyway and that all of her soft curves are part of a perfect set.

It's at least another 10 minutes more of this slipping and sliding and screaming, and one might call it a /painfully/ long wait, but the truth of the matter is it was perfectly and totally fine and I had no unfulfilled desires. I felt like I was on some synthetic drug to create such unreal, perfect feelings. Then, if it hadn't progressed any further, that would've been alright too. Like Jeff on ED289/290 put it, "a desire would arise and, concurrently, the satisfaction of that desire would also arise."

She was amazing. She knew exactly how to get me going, and it was all the better, because it seemed like what got her going was to get me going. I'd like to think I prefer/require to be romanced a little bit too and this makes that moment we've been building towards since the beginning all the more exciting and rewarding. And yes, I realize too that if it were disappointing, the wait would've made for a bigger let-down, but what about this sounds disappointing to you? Maybe it was just luck, but I think if you looked up satisfaction in a thesaurus, it'd have a picture of Anna and I together. It would be a very dirty thesaurus, but it might help you to truly understand the correlation between "having sex" and "making love" – at least in /my/ thesaurus where the two are synonyms, at least in this case.  
We wrote the best bedtime story, with the happiest ending of all that night. We dove into the dark headfirst, and fraternized under the waves of love. We were under the ocean and all we could feel was calm.

After which we went to bed for another time, and that night her black mascara runs onto my white pillowcase and in the morning beneath her head is a Rorschach test and in it I see true, unbridled passion, but it's simply a memory of creation as the anxiety which never deservedly realized itself the night before arrives in a bit of a panic and I'm frustrated to find that Anna's presence in my bed next to me simply isn't enough to calm my nerves about that fucking phone call. I'm also frustrated that I do, in fact, /have/ these nerves, because I thought I remembered being fearless so recently and now these fears have developed and it's a crippling realization which leaves me fighting a panic attack sitting at the edge of my bed.

I think I could take Anna and we could run away together and she could get clean. Yeah, that's what we'll do. I figure since she's been with me nearly 24 full hours without shooting up, her addiction must not be too strong, and all the money I've saved, not because I wanted to but simply because there wasn't anything left I wanted to buy, it'd be plenty to live on until we get situated and to pay for her treatment. At least until I can find an honest job.

Except for I've never really had much of an honest job. I figure this would make for an unimpressive resume, but I figure if we went to like an entirely new country or something, they probably wouldn't be so worried about a damn resume as they'd be about just a passport. Maybe. I can work. I'm not used to real work, but that doesn't mean I couldn't do it.

Or maybe I'm just overreacting. The phone never rang again, so maybe it wasn't /that/ important, right? Or they would have called back. And come to think of it – I never even actually confirmed that it /was them/. It could definitely be somebody just dialed a wrong number or a telemarket–nope, that is definitely the boss' boss' number glowing across the screen.

Really? It couldn't have just been the /boss'/ number? It has to be the boss' boss' number. Shit, I really messed up, didn't I? Now I'm asking myself – was it worth it? That's a good question.

I think it was. I think even if today ends up being my last day on the job, the night I spent with Anna would've been worth it. A fair trade, if you will. I mean, I don't know what more I could possibly ask for, really. What? Marriage? Like a drug dealer and an addict are gonna run off together and get married and live happily ever after? Like that's gonna work out?

Well, maybe it could... But I've never really considered myself the marriage type. But maybe Anna could be the exception to that rule too. But I probably have plenty of time to think about it – they're not gonna fucking kill me over one missed call. That's just unheard of.

"1 MISSED CALL." That's it, just the one. Not even a voicemail. This really couldn't possibly be so bad.

Now, should I try and return the phone call? Or should I just try shooting him a text? Or should I just try /shooting/ him?

Well, that's quite the leap, considering I don't even own a gun and I especially don't know where to find the guy. I don't even know his name.

This is all really fogging up my brain, but I think my best (and maybe only) option is to return the call, since I can't really go and see him in person. But I think the task of returning this phone call might be one that requires what I'd like to think I gave to Anna last night – my all.

Or at least a clean shave and pants. Yes, I'll settle for a clean shave and pants.

The jeans are fit well after having been recently washed – which isn't always a luxury I afford myself. I mean, I've got a washer and dryer and plenty of funds to cover the electric and water bills – this isn't the issue. It's the willpower or lack thereof which I might be lacking.

So I'll go out on the balcony and make the phone call now that I've got a piece of a Kleenex dabbed on the cut from shaving because my hand was so damn shaky and still is. Yes, this'll be alright, but maybe a special pill or 2 or 4 beforehand, but they'll have to function something like placebos because I have to return this call as soon as possible and so there's no way they'd be able to work their drugs into my system in time. But I think just knowing that they're in me and knowing that they are functioning pills ought to be enough to settle me. And I don't really have any excuse to put off making this call any longer, so I'll just do it.

I'll do it now.

Right now.

Now.

Right now.

Okay, it's ringing.

It's ringing.

It"Elliot."

"Yeah, hello sir?"

"Elliot. You missed my call last night."

"I did, and I'm truly sor–"

"Of course you're sorry. I'm sure you didn't /mean/ to miss it. I'm sure you were /very/ busy."

"I–"

"But you must know, while you were taking the night off, probably jerking it into some hooker – your competitors were hitting Danny up for some major change.

"There is, of course, nothing you might've done to prevent this. The call was simply a warning, or a strong suggestion, to be vigilant. These guys hit Danny. I'm sure they'd have no qualms about hitting you up too."

"Is Danny–" I start.

"Dead? No. Of course not. They wouldn't dare. Only robbed him and beat him up a bit. Maybe they figured leaving him alive – they'd have the chance to rob him again. Or maybe they were just sending a message. You know, like 'look what we could do. Don't tempt us.

"But now I suppose the only option is to return the favor. And luckily, I think I've just the man for the job. I suppose I could ask Danny to do it, but his mother likely wouldn't appreciate that and he really hasn't been in the right mindset since, and then there's Rich who /answered his fucking phone/, so I figure I owe him one too. Or I don't owe him one... whatever the case, Bulbrook'll be in touch with the details and I expect you'll answer the call when it comes."

"I–" don't get a chance to respond before the phone line is dead air and I feel a sick stabbing my gut as I imagine stabbing another guy's gut to "return the favor."

The boss' boss really seems like a "no bullshit" type of guy, especially when his boy Danny's involved.

He kind of has to be, I think, to've made it so far. Or was he simply a foot-in relatively?

Irrelevant, Elliot. You screwed up.

# CHAPTER IX: POWER  
KANYE WEST

So now I've gotta decide if this job is worth compromising my morals for, assuming Mr. Bulbrook wants me to return the favor by way of murdering one of my competitors, which seems reasonable by way of things, because things just really aren't all that reasonable.

Okay, actually, I first need to decide whether or not murder is even outside of my moral code. It's gotta be. But... I sell drugs to people which is a process that can lead to a large variety of things, and come to think of it I can't think of a single /positive/ outcome as such, including death.

My clients go home and shoot up and waste all their money and end up dying alone and strung out on the drug that cost them everything. Or they don't wait to waste all their money and simply start stealing from others to make tourniquet ends meet. Or maybe they sell it to someone else and make some profit of their own; maybe to a kid. I wouldn't sell to a kid, I think that's one line that I've drawn. But then I have to wonder if I drew my lines in cement or sand.

Or maybe Mr. Bulbrook will take things a bit more lightly, and maybe he won't want me to kill someone at all. Maybe we'll literally be returning the exact same "favor," and I suppose that wouldn't be so bad. It's definitely something I could deal with, by way of realizing that the drug addictions which I cater to probably /already/ feed the need to steal, and so by stealing directly I'm just cutting out the middleman here, sort of. It's just business. And I have plenty of time to think abou–

Her fingers are a cool sensation trailing up the back of my neck and giving me goose bumps now and even a little jump before I recognize the touch that's haunted me since I first felt it.

"What is it, Ellie?" she asks. I'm afraid that I've begun to set a precedent for constantly being distracted and uninterested and maybe by way of these two aspects /needy/ as well, and these are certainly not characteristics which I wish to portray to Anna.

So "nothing at all!" I say, swinging around and scooping her up in my arms and she's giggling and her hot breath whistles in my ear and it's a catcall and I echo it in my mind and I want to take her back to bed, but I'm not so sure that's what she intended and then she tells me she's hungry and so I take that as a no, which is alright because I have heard things about too much of a good thing.

"So, where will it be?" I ask, hoping she'll take the hint that I don't cook or I don't have groceries or a combination of both and I add on, for extra assertion in this direction, "Whatever you want."

I think she's clearly not used to this kind of offer, and I imagine she's said those same words before, "Whatever you want..." but not in this delighted light. "Really?" she asks, and my nod nets me a strong and joyful hug and I don't think I've felt this good about things since I can even remember and that scares me because I know there's a few things here that may be a bit off and maybe I shouldn't be relying solely on this one pole I've cast out into an ocean of feelings to consistently net happiness, but so far she hasn't let me down, so I don't have a reasonable reason to be feeling these feelings. Just simple logic. And who the fuck needs logic anyway?

I also have my own ulterior motives for being so generous (at least maybe a little bit), because I realize that a happy Anna will result in a distracted Elliot who forgets what could very well be waiting on the other end of his telephone the next time it rings. And now I'm thinking about it again...

"So, what'll it be, Anna?" I want to call her "Anna-believer" which just popped into my mind, maybe as a vocalization of "I'm a believer" like that old song and I don't quite know yet what it is that she makes me believe in or want to believe in, but I can already tell it's something good that I don't want to mess up by breaking out the pet-names so soon, though I feel pretty clever about "Anna-believer." Yes, that's a good one.

"Well Ellie-belly, I think Denny's sounds pretty wonderful." Really? Ellie-belly? I wouldn't call myself a fan of the nickname. And really? Denny's? Well actually Denny's is probably like restaurant royalty to Anna, maybe, or that might be a little awful of me to say something like that, but it may very well be true. Whatever the case, if it makes her happy, "Ellie-belly" and Denny's it is.

"We'll take my car," I offer without realizing that she didn't drive herself over here. It's not like we really have any other choice than my car, but she gets me pretty good with "good, I was afraid we were going to have to walk," which is both clever and serves me right for being so scatter-brained right now, even if it /is/ her fault I'm like this. But I don't think it is, her fault. And this is in no way comparable to how frustrated I'll be in about 15 minutes.

At Denny's now, I make the entire menu available to Anna, and I realize that if we keep things up this way I'll have soon spent the entirety of Anna's drug money /on/ Anna, and though I realize this may very well be the case, I realize I really don't care.

She opts for the build-your-own Grand Slam® with 2 sides of bacon and 2 eggs, scrambled. Probably not the best bang for your buck when building your own Grand Slam® (pancakes are undoubtedly more filling), but again, what do I care? Why am I wasting my time considering any of this? I build my own Grand Slam® as well, and by the time the food arrives I'm as good as starving, and as I think this I imagine people who are actually starving and then wish there were a word that just meant "pretty hungry," but in like a first-world problems way, so that I wouldn't feel like I was offending some third-world countries who know /real/ hunger.

But it's alright because the conversation with Anna prior to our food arriving is what really counts anyway.

"So, you come here often?" she says, smiling affectionately.

I nod and tell her "yes, frequently," because I know she will be impressed by such a vulgar display of wealth and power, and I didn't do anything when we arrived that I think would have made me look like an outsider. I feel like it's really probably pretty hard to look like an outsider at /Denny's/. I mean, the bar isn't set /too/ high. But I don't mean this offensively – the food is fine and really very good for the price, but why am I thinking about any of this when I just stalled the damn conversation with a very matter-of-factly statement like "yes, frequently." What I should've said is, "I've been here a time or two. How about you? Is this one of your favorites?" Only problem is I might be a little worried if it were, indeed, one of her favorites. But why? Why is this such a problem? It's really not a problem. Maybe I just need some sort of affirmation of the situation. You know, maybe I'm just worried about knowing whether or not it /is/ a favorite of hers, not so much whether or not it /should/ be.

"Actually, I've only been here a few times," I finally end up correcting myself.

"Too expensive?" she asks, understandingly.

"No, it's not that," really. "I just have other tastes I guess."

"Oh, well I love their bacon," she says, as if there were any way to distinguish Denny's bacon from, say... /anywhere else's/ bacon. But really, why would I want to burst her beautiful, phosphorescent bubble? She seems to be living out a sort of dream by getting to eat here, maybe because it's with me.

Maybe I could offer to make this a weekly, or even a daily thing. Let's eat breakfast together here each morning. Maybe that's a good idea.

Orrr maybe that's moving wayyy too quickly. Yeah, that's probably moving way too quickly, trying to make plans for pretty much every day for the foreseeable future. But wouldn't that be such a cute story to tell? We had breakfast at Denny's together every morning. Same booth even? But who would I tell it to?

Maybe she's got someone to tell it to, I think as I throw it out there. "Would you maybe like to make this like, a recurring thing?"

To which she reasonably replies, "Let's maybe get our food first." I can kind of tell by the way she says it, by the sort of unconvincing/unconvinced tone, that she maybe feels obligated to say this. Like maybe "no" isn't exactly the answer she wants to give me, but she feels like it's the answer she /should/ give me. Honestly it's a lot better than "slow down there, cowboy." I think I might recall my mother saying that to me as a child, "Slow down there, cowboy." And I hated it, because cowboys were supposed to be super cool and free from matriarchy rule and the laws of speed, so it was really demeaning. Not even to me, just to cowboys in general.

And come to think of it, that's not even what Anna said to me, is it? No. She was super cool about it.

I think maybe I can get to the heart of the matter by asking "so, why Denny's?" I mean, there's a lot of choices. Just why did you make this one? Maybe I could learn something else about her.

"My mom used to work here, late nights and early mornings a lot. So she brought the kids with her sometimes."

I note she says "kids" as she continues: "Set us up with coloring books and crayons and the like, and that was that. But I guess they were good memories, and I guess this sensibly reminds me of those memories."

Ah, heroin addict child of a single mother. A little cliché, but I'll allow it.

Then she adds, "She wasn't a single mother." Oh? "Dad was always at home, but we went with mom."

"If dad was always home, why didn't he watch the kids then?"

"Mom insisted we go with her, actually. I don't think she wanted to leave us alone with dad."

"Oh. What did dad think of that?"

"He didn't mind. /Preferred/ it actually. Might've been his idea even. I don't recall."

"So 'kids?' You have siblings?" I ask.

"Yes, I have a sister. 2 years younger. Her name's Amanda. She was a freshman in high school my first year as an upperclassmen."

"Anna and Amanda," I repeat fondly. "So, how was that, being in school together?" I do wonder, being as my own sister was a solid 6 years older than me, so there was no overlap in our respective high school stints.

She's 28 and married with kids now. I've met my brother-in-law, of course. He seems like a nice guy, but then, don't we all? But I have yet to meet my two beautiful nephews.

"Actually, not so bad. It was kind of fun, being able to sort of teach her the things that I learned my first 2 years there. Now I wouldn't say I'm some profound revelator on the matter of high school, but I think I mostly definitely helped her adjust to it."

"Are you two close?" I ask and sort of immediately regret asking this question. It almost always results in some nostalgic moment, i.e. "We used to be, but now not so much." At least in my main-line of work.

"Yeah, you could say that. We still pretty much can and will tell each other everything. I mean, when we do talk, which is probably once a month or two."

"Once or twice a month or once every two months?" I ask, sort of jokingly, clarifying.

"Once a month or once every 2 months. It's actually probably about time I give her a call. She usually calls me, but I told her I'd give her a call when something changed, you know, since the last time we talked."

"Has anything changed?" I ask, totally setting her up.

"Well, I suppose a couple things. I started shooting heroin and I met a nice guy," she laughs. "Could be one of those things which I might or should be selective about the details, huh?"

"Uh, kind of." I smile too. "You don't think she'd appreciate the meeting a nice guy bit, huh?" gets a chuckle out of her, and she replies, "Well, we're close, but maybe not /that/ close, you know?"

"Gotcha."

"Do you have any siblings?" she asks at right about the time my phone starts ringing. /That/ phone. There might've been a small break in between her asking and my phone ringing, but it wasn't enough time to begin answering the relatively simple question.

Okay, I've really gotta answer this.

"Uh, one sec... I've really gotta answer this."

"Sure," she smiles, then mouths the word "business," I think.

"Hello?" I sort of whisper, though I don't know why I bother, because Anna's either going to be able to hear me or Mr. Bulbrook's not going to be able to hear me. So I clear my throat, then "hello?" I clarify at a normal, respectable, even modest (for a Denny's) volume.

"Elliot. I was expecting you'd be expecting my call."

"I was told to expect your call, sir." I nod, and smile at Anna, to assure her that business is as usual, which it most certainly is not, and that there is no cause for alarm, which there certainly is. She sips from her iced tea which she was hesitant to order until I told her that the price was no object, but I think it was the free refills that finally sold her.

"Well, as I'm sure you're well-aware, we've come into a bit of a situation. It's really nothing huge, I wouldn't say, but it's definitely an issue which needs delving into, and I've been told that you're the man who's going to be taking care of the delving."

"You got it, sir."

"Well, we've been able to track down some information on our suspect. Name's Jordan Wrier. And you've been tasked with bestowing on him a sort of... well... mortal moral. Yes, that's it," he says, clearly amused by his own wordplay.

And I'm choking on words I was almost certain I'd be having to say soon enough – I should've expected this. I guess it was probably going to happen, whether by my hand or not, so maybe that helps a little bit, but it really doesn't. There's a pain in my side that aches with the potential that will perish "within the day," Mr. Bulbrook says.

"Right" is pretty much all I can muster.

I imagine a very grave look on my face which would fit such news, but fight to keep a sort of lighthearted complexion so as not to draw Anna's attention. We haven't known each other long enough for her to be able to sense the fear or distress in my voice, right? There's simply no way. I mean, she recognized it earlier, but I was being obvious. Now I'm trying.

"Jordan Wrier, you got that?" he says. He says, "He works out of a house at the corner of 9th and Caroline – small and blue. Maybe has a roommate or two, but word is they're usually too high to pay any mind anyway."

"Got it, sir."

"I expect to hear from you shortly, when the work is done."

"Yessir," I say about to hang up, but "wait, I may need some... tools."

"I figured as much. I'll drop by the video store, in an hour."

"Thanks," I say but he's already gone. Even if he weren't, I doubt he'd appreciate my appreciation regardless.

"Elliot?" Anna asks.

"Work," I say.

"I figured as much," she says, kind of retreating herself. "Do we have time to eat?" she asks.

"Plenty," I smile assuring.

So, this is how I end, I think, as we sit there quietly, her sipping her tea and looking up at me often, my eyes trained on a newspaper which I don't even know where I picked up, but not really seeing the words because inside of me there's more pressing news and it is the obituary of my morals and the date it says on it is today. And I am afraid of something for once. I'm afraid to kill. I'm not afraid to be killed, but I'm afraid to kill. And so this really /is/ the end of me in one way or another. Either I totally redefine myself as someone whose morals dictate an allowance of killing, so long as I'm only following orders. Or I'll likely be killed myself for failing to carry-out an assignment as such.

And just when things were getting good, too.

The food comes and Anna looks reservedly thankful at me before digging in on her relatively small breakfast, because really, 4 slices of bacon and a couple scrambled eggs isn't a lot of food. It looks reasonable by way of the scrambled eggs, but I know if I had ordered the same meal but with /over easy/ eggs like I like, it would look like such a measly meal, I think, and just because she had her eggs cooked a different way doesn't mean that she's consuming any more than 4 slices of bacon and 2 eggs. It's not a lot, but I guess the girl does have a figure to keep. No, she definitely does. But I really can't imagine something like her figure being a problem – you don't see a lot of fat heroin addicts. Well, I don't at least.

Despite the significant difference in size of our meals, we still finish up about the same time because maybe I was a little hungrier, or because maybe I only ate a quarter of my meal and I ask her if she'd like me to drop her off at home and she reminds me that she left her purse at my house, so I agree to take her back to get her things and on the way there I look at the time and realize that it's been nearly an hour since I talked to Mr. Bulbrook and he's definitely not going to leave the delivery without a signature and he's definitely not going to tolerate waiting on me to arrive, and I definitely don't want him to see Anna with me or to get her involved in any way whatsoever, and so I tell Anna she can stay at my place if she wants while I run a couple errands and she looks at me and I think I can tell that she's gauging whether or not I'd allow her to shoot up in my house, in my absence, and I think that her addiction (if she indeed even has one, since I haven't really seen any symptoms of one since we've been together) must be weighing on her. For a moment I entertain a brief fear that Anna may actually /be/ an undercover cop looking to scout out my place which would definitely explain why she hasn't shot up yet, but wouldn't necessarily explain last night in the shower and then again in the bed, and she would really have to be going beyond the call of duty to do everything she's done, so I figure she probably does need the drugs and maybe she's just really good at hiding it or being polite or she's not as addicted as my other addicts who would, at the very least, threaten to kill to get what they want or need or claim to want or claim to need.

She kindly and thankfully agrees and for a moment I wonder if she even has a home of her own, somewhere to go back to, but she doesn't look homeless by any sense of the word. And so we part with a kiss like a married man leaving his stay-at-home wife at/for work, and I figure I won't come back until I've done what I must do. It will be nice to return to her embrace, but it might very well kill me.

On my way to the store, I can't find anything on shuffle that I'd like to listen to. It's like, for a moment, I don't like any music at all and never have, which is a pretty stupid feeling considering music was just about the only thing I worried about this week that didn't necessarily need worrying about, and now I don't seem to be worried at all. So I just start with the first song in my collection, the letter "A" alphabetically and "Afraid" by The Neighbourhood and the symbolism of this being what I listen to on the way to do this... thing is too fucking perfect so I have to skip it, so now it's Cage The Elephant's "Ain't No Rest For The Wicked" which honestly isn't any better, but it's got a vibe that's more in tune with the way I'm feeling right about now which is to say that it actually doesn't quite fit what I'm feeling right now because I don't want to feel this way (afraid). So it's perfect in a different sense. Does that make sense? I put it on repeat because it's tolerable and I don't want to deal with trying to find another tolerable song on this insignificant car ride!!

When I arrive at the video store, Mr. Bulbrook's sleek silver sedan isn't in the parking lot which is small enough so that I can tell that, but as I turn off the ignition of the black Acura, the silver sedan slides incognito in next to my driver's side door facing the opposite way like I've seen cop cars do on TV, which I've always thought was a little weird but now that I'm actually engaging in it myself, it makes total sense. I roll my window down and it's like he's sitting right next to me and he tosses me a fucking /Hobby Lobby/ bag and inside it appears to be a black paisley bandana which would account for the Hobby Lobby bag because there's also a receipt for the bandana and this is very funny to me, and then beneath that is a... what I guess would be a /normal/-sized, black handgun, but it looks huge and I wonder to myself if I keep the handgun when I'm done or if I would even want to. Mr. Bulbrook says, "You good to go?" and I guess I kind of smile, which seems both right and incredibly wrong for the situation and he says "good. Your man's waiting," which I understand to mean they've already staked out the house and found Jordan there.

Cage The Elephant is still on repeat which is honestly getting a little on my nerves, but instead of changing it I just pop a couple pills and my mind is on other things, more important things as I pull up maybe two blocks from the house. A good distance, I think.

And maybe I sit there for another hour and at this point I've turned off the stereo because I can't take another minute of considering myself "wicked" enough to relate to that song, because I'm not... wicked, and so what am I even doing here. In less than 10 minutes I imagine/plan I'll be staring a man in the face, moments away from sending him to an early grave, all because of... what? Because he stole some money? People steal money all the time, but it doesn't warrant a fucking death sentence! This is ridiculous!

And still, I'm going to do it. What exactly does that say about me? I don't want to think about it. I think if I sit here long enough considering, I'll probably never end up doing it. I don't think any answer I could come up with is going to make what I'm about to do okay. And so I just need to do it, right?

Or maybe this means I /don't/ need to do it. I shouldn't do it. I mean, I really shouldn't do this. I shouldn't kill someone because someone else told me to. Even if it means that I'm going to die in his place. And then I get to thinking – if I don't kill the guy, I probably will get killed over it, and then he'll probably still end up getting killed too. Maybe I even have a solid plea in court, that I was forced to do this. That there was a gun at my head and a gun in my hand and I had no choice. That it was either him or me, and that it wasn't even that. It was either him, or him /and/ me – yes, that's pretty much what it boils down to I think.

So I'll do it. I'll kill a guy. Because someone told me to.

As much as I'd like to sit here and mull it over a lot while longer, I fear that sitting here and thinking about it might in one way or another lead to my own demise and so I finally build the courage (is that what this is? Courage? The courage to kill a [relatively] innocent man?) to go in. And I'm walking down the street carrying a Hobby Lobby bag and I make a mental note to remember to bring the bag back out with me. It's probably got some fingerprints on it – both mine and Mr. Bulbrook's to, though he might've had the foresight to wear gloves when handling it like I did not. I'm struck again by the humor of a grown man handing another man a Hobby Lobby bag which he must have legitimately obtained by making the purchase of the bandana at Hobby Lobby, and there's a gun inside too. This is really just too stupid, that's all it is. And I'm a part of it all. The biggest part, maybe. I'm stupid. Or maybe the man forcing my hand has a bigger part in this than I do. I honestly don't know what the answer is, but now I'm standing maybe 500 feet from the guy's house and so I quickly wrap the bandana around my face (having thought that a man wearing a bandana around the past 2 blocks in this heat might've drawn some attention), but I've no more time to spare and so I put it on and go to the front door and try to open it quietly, though I can hear a TV blasting from inside.

Naturally, the door's locked, and I don't know why it didn't occur to me that this was a wholly reasonable possibility. That a drug dealer might be suspecting of something like this, especially after his crew just stirred the shit with us. I feel like an idiot.

But Jordan is probably gonna feel like a real idiot too when he realizes that he left the back door to the garage open and then his house door from the garage so that I can sneak inside that way and I'm really fucking nervous because I really have no idea about the layout of the house and I should've taken some more pills in the car beforehand and I'm not quite sure where I'm coming in or what might be just around the corner. But I'm not an idiot, so I can make the connection that I've entered the kitchen now, which connects at one end with the living room where I can see the TV is on against a blank wall and I make no mistake recognizing Walt Jr. on the screen working the front desk at the carwash, but I don't have time to sit and fucking reminisce on the show while I'm crouched here. Only enough time to apparently make the connection that he must be streaming it on Netflix, and I also even think for a second that it's a little sad that Jordan (if that is who's watching it) will never get to finish the epic series because I'm about to fucking shoot him in the fucking face and I feel like Jesse maybe in that I'm not too sure about a decision like this and maybe he's already seen the whole series and he's just rewatching it and this is really just too much to comprehend and so I shouldn't wait to clutter my mind any further, because it's entirely possible that I'll just turn to the door and walk out and that'll be that or I'll be sitting here still when he walks in.

But no, I decide. This is it. I must do this, for the sake of myself, and so I'm sneaking through the kitchen and around the pull-out dishwasher and I'm about to kind of peek around the corner slowly and carefully when the stupidest fucking thing pops into my head and it's the words to Kanye West's "Power" in which he asserts that "no one man should have all that power" and I wonder if he had this: a man's life or death, in mind when he wrote it and if he did, I actually feel for Kanye, because this is a real messed up feeling and I think I wholeheartedly agree then that /no one man should have all [this] power/, and then I hear a recliner creaking and the floor creaks too as whoever's sitting in that recliner around the corner seems to be heading for the fucking kitchen and so I shrink back into the corner as he rounds it to the refrigerator and grabs a Bud Light out of the fridge where there's gotta be a hundred or more and for a moment I think about how the guy has 100 cans of Bud Light and how it may be a blatant display of his wealth to keep that many on tap but how maybe just 25 of a better, more expensive brand might be more impressive, before he swings back around the corner without ever turning to face me and I did see him long enough to recognize the shoulder-length blonde hair, Kurt Cobain style, as Mr. Bulbrook put it, as Danny put it, and so this must be the guy, Jordan, or I don't even want to give the guy a name, but I know he has one and when I hear that he's returned to his E-Z chair, I take one more deep breath then run headlong around the corner and turns out there's also a couch in the room where someone appears to be wrapped up in a blanket and maybe they're strung out or something but there's a pistol sitting on the arm of the couch which is within reach of Jordan's chair and he's already reaching for it when I get him once in the chest I think, but not heartside and he's no longer grabbing for the pistol but instead for his chest which isn't going to save him. I'm sure, but he's not, and now the guy on the couch is rolling over and reaching for that same gun and I fire once, maybe twice. Definitely twice at him and I'm not sure if I hit him the first time or not, but I definitely missed the second time and hit the American flag hanging behind him and instead of sticking around to find out if my first shot was lucky, I swing back around the corner and actually end up jumping out the kitchen window which I just noticed was opened pretty wide and we're at ground level. I hit the ground hard still and not in the spy-rolling way I had planned and I can hear yelling coming from the house behind me and I keep running until I'm in my car even though I don't know if anyone is actually chasing me and this is all a real stretch because the impact of the fall really took my breath away, and I yank off the bandana when I'm almost to the car and try to just cruise out of the neighborhood as coolly as possible.

The sirens in my rearview mirror are gaining fast, but I don't floor it.

# CHAPTER X: CARAPHERNELIA  
PIERCE THE VEIL

I watch as they take a hard right off the main road and into the residential area I just left, and all is well for now. It's crazy because... well, because I may have very well just killed a man, but it's also crazy because when I got back in the car I didn't bother to plug in my iPod and so I've actually just been driving the last 10 minutes at a very normal pace with nothing but silence surrounding me. I guess maybe I hadn't really been thinking about the music or lack thereof, or haven't been focused on my surroundings and that kind of scares me because I can't actually quite remember driving to my apartment, but yet, here I am.

I, of course, know what I just did, but it still seems to all move like a blur and honestly I hope it stays that way because right now I can't even imagine clearly the look on the dying man's face as his life spilled out of his chest and onto his recliner and probably made a nice, clean pool on the wood floor too. I do wonder if I hit the other man, but I think that even if I did, it certainly wasn't fatally, because the police were headed towards the scene in moments and I doubt they would have made such a rush out of a simple noise complaint like the shots might have generated from the neighbors – no. So I only killed the one guy and the other called the cops and I FUCKING KILLED A GUY. Who would kill a man, take a man's life, and leave him with nothing, all over a fucking drug dispute? Who would do that? Not me, no. Not somebody I could ever imagine myself being.

But I didn't do it for the drugs, no. I did it to save someone. I guess myself. I guess I did it to save myself. But really, I wasn't even sure I was ever in any danger of being killed. I mean, I'm sure the people who sent me were willing to kill for their product, but couldn't it also be true that they fully expected me to chicken out and were maybe just using this for argument's sake? For leverage against me? You know, to say that they asked me to take care of something and I couldn't take care of it? Something like that? But I did take care of it. Can I remember a time when someone died at the hands of these guys though, specifically? Not off the top of my head, no. I can't remember anyone from the crew having ever purposely put down another man. Man, I'd love for these thoughts to stop. But maybe I should've thought about all this before I fucking /killed a man in cold blood/. Did you ever think of that, Elliot? Obviously, not.

But I'm not sure that any of this would've changed my mind. There wouldn't really have been any way to reassure myself with this extra knowledge of uncertainty, would there have? No. So just /chill/, Elliot. "Take a chill pill or 8" I do.

And then I get to thinking that maybe Anna could calm me down. In fact, she might be the only person in the world that could right now, and then I remember (and I can't for the life of me say why I didn't remember this already, because I thought it was so important to me and now it... what? Just slipped my mind?) she's at my place /right now/ and I could see her right now if I would just turn off the car and go inside. I really need her right now, I think, but then I realize that this is too much maybe to be asking considering we're not even really in a relationship or whatever and we only spent one night together and this is all really ridiculous and so I'll take another pill or 2 and maybe this will all blow over and I won't be such a burden on her. Maybe I'll calm down a little bit, but I don't really know how to go about everyday life after taking somebody else's everyday life. Has my life been permanently divided now? Before I killed someone to death and after? I really, really hope not. I fucking hope not. I'm thinking now and I really just wanted to say "I really, really hope not," but I think I've earned the sentiment of "fucking," what with my being a fucking /murderer/, right? Right. I think. Oh, what am I gonna tell Anna when she sees me like this? I'd really like to drive off some of these nerves right now, but I think having my car out on the roads is a bad idea, because someone might've seen it fleeing the scene, so it'd probably be better to just leave it parked. Not much else I can do, considering I have an apartment and no closed garage and I wish I had thought of all this too before all this shit happened, but I don't think I would've been able to come up with any better solution than to just park it outside. Maybe I would've invested in like a storage unit I could've parked the car in. Yeah, right. Maybe I just need to get it a paint job or new tags or something... shit. Shit, shit, shit. That's what all this is.

But I think maybe if I could just calm down, if I was just in Anna's arms right now, like maybe everything would be alright, if only for a little while. When I'm in her arms I can pretty much just say 'fuck everything outside of this cocoon of you and me' and she seems perfectly content to do the same.

"Anna?" I call out, genuinely concerned when opening the apartment door to an equally haunting silence I wasn't expecting. Maybe music, or the TV, or something at least and when I've made my way back to the bedroom after observing nothing worth observing, nothing of significance on my way back there, nothing out of place, I find Anna lying face-down on the bed.

But don't worry, Elliot. She's breathing. She's not dead. I take a moment to brush the extra worry that was climbing to the top of my mountain of worry off. She must just be so messed up on her kick, she doesn't recognize the outside world. Or maybe she realizes it's outside and so it is of no concern to her or maybe she just fell asleep or maybe she's in a doctor-induced drug coma and I am her pharmacist. But probably not the last one, because I don't think the weak shit I've been dealing could possibly feed such a tragedy or I don't think I could possibly deal with something like that and I'm sort of a firm believer that we're never really dealt more than we can deal with in life. And with everything's that's happened in the last 12 hours, I really do think that would be just too much. Or maybe it's what I deserve. Maybe for having killed somebody, karma won't kill /me/, but someone I hold so dearly. Because it's not the dead person that suffers. It's the ones they leave behind. Which is another direction my mind hadn't taken until now; even in the drug game, there's rarely a person with /no/ connections to /anyone/ else. Someone's going to miss Jordan and I really wish I hadn't considered that just now, or that I had considered it before doing what I did.

My god, what have I done?

I said I loved her, didn't I say "someone I love" when speaking of Anna? I did. Oh, my god. I know I did. Could it be possible that I love this girl trippin' on my sheets just now? She's got a nasty habit (the heroin), but then, don't we all?

A quick assessment of the room leads me to believe that Anna might possibly be the /cleanest/ addict I've ever come in contact with. Or maybe just the most intelligent. She didn't leave any trace of her addiction out in the open. Nothing which would implicate her for something I didn't already know she was doing. And it sure seems like I'm one of the only people on this earth who knows exactly what it is she's been doing. Though I don't think it's generally something you just come out and say to people, huh?

"Hey mom. How are you? Oh, good, good. Yeah, no, I haven't got a chance to see the movie yet, but I'm reading the book right now. Right, right. Oh, Josh Duhamel as Alex? Oh, that's perfect! Yes, yes. How's my little nephew then? Growin' like a weed, I bet. Hey, speaking of growing weed – I've read that weed is a 'gateway drug' and now I'm strung out on heroin." Stupid, I know.

I guess if she were in like... the narcotics anonymous program, she'd probably have faced some sort of intervention at some point, and so people must have realized it then, but I don't know that she's ever been in NA. And even then, I don't think it's really something you just /tell/ people – I think they have to realize it for themselves.

Well, while I'm sitting here waiting for her to wake up, which could realistically be... hours? I think maybe I should check in with my dealer phone and see what's happening. Several texts from Tommy... One from Jess. Both looking to score. I could probably easily knock them both out and be back in time to be the first thing Anna sees when she wakes up, but honestly that's probably not the best idea, because from my experience the first thing an addict sees when they wake up from a long binge, when jettisoned back into the "real world," usually is or becomes something they resent.

Or maybe I would be a pleasant surprise.

Actually, maybe going out to take care of Tommy and Jess will be the perfect amount of time to give her some time to wake up and reorient herself in a world which she probably forgot she even exists in. This world which is not a pleasant thing to wake up to when your lease to euphoria is up, I'm sure.

So I shoot both Tommy and Jess texts, offering to meet them today, even though I just remembered that I probably really shouldn't be taking my car out today, but again, I parked pretty far from the house and I didn't create a scene in leaving I don't think, so it's possible no one even considered my car as being possibly connected to the possible shooting at 9th and Caroline.

I'll probably be alright.

Tommy messages me back unconsciously quickly, ready to meet when and where I so choose, to buy a little more than his usual take, which I determine must be an effect of the weaker product. Or maybe Tommy's feeling generous and intends to share with his friends...

No, definitely weaker shit. I don't hear back from Jess right away, which actually isn't alarming, because he doesn't always tend to text right back. Just noteworthy, I guess. Usually he waits until a break at work or something, and so it could be a bit before I hear from him. I decide to go ahead and stock his preferred volume on my way out the door, and then I wonder for a moment if the place where I hide the stuff (the medicine cabinet behind the bathroom mirror which doesn't look like it would have a medicine cabinet behind it because the cabinet is actually built pretty well into the wall) might be noticeable to say... a heroin addict who's sleeping in my bed right now and will likely get up to clean up her make-up pretty sooner than later. I decide that maybe it'd be just as well to hide the stuff in (after a bit of thought)... the vacuum cleaner bag. There's literally no reason I can think of that she might feel so obligated as to use the vacuum cleaner, and then even if she did I doubt she would notice that the suction is a little bit lacking lately. I mean, what would she have to compare it to? Maybe my vacuum always sucks... you know? And maybe I'm putting entirely too much thought into this, because if my original hiding space was good enough for a potential SWAT raid (you've gotta think big), then shouldn't it've been good enough for a heroin addict? Or maybe SWAT should be applying heroin addicts to sniff out the stuff, because they do seem to do a much better job at it. But then, isn't that what undercover cops are? And didn't I already determine that Anna probably wasn't an undercover cop and isn't it entirely possible that she won't even be awake yet when I return? A couple pills ought to take care of this uncertainty. I think it's pretty amazing that a pill can target and eliminate something so... uncertain. The wonders of modern medicine or whatever... I just don't want Anna to find the stuff and overdose or feel so obliged to screw me over and take it all and space it out for herself like a smart heroin addict might do. I don't think she'd do that to me though. But I also think that an addict can't ever be truly trusted and that a "smart" or "selfless" heroin addict is an oxymoron. They're only ever looking out for themselves, usually. And then I get to thinking that if she were /really/ looking out for herself, she would just stick with me and quit the shit, because I can take care of her and I think I've already demonstrated this pretty well this last night we spent together. Though I also left the next morning to go kill a man, so really how good can I be for anyone? I think Jordan could put up such a pretty convincing argument, that is... if he were alive, that I'm /not very good/ for anyone. But I also don't even like thinking the guy's name and so it's better if I just purge it from my mind by cranking up the stereo.

It's an "alternative" playlist, and I find myself shouting rather than singing the lyrics to Spoon's "Don't Make Me A Target," which has been in my collection pretty much since I started my collection, and is maybe a little bit too chill for my mood, but I like those lyrics so I stick with it as I'm cruising down the boulevard on my way to pick up Tommy who, I don't know if I mentioned this before, I don't really care for. I wouldn't especially wish death on the guy or anything like that, but I guess I just think that I wouldn't be too broken up if I found out he wound up getting killed trying to pull one over on another dealer. And then I wonder if he would ever think of trying to pull one over on me, and then I remember something which I honestly can't believe I totally fucking forgot which is the gun in my waistband, which I probably would be better off /not/ carrying considering it's now prime evidence in a murder trial, and which would be pretty damning to find on my person if I wound up getting pulled over. But I think maybe too that I should hang on to it, because with how everything's been going down lately at work, it really wouldn't come as much of a surprise were someone like Tommy to try and mess with me. And he'd be the one to do it, too.

Maybe I should invest in a firearm that's truly my own. I used to go to the shooting range with my father as a teenager – when /I/ was a teenager, not my father – so I certainly know how to clean and maintain a firearm if I remember correctly, as well as how to fire said firearm, as evidenced by today. Well, kind of. I guess I really kind of bumbled it, huh? And I could have very well wound up getting myself killed because I didn't deem it necessary to do a little bit of fucking recon on the house to find out what I was up against instead of charging headlong into a strange situation. Really not one of my finer moments.

I'm really actually pretty lucky to be alive. It could have very easily gone many other way that wouldn't have necessarily ended with me simply slipping out the back, alive and well, like I did. I don't think I need to explain all the things that could've gone wrong, but I also think that maybe I don't even want to consider what could have happened, because what I'm really considering is just how fucking stupid I was to do what I did and yet I did it anyway. That's usually the way of things though – you don't realize how stupid you are until you're already too stupid to realize it.

And why is that? Shit, I don't know. I'm not some genius philosopher, but I'm an okay singer and I'll turn the stereo up even louder (55 compared to the normal 52) just to let everything slip out the back of my mind. "Sappho" by Tribes will suffice, because I know the words pretty well, though I don't necessarily know exactly what I'm singing about or whether I even agree with it, but that doesn't really matter right now! "How do you tell a child that there's no god up in the sky and it's all a lie, for nothing?" You don't. What a horrible thing to tell a child.

Though it could very well /be/ all a lie for nothing when I just survived today without so much as a single, well, actually, I do have a small scratch above my left eye which I think I caught from my own fingernail when I went out the back window, but besides that, I mean... really. How did I get so lucky?

But then I have to wonder, well, if I really even have to wonder, first of all; but I also have to wonder, if I presented this same question to Jordan today, I imagine he'd probably be thinking the same way as Tribes are thinking – that it really was all a lie for nothing, because I cut him down on a whim and he didn't even have a moment to defend himself. Or maybe – and this is being hella-hopeful, and maybe fairly unrealistic in the case of such a presumably shitty human being – he made it up above and he's looking down on the world from a place of unadulterated bliss and he doesn't really mind it at all and it really wasn't all for nothing. Maybe he feels just as lucky as I do.

I'd prefer that.

Tommy is nothing out of the ordinary today. In fact, I probably wouldn't have anything to report on Tommy's case except that all the while we were together /my/ mind was still tied up in other things, and so actually he was somewhat an innocent bystander to all of this madness, but he /was/ there during the hysteria so I guess he's worth mentioning, right? Or I wonder if I even have anything to report on myself, because all of this is rushing so fast through my head it's like I don't even have time to really elaborate on any single idea, just to know that it's a small flurry in a blizzard of cold ideas, and then I'm also considering the fact that I'm actually thinking about how I'm not actually thinking about anything and then this whole thing feels a bit like a big waste of time.

Or not necessarily a waste of time, but maybe a waste of mind? I feel like I could be dedicating all these thoughts to something more affecting, you know, like maybe the cure for cancer or something?

Just kidding. I don't know, I'm not a genius or anything. But all these trivial thoughts just feel like they're below me. I don't know why I would feel like I'm... well, above any of this. But it's hard not to feel a little bit like I cheated fate. But I'm really not above any of this and I know that, I think, considering I'm right in the middle of it all. But I didn't put myself in this situation, did I?

No, I think not. It was really all the boss' boss' fault, or maybe Danny's for ever getting robbed in the first place, but also the boss' boss' fault for making it my responsibility to clean up after Danny. Really all it takes is being a little smarter than Danny to keep from getting robbed. I mean, I think I've pretty well documented my own strategies, and I don't think any of them took a real sharp mind to formulate. I feel like they're mostly just common sense rules, the lot of them. But Danny doesn't really have a lot of common sense, apparently. I mean, I guess I don't really know the guy well enough to speak to his inner mind... happenings, I'll call them. He just accidentally /happens/ to come up with a good idea once in a while or... something, apparently, that makes his step-father think he's worth keeping around. Or maybe it's all in the family and he's only employed because his step-dad loves his mom, in maybe some real messed up sense of the word, to be willing to put her own lifeblood (Danny) in the line of fire as such, but maybe his step-dad's just training him for a "better" job in the field. Or maybe he realizes that Danny doesn't really deserve something like that and really a better job should be going to someone who was willing to, say... compromise his morals (that is, of course, assuming I had any to begin with) and /kill/ a man for the sake of the business.

But that's not why I did it. I thought we already covered that.

I don't know why I did it.

"Hey Ellie, do you got any meth?" I think I catch in my peripheral hearing (if there even is such a thing) and then I realize that Tommy's actually trying to conversate with me, well, in a way. Asking me for methamphetamines. Actually I'm a little offended, that he thinks I would stoop to that level, especially for a real piece of shit like him!

"No," I say, and this seems to qualm his interest in the matter, because he doesn't say another word until we're all the way to where we're going, which is just around the edge of town pretty much to the other side. I could've probably cut my trip time in half, which would've been preferred with Tommy in tow, by cutting through the middle of town, but I thought it'd be safer to /not/ cut through the middle of town, what with the all-points bulletin on a black '87 Acura Integra, 2-door sedan. But that's ridiculous I realize, because how could they possibly have known it was an '87 without looking at the title or the insurance papers or something. I /do/ have car insurance. I'm not about to get busted and pent-up over a stupid thing like driving without insurance. I even keep my tags up to date. Yay, I'm a real upstanding citizen, huh?

So I let Tommy out with the customary handshake thing that from the outside probably either looks really suspicious or like we're best buds or something, which I assure you, we're not. But I feel like most people potentially observing obviously wouldn't realize that. And then, having not heard back from Jess, I return home on a long and relatively thoughtless journey, soundtracked by my "smooth" playlist – music made with the express intention of not instigating any strong emotions or inhibitions. When I arrive back home, Anna appears to have packed up and, what... how would she have gotten home? I brought her here in the first place, and if I were her I wouldn't exactly want to be employing public transportation with the kind of weight she was carrying, which realistically wasn't that much, but it's enough, I guess.

There's a handwritten sticky note on my nightstand which reads, in a not especially girly script or anything, but still affectionately, "Thanks for everything. Took a cab to clean up at home. Call me later. You've got my number."

No playful little smileys or hearts like you or I might expect. Maybe it's too soon. Maybe she's not that type of girl. I would guess the latter.

So I lay down on my bed in a sort of stupor of maybe the happiest I've ever been and the saddest I've ever been and the two extremes don't really level each other off, but I think it's fair to feel like I do. I mean, I think I have a right to feel this way.

And I wonder what Anna meant by "clean up at home"? I wonder if she realizes that I ever even saw her sick like she was. I wonder if she thought she got away before I could.

Sometime later I'm awoken from a "sleep" that is equal parts restless and satisfying, by a phone call – my dealer phone which I thought I'd turned off, though I don't remember ever actually doing so.

Looks like Jess finally decided to return my call.

# CHAPTER XI: EPIPHANY  
THE WORD ALIVE

"Hey Ellie," he says when I pick up.

"What? What is it, Jess?" I say, instantly alarmed. There's an anxiousness in his voice. I mean, he's always seemed a little on edge, ever since I met the guy I guess. But this is different. Maybe it's not anxiety; he almost sounds hurt. Beaten, maybe. Not like in desperate need of medical attention beaten or anything, but like his addiction and maybe just the world all around us is finally starting to take a toll. That kind of beaten.

"Nothing. Oh, nothing..." he says, without an ounce of detectable sincerity. If he's trying to sound alright, like really trying, he's doing a shitty job. "We'll talk in the car - can I get twice the usual..." he asks.

"You got it," I say, more than reasonably agreeably. I am worried, and I don't know why but maybe because I consider Jess my only real friend in the world. He's probably been the most constant relationship I've had in recent memory, and I genuinely like the guy. Is this what it feels like to be real friends with somebody?

I'm sort of at odds here, because part of me says this sucks, feeling like this, and then another part of me says this is real human interaction, connection. This is the way it should be. This is the way it should be?

This is the way you should be, Elliot.

I just don't know.

We agree to meet a couple blocks from his house by the gas station, which could be open or closed on any given day, based entirely on who owns it now.

We both know the one.

I guess I must've listened to the radio on the way, but not really loud enough to really hear it. Or maybe loud enough to really hear it, but regardless, I /didn't/ hear it. I feel really worked up now. I guess I just really want to talk to Jess and, you know, see what's up or whatever. But that doesn't warrant this kind of anxiety I don't think, the kind that costs me 2 more pills out of my precious little collection. I don't actually keep track of how many I take though or with what frequency. I have a standing prescription with no limit on refills. It's really not an issue.

When I run out, or if I'm feeling particularly responsible or something, when I'm /close/ to running out, I just let the boss know I need some more and usually he drops them off at the store the same day. Now, I'm not saying I need more now. I'm just saying that I don't feel like the situation maybe deserves as much medication as I've prescribed. I'm not a real doctor.

Jess is standing under the awning of the currently /closed/ gas station, just out of reach of the blowing rain, which in its current state is more of just a frothy mist. Unthreatening, but certainly annoying. Not enough precipitation to hinder my driving abilities; just enough to have to crank up the damn windshield wipers.

I pull up beneath that awning and he hops in the car and I ask him where to and he just says "around" which is a vague answer, the likes of which I don't think I'd tolerate from Tommy or really /any/ of my other clients, and I think Jess realizes this, but I think he also realizes he's not just /any/ of my other clients.

"What's up, Jess?" I ask, leadingly.

To which he replies, "oh, not much. Really." And I can tell that this must be just a means of kind of slowly wading into whatever it is that's nipping at his toes. I know he doesn't really mean "not much," but I also know he might need a few minutes to decide whether he's ready to just jump in.

This could be big, for all I know. And probably not a /good/ big either.

"Do tell," I say sort of cutely, like saying "please, elaborate on 'not much' because that doesn't give me much to go on," but friendlier.

"Well, I spent all day yesterday in the hospital with my brother," he says.

"Were you sick?" I ask. "Are you sick now?" I say in mock disgust, as in "don't get me sick. Just kidding – I'm really not worried about it."

"Not me, no. My brother."

"Well I am truly sorry to hear that," I say, and I am, truly sorry to hear that. "I didn't know you had a brother."

"Well, we don't talk much. Not really."

"How old is he?"

"Older brother – a little older than me," he says.

"Well, is he gonna be alright?"

"Uh yeah, it looks like it. We spent pretty much the whole day yesterday in limbo, my mom, dad and I. You know, maybe he'll make it, maybe he won't. Then late last night they updated his condition to stable and now it's looking like he's gonna pull through."

The bags under Jess' eyes are damp, after having sat out in the rain waiting on a taxi that apparently finally came late last night.

"Well, that's very good news," I think/say.

"Yeah, good news," he says staring out the window, looking like he's questioning the reality of his own statement, his own reality. So maybe not so good news.

"So, was it like... an all of a sudden kind of thing or has he been sick for a while or what?" I say, clearly not getting it.

"He was shot, Ellie. Someone walked into his house and shot him in the chest. Went through his right lung and he lost a lot of blood. He almost died in his recliner" and I'm having a really hard time thinking well enough, to describe the feeling well enough, that just hit me like a really fucking heavy thing, because this is some heavy shit. Shit... I think you know the feeling though. That realization, that epiphany. I kind of go into lockdown, just staring at the road which looks like it might be pulled right out from under me by the tall trees on the short horizon, but I guess still functional enough to still operate a motor vehicle, but like not really functioning as a human being, I'm not.

"I'm really sorry man," I probably say, though it's not consciously, because on my conscience is this weight that it enough to drive me straight into the ground – six fucking feet under. I almost instantaneously want to die, a feeling which very nearly vocalizes itself as me screaming at him, "It was me! I did it!"

The chances of something like this happening I feel like are simply /too/ small for me to have accounted for, to be more than just a coincidence. An incredibly shitty coincidence. Or maybe it's a sign – I really messed up, and I'm about to pay for what I did. Maybe he already knows it was me. Maybe he wanted to hit me up to "score" so that I'd take him out to a secluded part of town where maybe he'd like to end me the way I guess I meant to end his very own flesh and blood. Jess and Jordan Wrier – 2 "J" names. It makes sense, parents tend to do that. Wouldn't say though that it was necessarily a connection I should have made – maybe I should've known my "best" friend's last name though. I'm most definitely sure I wouldn't have done what I did if I had known it was Jess' fucking brother. And /then/ there's the whole thing about Jordan NOT FUCKING DYING either. I didn't kill a man. I didn't kill a brother, Jess' brother. I only hurt the guy who I was given very specific orders to /kill/, which is just a more... fatal way of hurting him, but I feel like there's a pretty distinction between breathing and... not, so I didn't very well fulfill my obligation to the "family."

/No/, they're not my family. Family look out for each other. I wouldn't say I have any real family left, anyone looking out for me, but maybe Jess could be like family. Maybe we were growing close enough, maybe.

But a family member wouldn't do something like this to a family member. But that's not fair to me because I didn't know! I really, really messed up... I fucking messed up.

I fucking fucked up.

Fuck.

But I think that if he'd already known that it was actually me at the other end of the gun, though how he could possibly know when I do believe I was very well cloaked, I don't know, and Jordan and I likely wouldn't have recognized each other even unmasked so I doubt he could've told Jess who it was, but I think if Jess knew all this he would've probably made his move by now.

Or maybe he has higher standards than I do. Maybe he wouldn't shoot a brother in cold blood.

Oh, come off it Elliot. Jordan wasn't my brother. This is getting to be too much. I'm being melodramatic, aren't I? What I need is a re-entry back into /reality/ where things couldn't /possibly/ be this messed up. I mean, this is the stuff of fiction... and yet here I am... Living the dream.

Living the nightmare. I really don't know what to say now, but I feel like I should say /something/ and not just sit here in silence, because this silence is really squeezing whatever life entered the car with Jess back out of it, and I need something, anything to keep me /going/ right now. Everything feels all wrong. Nothing seems /urgent/ enough for italics.

"So... Why twice your normal amount?" I decide is a fair enough conversation topic, considering we are still (supposedly) conducting /business/ here, and so it only makes sense that I should inquire on the subject.

"I wanted to hook Jordan up while he's in the hospital. They've got him on some pain medication, but I don't think it's enough or it's too much and it's leaving him numb, and he wants to feel better and I just want him to feel better and if I could just shoot him up proper he might be able to get over this for a little while, whatever it is he's feeling right now..."

"Maybe lucky to be alive?"

"I don't know man. I can't tell if he looks like he's going to go on a mission for revenge as soon as he's released, or a mission for religion. Maybe he sees this an opportunity to start fresh, to leave his current life behind in favor of something... better... or safer..."

"Is he the kind of guy who might seek revenge on whoever did this?" I ask, immediately wondering if I sound suspicious doing so.

"I don't know that either... I wish I could say he didn't deserve what he got, because that's a really fucking fucked up thing to think about someone. Especially your own brother, you know?"

"Yeah, I understand," about /anything/ really fucking fucked up right now.

"I mean, I love the guy to death, don't get me wrong. It's just sometimes I just think it'd be easier for me and especially for my mom if... we didn't have to worry about Jordan. Which again, is a really messed up thing to think, and yet here I am... thinking it."

I suddenly have the urge to try and get far away from here, which I feel like is unfair to myself and to Jess. He deserves to torture me with the details of how his brother is a real human being with real feelings and a real effect on the people around him and I deserve to take it. But really it sounds like maybe Jess and the rest of his family might've been better off if I could've... come through for them? Or maybe not. I'm not so sure Jess worries about Jordan all the time, but maybe just when Jordan comes up in normal thoughts or conversation, maybe then there's an air of concern. Maybe the guy just carries a real raincloud with his name. I really don't know. I just want to fall into Anna's breast right now and for her to hold me, but I feel like that's so much better than what I deserve right now.

But I think maybe life's about seizing the opportunity to feel better and I think Anna might be my opportunity. But I also feel like maybe that's really wishful thinking and I bet a lot of guys like me get it into their heads that they can just run off with a girl and escape into bliss and leave all the bad things behind them, but I think maybe that's just what I can and will do.

And maybe I'm being selfish and maybe the whole point of this life is to be selfless, but maybe I'm being selfless by trying to take myself out of a situation which might've lead me to do things like I did or will do again, and maybe Jordan's family would argue to that effect.

When I pull up right out front of Jess' place, he looks at me a little confused, as in "you don't ever come so close to a client's house, or so you've said."

But I think he understands my thinking in doing so, and maybe it's just the unconscious conscience within me, but I think maybe I thought, in coming here, straight to his place, that if the guy wanted to jump me here, really do me dirty, well, I think that's exactly what the doctor ordered to take care of this sickness breeding inside me.

I fear I might forever carry the weight of this on my mind, and I'm not saying I couldn't live with it... but I am saying that maybe I /shouldn't/ live with it. Maybe it's fate that I should be reprimanded so swiftly.

On his way out the door, he shakes my hand and I think he can tell with the intensity of my shaking hand or maybe the look in my eye or maybe a combination of both, or maybe he can't tell at all, that this is his last chance. That he'll never see me again after this.

I say "I'm sorry," and I don't think he understands the weight of my apology, but maybe one day he will and "I truly am" sort of just comes with it.

And Jess nods and turns, shutting the door mildly behind him on his way away.

# CHAPTER XII: TAKE THE WORLD  
SHE WANTS REVENGE

So I'm driving home now and the whole time I've got these crazy ideas shelling my head, like just how exactly it might be possible for Anna and I to run away together, like a movie or something, but I think something I've learned from movies is that if you run away, eventually you'll get to missing home in one way or another and you'll eventually have to return, whether willingly or by the pull of the universe and you'll be left with just the memories of running off together, and nothing else like it.

So maybe running away together is out of the question – maybe it's not the answer to all of my problems. It's certainly not going to clear my conscience of attempting to murder a friend's brother. And I can tell you that the "attempting" addendum really doesn't make me feel any better. I shot a man with the intention of killing him, even thought I really /had/ killed him, left him for dead, for sure. And so the dumb luck that must've saved him should not be mine to bask in. He should realize he's been blessed with more time on this earth, but I think I still have to pretty much live with the fact that I, to the best of my ability, killed a man.

And then I get to feeling a little bit philosophical – the radio's off now, by the way – wondering if Jordan really was "blessed" with more time on this earth, or if he wouldn't have been more accurately "blessed" if he could've finally left this cold place. They say the world's getting warmer, and in ways I guess it is – scientifically measurable ways. But I only feel it getting colder.

I wonder if this isn't some form of cold hell we're all living in. Maybe hell isn't all fire and flames, but bitter cold and ice. I think that'd be worse. And I wonder if Jordan's world really is any better than mine? It couldn't possibly be – what with Anna and all.

And still I feel melancholy. Wouldn't he have been more blessed to leave and to enter the kingdom of God? Or maybe he wasn't going to enter the kingdom of God upon leaving, maybe he still had some repenting left to do (I'm almost sure of that) and he really /was/ blessed after all, with more time to make up for the mistakes he's made, so that he /could/ enter God's kingdom upon leaving this world. Or maybe it's not Jordan who was blessed at all, but his family who do not yet have to grieve after a lost loved one, but can instead spend more thankful days here with him. I wonder if those days will be any different now that they should very well have realized the fragility of life.

I wonder, after the fragility of life having been the moral of so many books and movies and whatever, why don't people realize it already? It's really not that tough a concept to grasp, I don't think. Or maybe I'm wrong there too – maybe people /are/ ready to believe that this world is something meaningless, and fragile accordingly.

I take a pill or 2 to calm my nerves and then shoot Anna a text on the way up to my apartment, which is locked and dark, as I should've expected, as I left it, and being as I didn't give Anna a key or something ridiculous like that already. We've only known each other... well, you know.

But I'd like to hear from her. Would like to know that she made it home okay after her binge in my bedroom. These are just a few of the things I'm worried about and damn, I'm worried a lot now. And I think worrying is just a weaker, or maybe just a more socially acceptable form of fear or something... I thought I wasn't afraid of anything... What is this then and how do I then and why won't Anna return my texts then?

Really I should just relax, because I'm not making any sense and I don't want to appear overly attached already or too clingy or too forward or something, and there's another thing I'm worrying about too... how I appear to Anna. Worry on top of worry. Worry spawning more worry. Oh, wouldn't it be so wonderful if I could just feel content with everything? I mean, I know everything's pretty much alright, and if something's not going to be alright then I shouldn't waste my time worrying about whether or not it will /be/ alright, because my worrying about it isn't going to make any difference when it finally comes to pass.

Maybe the boss will have /me/ killed now for my not having killed Jordan good. Maybe Jordan will leave the hospital with a personal vendetta for me and he'll take it upon himself to collect on that hit that Mr. Bulbrook will put out on me – the guy even /deserves/ that bounty, if you ask me. But probably no one's gonna ask me, because I'm at the center of this whole messed up mess and maybe the best way to erase it all clean would be to just erase me.

It's probably some 6 hours before I hear back from Anna and I don't think I've moved since I got up and put the first My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy LP on the turntable, because I couldn't find 808s And Heartbreak, and I've kind of just been sitting here thinking, or maybe I've been daydreaming, nodding off, in and out of consciousness, in and out of conscience-ness. It's probably time for bed now – it's dark outside, but I don't feel tired. Just a little bit sick, and when I say a little bit sick, the word "sick" and the idea of /being/ sick kind of gets me in an even tighter bunch and so I feel a little sicker and I think maybe I'll throw up and maybe then I can purge myself of all these feelings, good and bad, all new. But when I go to the bathroom nothing comes up and I don't even gag and I'm just lying there on the bathroom floor, which I cleaned maybe a month ago, reading the text from Anna which says "all is well. I'd like to meet again soon, 10 this time." And I don't think she means the time.

I can hardly believe that she could possibly need more since I just sold it to her like 2 days ago pretty much and she just shot it up... Maybe her habit is bigger than I had once (or still) thought. Or maybe she's just stocking up because she wants to cut ties with me, or maybe she's really trying to reel me in to bust me because she's an undercover cop or maybe she's just making another excuse to see me.

Whatever the case, I'll go willingly.

The problem is, I don't want to sell Anna any more skag. I want her to come off it so we can run away together, or something like that anyway. I don't want to be fueling her addiction, and if this is the case that she's not so much interested in my product as she is in /me/, well then this shouldn't be a problem, I think, to just straight-up tell her. And judging by the night/day we spent together, I would say she's very well invested in me, and maybe not so worried about my drugs. But it could be a long and hard road to get her to back to baseline – fully functional free from the drug. Maybe she doesn't even want to come clean. That could make things harder. I have to find a way to convince her that she can and should live without it and with me. Or do I even need to do that? Maybe she already realizes it, and like I said, maybe she just wants an excuse to get together. I'm sure that's it. Which is perfect, because that's what I want too.

So I shoot her a text back that says "call me when you've got a moment," because I think this is the kind of conversation that may be best had in person, or at least verbally. I'm almost... proposing to the girl, in a way, or making a proposal of some sorts, and so I definitely shouldn't be doing this nonsense over text messages. But I'm also not the kind of person who wants to spring a phone call on an unsuspecting girl. This way /she/ can decide when she's comfortable to talk, when she has a good moment to sit down and listen to the words which might change her life entirely.

But she says "I'd rather just text, ok?" and even though, no, that's not really "ok" with me, I figure maybe everything isn't about me in this situation and I'm already going to be asking a lot of the poor girl, so I don't necessarily need to ask anything more. If she wants to text, if she's more /comfortable/ texting, then so be it.

"Dear Anna," I begin. "I want to take you away with me. I want to go far away from this life and I want to build a new one together – you and me. What do you think of that?" I choose to keep it fairly simple and under the 160 character limit. Actually, 160 characters exactly. She texts me back shortly, enough that a single pill will suffice, enough that I've only had to wipe my sweaty palms on my pants maybe once.

"That sounds truly wonderful," she says. "I think I would like that very much," she says. And it's all coming together and everything seems like it could very well work out and I am really getting very excited. All this in a single text massage, which she very soon follows up with another.

"But Elliot," she says. "I do believe I have ties here which cannot be severed. Bridges which should not be burned. Your plan simply doesn't seem feasible." I wonder how long it took her to come up with such cold and calculated words – clearly less than 60 seconds. Maybe it came very easy to her. Maybe she knew this moment would come eventually all along. Maybe she was ready for it, ready to swat me down like a mosquito in the summer heat.

"What ties? What do you mean?" I shoot back as fast as my fingers will allow.

"Just loose ends. Stuff that would need a good time to be fully taken care of. I simply can't leave everything behind right now."

"But that's what 'leaving everything behind' is all about. Dropping everything and moving on to something new. Something good," I try to reason with her, and the little text on the flat screen does not do my prospective heartbreak justice and my heart is thumping so heavy I'm afraid it might burst and I wonder what that would actually feel like, for my heart to burst and I curse to myself the invention of texting, which yes, is generally fairly convenient and simple, but which allots for these long drawn out moments of uninvited self-reflection in the black mirror of the screen looking me dead in the eyes where I simply have no idea what's going on, what's happening, or where it's headed right now, waiting for a reply. At least in verbal conversation you can gauge the pauses. In this texting age she could very well have not even read my message yet. Or she read it immediately, as I've been doing, and she's really quite unsure of how to respond. I simply have no idea. Which is really why I would've /preferred/ having such a conversation as this by phone or in-person, but then I'm sure Jordan would've preferred not to've been shot in his own house and so I actually got off pretty easy now that I'm thinking about it and I don't want to be thinking about it. I'm at her mercy, really - she could've asked to have the conversation via Morse code, and I'm fairly certain I would've been Googling lessons in Morse within the hour.

Maybe she's really not interested in me. Maybe she would prefer somebody who would take more control of the situation than I seem to be doing right here, right now. Maybe I'm not right for her. Maybe we're not a good fit. But I think deep down maybe I'm a good enough person to just deserve to get what I want.

But realistically, I'm not actually a very good person at all, am I? I just shot a man with the intention of killing him and now I deserve to get what I want?

Maybe Jordan deserved to get what he wanted too and maybe what he wanted was not to get shot in the first place. Or maybe he wanted that sweet release of death I've heard so much about. Either way then, Jordan didn't get what he wanted, did he?

And who am I to say whether he deserved better or not?

I am none of these things.

So, what am I then?

I'm a cynical fucking jerk with a broken moral compass which just so happened to stop while facing Anna and apparently I'm going to follow it now until it kills me. I think deep down I realize that it's never going to lead me wherever I'm trying to go, which I guess is home with Anna. This will never end.

I could take off /by myself/ even easier. Start over somewhere else, even easier. But without Anna, I feel like everything I've done up 'til now would've been meaningless. There's a Stevie Nicks song, I think, that sums this up pretty well. I can't remember the song itself, but I remember the hook, "I've been 'fraid of changing 'cause I've built my life around you..." Call me an idiot, but I think we were meant to meet like we did, and maybe I was meant to take her away from this life too, to be her savior and to protect her from this brutal world and all the things it's constantly threatening, and so that's what I'm going to do. It might take a while, but I'm going to convince Anna to run away with me and leave everything behind and we'll be as romantic as every single fucking movie I've ever seen where the hero does this exact same thing.

Or is it the opposite? Should the hero stand his ground and fight?

Probably.

She says, "I realize that. And don't get me wrong, it really does sound wonderful. But it also sounds too good to be true." She's right about that, I think. It really does sound too good to be true. Maybe I'm just writing fiction here.

"But that shouldn't stop us from trying, should it?"

"I just can't right now," she says and I send her several more utterly persuasive, utterly pathetic messages, but she seems pretty dead-set on sticking to this dead set. I don't hear from her for hours then, and I'm afraid I've scared her away, and I get to thinking that she probably realized at this point that I have no intention of selling her any more drugs and ruining her life anymore, that I'm trying to make her life better, and so I'm afraid I've scared her away and she doesn't want to have anything more to do with me, which is quite the opposite of what I was trying to accomplish and is also baffling to me, because she seemed so completely in love with me just the other night.

I'm lost; so lost.

But my thoughts haven't slowed since this whole mess began. I think my best move now is to cut the drip on Anna's poison. Maybe find a way to scare her into my arms – make her see that the only thing she has left in this world is me, and that I am the way of the light. I need to keep the smack out of her hands, and the best way I can think to do so is to refuse to sell to her, and if I could also convince Danny to refuse to sell to her, well, that'd be pretty much good too. I don't think there are a ton of sources for our special product here in town; I think it's pretty much down to Danny and I and then Jordan and /his/ crew, and I think she's probably heard through the dopevine by now about what happened to Jordan and I can't imagine she'd be wanting to get herself involved with business partners who have a habit of getting knocked out of the business. That really wouldn't be a sound investment on her part.

So, I need to talk to Danny and tell him that he can't sell to Anna. I need to find a way to convince him that she's off-limits, instead of her' being just another junkie source of money. I need him to honestly be on the same page with me.

But how? What can I do to convince a guy whose only concern is (unnecessarily I might add, judging by his step-father's concrete financial position) money.

Maybe a pay-off might be in order.

Actually, that's not really a bad idea. Maybe I could offer to pay him the same amount to not sell to her as he would be bringing in if he /did/ choose to sell to her.

Yes, that sounds like a pretty fair trade if you ask me. I mean, the guy definitely wouldn't be losing anything, and though I would be losing a bit of my money, it's definitely a fair trade for me as well, and I'm not even too concerned with the fairness of it either. Just concerned that /he/ is pleased by the fairness of it.

But it's fair to me to drive a broken Anna into my arms, so I can take her home with me, and I mean this in the most romantic sense of the concept. I really want her for /everything/ that she is. Not just a sexual object, which I can and have afforded plenty of in my time. But her, and everything that comes with her. Everything that comes with a real human being. I want her for me and me alone. And though these feelings seem rather selfish, I also want her for her. I want to take care of her. I want to make her better. We're both very sick, but I believe I've found the cure.

# CHAPTER XIII: MONEY MAKES THE WORLD GO ROUND  
INNERPARTYSYSTEM

I'm thinking this is another one of those conversations that deserves to be made verbal, if for no other reason than because Danny seems the type of guy who would want to make this take way longer than it needs to. I can very easily imagine a conversation via text over the course of several days without ever really getting to the point of agreement I'm seeking. So, what I'll do is tell him I need to meet him in person, and we'll make the deal and if it takes a while, that's alright, because I've got nowhere else to be. Nothing grey matters.

If it were up to me, I would be spending the afternoon looking after/being looked after by Anna, but it would seem that I should instead devote this same amount of time to securing Anna and I's relationship by taking care of this whole Danny situation. A situation which, mind you, Danny doesn't even know exists yet.

I'm really dreading it, though, actually. I can't wait to talk to Danny because this is a pressing issue, but I could definitely /stand/ to /wait/ to talk to Danny. I really despise the guy actually, and I just know that he's gonna make this all harder than it needs to be. I mean, really, it should just be "hey, let me pay you whatever you'd be making selling to this Anna girl, and in return you don't sell to this Anna girl. Good? Great. Grand. Wonderful."

But I just know that nothing is so simple with Danny. At the very least, I'm sure he'll be late to meet me wherever we decide to meet. I figure I'll let him choose the location and the time so as to create the most agreeable atmosphere for the guy. I'll even offer to buy him lunch. This really doesn't have to be that hard.

He just has to agree to take my money for free. And in exchange for making the deal, I'll even let him keep his product. This really should be an easy sell.

/This really should be an easy sell/.

This really should be an easy sell, I keep telling myself. In my line of work, my product has always sold itself really. I don't have to advertise it in any way, and this really isn't any different from that, really, is it? I can do this.

"You see, Danny," I tell him over a hot cup of coffee as he's chowing down on a club sandwich of which I'm almost certain contains the most expensive delicacies on this "diner's" menu. "You see, Danny. Basically, I want to pay you not to sell your product, the same amount you'd be making if you were selling your product. I'll be giving you money to do less than you're doing now. All you have to do is nothing. Just don't sell your stuff to this girl, and the money's yours. You get to keep the money and the product."

A little long-winded. A little thick of an explanation, but I think I got the message across.

"What's the catch?" Danny says in exaggerated skepticism like all his emotions seem to be, compensating for not actually feeling them, and taking another huge bite from the huge sandwich.

For a moment, I wonder why someone with the financial stability of Danny would be tempted by a free lunch, but I guess it's those same principles of a free lunch which should also be selling what I'm selling here, and obviously Danny is welcoming of the concept, so I can definitely work with this, I think.

"There is no catch," I confirm.

Danny is a very grotesque eater, with no manners whatsoever. Not a care in the world it seems, judging by the way his sandwich is spilling out its sides and crashing onto the plate below, which I realize is an unavoidable threat of such a meal, but dammit, he's making it so much worse. How could /anyone/ find this attractive? I wonder, and then I remember that I'm forgetting the money aspect of his person. A woman might be so enticed as to spend time with such a horrible man in exchange for his money.

"Well then why the hell are we even here talking about it?" He grunts. "Yes, I will take your money Elliot. Is that what you want me to say?"

"No. I want you to say that you won't sell to Anna."

"Who's Anna then?"

"I think you've seen her hanging around Jake. Brown hai–"

"Bangs."

"Yes, she's got bangs."

"No, I'm saying she bangs. For product she does, or so I've heard." Oh my god I hate you Danny you piece of shit fuck you. "I haven't got a chance to take her up on that offer, thoug–"

"And you're not going to, is what I'm saying. That's the deal you're making right now. I'm paying you to refuse to supply Anna, under any circumstances. And you're agreeing with me."

"Sure, whatever. When do I get paid?"

"No, not 'whatever.' It's a yes or a no and I expect you to stay true to your word. I did, after all, clean up after you. I'm sure you've heard."

"Yeah, and you did a great job too, I've heard. Word on the street is the guy's holed up in a top-floor hospital room, ready to turn state's evidence."

"'Word on the street' sounds a bit exaggerated. I don't think the guy has any intentions of 'turning state's evidence.' I think he knows what'll happen if he does."

"What? A flesh wound and another opportunity to turn state's evidence?"

"Stop saying 'turn state's evidence.' You don't even know what that means. /I/ don't even know what it means."

"I've seen it in a movie," he says.

"Smokin' Aces?" I venture.

"Yes,"

"That's the one. But your throwing it around like so really takes away from its desired effect. So just stop, will you? I understand the threat. But I also believe it's not even a real threat. I'm handling it."

"Oh, you're 'handling it,' huh? Because you tend to handle things so well, like this?"

"For fuck's sake Danny. Enough. Now, are you going to accept my offer or am I going to have to see to it that this is handled as well?"

He grins through his stupid fucking sandwich. "You're not really intimidating," he says. "I don't in any way /fear/ what I believe might constitute as, if the term is used very loosely, your 'threat.' However, money is the language that transcends all barriers and it sounds like you're offering me a pretty good deal and it sounds like I'd be a fool not to take it." I'm surprised he even knows the phrase "transcend all barriers" and under normal circumstances I would call him on it. But these are not normal circumstances. I need to be more agreeable.

"Yes. You'd be a fool not to take it."

"And as you know, I'm no fool.

"So I'll take it. Yes. I won't sell to your girl-toy Anna. Seems like quite the catch you've got there – do you have some exclusive deal, she'll only sleep with /you/ for product? Is that what we're working with here?"

"You know, you're really starting to piss me off."

This makes him smile.

"Well I was pissed off when I got here," he says. "But look at me now. Happy as a clam."

"And just how /happy/ is a /clam/, Danny?"

"You know, you're really starting to piss me off," he mocks, smiling big again. This is fucking child's play. I'm dealing drugs with a fucking child.

"I'll pay you for a month's now," I say so that only he can hear, after beginning to wonder if we haven't been talking too loud this entire time and maybe we should've conducted our conversation more privately. But then I think that anyone trying to catch on wouldn't suspect us to have such a private conversation in public, and so maybe we were even safer here than we would've been elsewhere. But I will, pay him for a month's now. Because I believe that within the month, really hopefully within in the week, but certainly within the month, Anna and I will be out of town permanently.

Everything will work out as I'm sort of planning on the fly. "Everything will be alright," the pill whispers in my throat.

Danny, with food in his big white teeth stands up to shake my hand. "Leave a tip, won't you?" I say, nodding to his hand so that he might understand that I've included a little bit of extra cash for gratuity, both for his server and him as a server.

I'm essentially tipping Danny to be a shittier server, I think and I smile inside. The irony is lost on Danny, I'm sure.

But that's alright.

Back at home now, after a long drive with Lana on the Reydio, I'm texting Anna again and she still hasn't responded and I've texted her maybe 5 times with no response, and I think that I should probably cool it, because I /really/ don't want to scare her away, but how could I scare her away with phrases like "things will work out" and "everything will be alright"?

When I finally /do/ get a text back, my heart jumps and I fish for my vibrating phone in my pocket only to find that it's just Dave asking if I can come in this evening and work some extra hours at the video store. I guess rental business is up this week. And seeing as I'm doing nothing else this evening as of yet, and figuring it will help me get my mind off Anna, I jump at the opportunity to get out of the house, even though really I've only spent a couple hours here in days, pretty much.

Business really /is/ up at the rental store when I arrive at 5 o'clock. There is actually a line at the cash register, and I wonder what all the fuss is about. I pick up from some of the conversation in line that I've actually spent the last several days successfully remaining totally oblivious to a big line of thunderstorms which is slated to hit the area in the next 24 hours. Now, we get thunderstorms here all the time, but apparently these are supposed to be pretty severe, which ought to keep people cooped up indoors for quite a while. So I guess I can understand the rush. However, I wonder if these people are considering that one of the biggest threats of storms like these is power outages, which would likely throw a wrench into their plans to camp out with the TV.

Maybe they've all got generators. Maybe they've got batteries. Maybe they've charged their portable DVD players for just such an occasion and are actually more prepared than their organized chaos might suggest.

All of this also explains the lines at the several Redbox towers I pass on my way into work. Maybe these guys saw the same lines I did. Or maybe they just wanted to shop local, you know, support the local economy. Or maybe we have a larger variety of older movies (we do) and maybe that's just what all these cinephiles are looking for. I suppose I could ask them all these questions, but their southern hospitality might not hold true while everyone's in such a rush to get their stuff and get home.

I also meditate for a moment on the several customers I can see throughout the store really taking their time browsing the titles. Maybe they're not in as big a rush as I had earlier assumed. Or maybe it's just really important to them /exactly/ what movies they have at their disposal.

Whatever the case, business hasn't been this good since the pre-Netflix era, or at least says Dave who's apparently owned the place, or it's been in his family at least, for some time. I, of course, cannot remember what the place might've been like in its hay day, but if it was anything like this, then I can finally understand how the owners made a living renting out DVDs at $.99 a night (plus early return bonus). And I do agree that the variety of movies available is commendable. These guys really seem to have had it figured out.

I'm kind of riding the wave of business to keep my mind off Anna and it's working pretty well, it seems. That is, of course, until right about now when she's finally popped onto my mind again. It's that curse of realization – realization that your distraction is functioning well – because to realize that your distraction is working well is to acknowledge that it /is/ a distraction and that you're distracting yourself from something and then you're thinking "what was I trying to distract myself from?" and then you're not distracted anymore and it's some real bullshit if you ask me.

So, Anna... I feel like she's been trending on my mind a lot lately, and I wonder if I'm trending on hers as well. Even though she hasn't responded to my simple texts! Why is this? Not on purpose I assume.

Surely she's not so childish as to play a game like this with someone's emotions. Surely a grown woman, addicted to heroin, could not be so juvenile. Surely a perfect woman specimen such as this should be exempt from the faults of humans being. But then... I mean, actually I could just /check/ to see if she's still not responded to me, and actually I see I have a new message! From Anna! Maybe she's come around! But I have to quickly slip my phone back in my pocket in front of Dave.

Or, maybe she's still pissed and just wanted me to know that she has indeed been getting my texts and she has indeed been ignoring them. That would be just cruel. Or, maybe she hasn't been getting any of my texts and maybe she's just as baffled as I am by the lapse in communication. Whatever the case, I really need to see it like right now, and so I'll take my break now if that's alright with you, Dave.

"Go for it," he says, taking over the register for me.

Dave's really a friendly guy, and I think he really cares about his employees, so I almost feel bad that I've been using his storefront as a means of getting in contact with my cli–okay, she says she wants to get together again tonight. Which is perfect. We'll be stuck inside together as the storm passes, and I couldn't imagine anything more enticing than a day locked in the warmth of our passion, cut off from the outside world. This is going to be truly wonderful in fact.

My place (mine) at 11, she clarifies. I tell her that I get off at 11 so I might be a little late and she says that's fine, she'll wait in the parking lot of happiness until everything can really be alright.

Right before closing time, when everything has kind of died down after several hours of nonstop ringing out, I decide to flick through some of the movies in the new arrivals section. It's important to note that these aren't necessarily new releases – just new arrivals to the store, but they've been picked over pretty well anyway. I'm sure I can find something I haven't seen before, though. I've seen a lot of movies, but there's a /lot/ of movies. Or actually, maybe it'd be better if it were something I /had/ seen before. This way, I could pay less heed to the movie and more attention to Anna, which is really where I'd like to direct all my attention and not just part of it.

I end up leaving with Unstoppable, a movie about a runaway train, and A Perfect Getaway, which I believe was some action/thriller originally released in 3D, and so it probably has some of those moments in 2D which were clearly engineered and intended to be seen in 3D, but which don't necessarily translate well. You know, cheesy stuff flying at the screen, but which isn't very threatening when viewed in 2D. Not exactly your cream of the crop DVD rentals, I don't think, but they'll do.

The real cream of the crop will be waiting for me when I get home.

# CHAPTER XIV: DO I WANNA KNOW?  
ARCTIC MONKEYS

And she is, there, waiting when I arrive.

I greet her in the entryway to my apartment and when we get to the living room she's wrapping her arms around me and telling me how great it is to be together, and I have to wonder, is it really as great as she says it is? Of course it is. What am I even thinking? It's truly great to be together with her, to be with her. But then I get to wondering if she truly believes it's truly great to be with me. Is this where she gets her happiness from? Her glow? Am I the light of her world?

Doubt it. But again, who am I to argue whether that's the case or not besides, you know... half of this relationship. Maybe we're not meant to be together. Maybe I'm not her "one." But we're together right now and that's what really matters, right now at least. I can look toward the uncertainty of a future together, the unlikelihood of such a dreamy ideal coming to life. Or, I can realize that it's already realized itself right here in front of my eyes.

Anna seems content to relax with another bottle of wine and a movie for a while, and I can only conceive what will follow is almost surely sex which I won't soon forget, no matter what the future holds. And maybe it's this understanding that allows my mind to stay clear and happy during the movie, or maybe I truly am just happy to spend time with the girl, no matter what that time may entail. But whatever the case, everything is alright right now, and I'm pretty happy about that.

Today Anna decides to skip the unpleasantries of the futon and instead we jump right into bed together, leaving all our clothes on (except shoes, of course) watching a movie on the TV hanging on the wall facing the big bed. Soon she's lying with her head in my lap, eating popcorn which she brought for just such an occasion. Maybe she was anticipating a movie night, which is a fair assessment considering I do, kind of, work at a movie store. We've started with Unstoppable and by the end of the movie or, the climax, if you will, we're both sort of on the edge of our seat or whatever the equivalent of being on the edge of your seat is when you're lying in bed, and I haven't seen the movie before so I'm kind of caught up in it, but I can kind of envision how it will end, how it /has/ to end really, and so I'm actually more caught up in watching Anna's expressions as the movie progresses. I feel like the movie's careening down a fairly predictable track, but I've yet to determine whether or not Anna expects it, too, and I wonder if that makes her kind of dumb for not seeing it coming, or if I've just been desensitized to the concept, or if she's just really enjoying herself, fully knowing how it will end and I wish I could just enjoy myself too.

I think a pill might help me to do so, but I also think that I don't want to get up and make Anna move from where she seems to be very comfortable, now lying her head on my shoulder and it's funny because I want to watch her, but at this angle I can't really see her face, but can just feel her warmth, and I'm not necessarily cold – the apartment is warm – but there's still something especially endearing about the warmth of the person I think I love most in this world and then I start to realize how crazy it actually is to think that this woman I only just met a moment ago it seems could be the person I love most in the world, and I get to thinking "what do I actually know about this girl?" And then I realize that instead of wasting all this time thinking "what do I actually know about this girl," I could be using that same time to get to know the girl better, and I think that's really what I'd like to do, but I also think I shouldn't talk through the end of the movie for her, so I excuse myself to the bathroom where I'll take another pill or 2 and brush my teeth even though I brushed them before work, but I've had a little bit of popcorn and it'd be nice to get it out of my teeth but I can't believe that this is actually how I'm choosing to spend the time I do have with Anna – brushing my teeth and popping pills. This is ridiculous. And so I finish up as quickly as possible and return to the bedroom where the movie credits are rolling and Anna is smiling up at me from the bed, so I guess it ended in a pleasing way, or maybe her pleasing ending is seeing me? And I think I might ask her how it ended when she says "you missed the ending."

And the bed. It's always felt big, but I've always thought if I were lying in it with someone with me, together, then maybe it wouldn't feel so big anymore, but we're so tightly intertwined now that it really does seem gigantic and all-encompassing. It's nice and we're "spooning" now which is a stupid name for such a pleasurable thing and the DVD menu is playing on repeat and its music is obnoxious so I mute it, and so it's not really so bad at all but I do wonder why I didn't just turn the TV all the way off. And I know people have made the observation that spooning is great for the woman but not so great for the man, but I think those people must not have been so truly lost in love or lust or whatever this feeling is (it's a good one) like I am, because my arms are wrapped around Anna now and I can protect her from anything and all I can see is every individual hair on her head in the pale light from the pale light on the nightstand, and each one seems to be equally perfect and I can remember, though I can't see it now, the perfect picture that they all paint when combined together, and she must be able to feel my soft breath in her ear and actually I'm breathing fairly heavily because I'm all worked up just thinking about the girl who's right here in my arms, but I'm trying to keep the breaths soft and shallow so as not to alarm her, so as to lull her into a reasonable sense of security. As reasonable a security as can be expected in a situation where someone could walk into the room at any moment and do me just like I did Jordan. Except for they probably won't miss their deadly target and they probably wouldn't want to leave any witnesses behind, especially when they might see Anna as a simple... well, high-end escort like any other, because I don't think anyone else could possibly see her the way I do, and my heart is beating fast and my breaths are breathing fast, but Anna takes a big deep breath in my arms – the kind that, upon exhaling, throws all cares to the wind. The kind that says "I am truly relaxed" and there is nothing wrong in the world right now, and her' doing this eases me and reminds me that there's really nothing I can do to protect myself from what some might call fate, but to sit back and enjoy the time I'm guaranteed, which is only right now.

And she asks me if I "still want to run away together? Or was that just a passing whim?"

"I would take you with but a moment's notice," I assure her, while also assuring myself in the back of my mind that I locked the apartment door when we both got inside.

She says, "That's such a beautiful ideal. I really do love it. I wish we could," and she turns over and she's looking into my eyes, looking at nothing but me and I feel like if there were ever a time I could assure her that everything could be alright, that time is now.

"Anna," I say. "I could protect you. We could be safe together. We could be happy together," I say, and without a moment's hesitation she responds, "We're safe together right now.

"We're happy together right now. Isn't that enough?"

Well? Isn't it? Why isn't it enough? Why shouldn't it be enough? Why do I always have to ask for more? Why can't I just be happy with what I've got? Nothing is guaranteed but what's already happened and what is currently happening right now, and I've been wasting all this time planning and dreaming when my dreams have been right here in front of me all along and it's taken me until just now to realize that, and my planning and dreaming could even be all for not. You never know.

I don't know what more I could ask for right now. Nothing. Everything. Maybe. Maybe I could ask to be in a committed relationship, like an engagement, which will lead to marriage, which will lead to kids. Or, maybe I could realize that I'm not so sure that all of that is even what I really want and that what I /can/ be sure of is that I just really want to spend time with this beautiful soul right here. You know, the beautiful soul that I am very currently spending time with. And all those dreams and thoughts are just me dreaming of having what I already have, just in the future. But the future is NOW and when I realize that – it's when I realize /that/, that I finally decide to truly leave everything behind – all my inhibitions, all my dreams, all my wishes, all my hopes, away, right now, because they're already here.

And I say that "you're right. You're so right," and she smiles in that special way women tend to do when they knew they were right all along, and they didn't need anyone to tell them that they were right to know that they were right. They already know they're right. It's their wanting of someone else to admit to them that they're right, to let their own guard down and admit defeat, and it's a totally different feeling that has nothing to do with the previous.

And she kisses me once,

twice,

3 times and at first they're just those loving kisses that people in all sorts of relationships only get once in a while, the love without blinding lust, and those are really the best kisses, but they are the predecessors to something more driven and the act which will surely, I can only expect, follow will be made all the better by the fact that I can believe that Anna loves me, in her own special way, and I think there's something about this girl that makes her way of loving different from all the rest, and I can't say what exactly that might be, but I can say that the feeling of being on the receiving end of this special love is one I will take to my grave, and I even make an effort to commit it to memory, even knowing that there couldn't possibly be a reason to forget this, because I want so badly to remember it anyway, but I only think this way for a moment so as to be sure I won't forget this moment, before allowing myself to just feel the feelings that come with it – feelings that could so easily be lost in the search for solidarity, when solidarity is but a myth and I've stumbled upon the closest thing to it and I want to be selfish and not share it with anyone, and at the same time I wish /everyone/ could know what this feels like.

It's a wonderful work to be able to slide my tongue up to the bottom of her ear and for her to be able to do the same to me at the same time and all the while I'm whispering things like "you're unforgettable" as she's whispering things like "don't forget me" and I'm not taking them to heart, no, because I could spend an unreasonable amount of time analyzing these things – "don't forget me" – like where does she plan on going that will leave me behind with the possibility of forgetting her? She can keep me from forgetting her just by sticking around – I couldn't possibly forget the woman who's right by my side, right? But I tell her I won't forget her anyway and she smiles like it soothes her and I hope that I'm not a source of anxiety for her, but even if I were, I think what we're doing right now is purging all the anxiety from our mind and our body – all those moments where we're on the edge of doing something, making some mistake or making a move that will change our world, but we know those possibilities and so we're scared to do anything at all and maybe we end up sitting idly by, doing nothing and then that moment which had so much potential to be a great success or failure becomes nothing more than a forgotten waste of time.

We're taking all those leaps and bounds and leaving nothing to question, because the question was always "when?" and the answer could only ever be... "Now."

# CHAPTER XV: FEEL GOOD DRAG  
ANBERLIN

"I'm here for you," she said. "And we can stay for a while."

She's gone when I awake the next morning, but all my things are still here – all my possessions. All my love. She left me with everything I had to begin with, plus a note that said "talk to you soon" in that aforementioned script which screams affection, but bears none of the childish customs of such lustlove.

I feel like I could go on another day, another week, another month. Whatever I'm going to have given to me, I have the strength or the will to survive it and continue on, living moment by moment, because it really could be only one more month, one more week, one more day. Whatever it is, I'll take it and I'll make the best of it and I think the best of it right now includes a bit of searching travel sites to see who offers the best deal on international tickets, because though I have plenty of money to cover even first class tickets on a 5-star airline, I'm thinking maybe I could prepare for the future at least a little bit and realize that saving a bit to pay for whatever might lie in store for that future is only smart. Just a bit though, because if I've no future, well then...

But a job like mine doesn't come around so often. And another country could very well mean other rules and maybe I'm not in a position to or interested in fighting my way into the drug trade somewhere else. So maybe I should hold on to what I've got – and I don't mean the job necessarily, though maybe that would be a good idea too. Maybe I should stick around for a while, pump the brakes, and see how things pan out with Anna. See how things pan out with Jordan. See how things pans out with my bosses. Maybe I should see what I've started through to the end instead of just fleeing the scene of the crime. Maybe I should face the consequences, good or bad, of everything I've set in motion here without ever looking to the future. Maybe to truly understand why just living in the now is or isn't the best way to go about things, I need perspective. Maybe I'm a little more mature now than I was when I first set out something like a year and a half ago. You can do a lot of growing up, a lot of learning in a year and a half.

It's entirely possible that the lessons I've picked up since starting this job will stick with me and be better applied than anything I was taught in high school or could ever be taught in college. And it's certainly been a cheaper alternative to "high"er education. I think I'm even smarter in certain ways, and for whatever I didn't pick up, whatever they /could/ print in a book, I've got the internet – all the world's information in my lap whenever I want it.

I wonder if I've taught any of my "street" lessons to /other/ people too. I wonder if anyone feels the way I do. I guess "good" is how I feel. Yes, I guess "good" is the word for it. I guess "good" is all I'll ever really need. I don't need any better and I try to make it a point to not want what I don't need, so I don't want any better either. I'll just lie here listening to the static on repeat because I don't want to bother to flip the record. And maybe this afternoon Anna will give me a call and we'll get together once more.

Or, you know, this evening.

Or tomorrow.

Or this morning now.

Or this afternoon. Yes, surely this afternoon.

Or this evening. Finally my phone buzzes in my hand but it's not a text and it's not a number I recognize, but I answer it anyway and the voice on the other end of the line sounds professional and tells me that it's the hospital calling and suddenly I'm a saturated sponge filled with the information from all around me, so that I can't take in a single ounce more, like /which/ hospital it is or what room /Anna/'s in. I have to ask the nice woman on the other end to repeat all that so that I can write it down after I scramble to find a pen and end up writing on an envelope from the top of the pile of letters that's sitting just inside my door and has been for probably like 3 days at this point I've lost track.

By the time I've hung up the phone, I've already left the apartment and am very nearly running to my car, because I have a very pressing need/want combination that is to go and see Anna in the hospital and find out what's going on and if she'll be okay. The woman said Anna was stable and that there was no rush, but I don't think /she/ even understood the urgency of the situation.

By the time I'm on the highway, I realize that I left my bottle of anti-anxiety pills on the kitchen counter where I've returned to it off and on for days and I probably left the front door unlocked too, though I'm not so sure on the second one but I definitely left my pills on the counter, and you know what? Fuck it. If anyone wants to break into my apartment and take all my drugs, they can have a field day because none of that matters – not even in the slightest. Not even the music on the radio which I didn't bother to put on and even left my iPod connecting cord at home too matters, and so I'll just play one of the CDs I happen to have left in my car. Capital Cities. Not really what I want to hear right now, but it'll have to suffice. But no, definitely not track one, "Safe And Sound." Absolutely not. Anything but that.

But that's what I want right now. I want Anna to be safe and sound. Is that too much to ask? Probably not, no, because I thought the woman on the phone (was she a nurse or a secretary?) I thought she told me that Anna was going to be alright and I can't think of a safer place than a hospital. Yes. Everything's alright. Everything will be alright.

Once I park my car (maybe illegally – who knows?) who cares? I try to compose myself so I'm not the cliché guy running into the hospital waiting room freaking out about his wife or his fiancée or his girlfriend or his... what is Anna to me? My acquaintance? I don't know.

Irrelevant, Elliot.

Sure, my feelings are irrelevant. Except the title of our relationship isn't necessarily about my feelings, is it?

Dude, relax! Everything's alright.

"Elliot!" Anna might've said, though I didn't actually hear her as I ran into the room and hugged her and held her tight. She's hooked up to a lot of instruments and I actually inadvertently managed to tangle myself up in them, but I canknot be bothered by that right now. It's of least importance.

What's of most importance is that you're alright, Anna. "Are you okay?"

She says, "I'm alright." A slight pause. "Now," she adds. I am so angry with myself for having missed that pause, whatever happened between alright and now, when she wasn't alright and probably needed me most. "What happened, Anna? What happened?"

She puts a finger to my lips, which I think is less to shut me up and more to simply calm me down, because I'm reeling as she's unlooping the tubes from around me. "I..."

"What is it? What happened?" I beg.

"Well, Elliot." An uncomfortable pause. "I overdosed."

"On what?" I ask stupidly. "How? How could you have overdosed?" I'm thinking out loud. "You didn't have enough left to overdose even if you shot it all at once, did you?"

"Well," she begins, and "you bought more," I finish.

"But that's not important," she says. "It was just an accident. I took the same amount, but it was stronger. But I'm okay."

"Why" did she buy more? "Who" did she buy more from?

"It's not important," she says, but I'm starting to think that we have different definitions of important, Anna. I, for one, would think it important not to shoot so much heroin as to accidentally overdose and fucking kill yourself – "you could have killed yourself, Anna!"

"I know that, I know. But I didn't," she says, as if that's consoling, and maybe it should be. As if the off-chance that she /survived/ an overdose nullifies the fact that she ever even overdosed in the first place.

I didn't want to sell to her again, and I /didn't/ sell to her again. And I told Danny not to sell to her again. I wanted her off the drug. But maybe cutting off her supply entirely wasn't the way to go about doing so. But I was trying to replace the drug with /me/. I was trying to make her see that she could be happy. That things could be okay without the drug. /With me/.

Why couldn't she have just replaced the fucking tar with fucking me? Why did she have to be seeing someone on the side? I want to ask her these things, but I'm still trying as best I can not to offend her, like maybe there's still a chance things will work out. Like I'll be able to get past all this and we'll be able to move on from it and everything will be alright. Like I don't want to find and kill whoever sold her the stuff.

I do. I want to kill them. I've killed somebody before and it wasn't so bad. I could easily do it again, to someone I truly hate.

"Ellie, it's okay. I'm okay," she says but I'm thinking of the conversation I had with Danny however long ago and he's saying something about how some better product's coming up, /stronger/ product, which would explain the difference in potency Anna described – must've been the new stuff and it must've been Danny.

Of course it was fucking Danny. Obviously it was Danny. No one else selling the stuff anyway. He must've figured he could very nearly double his profit by selling to Anna – he could take my money /and/ take hers too for only the original amount of product. Like selling it for twice the price. Fuck. It'd almost have been smart of him to do so too, if you don't take into account the fact that doing so might very well cost him his life.

But I've got to think – "Ellie" – I can't just kill Danny, the boss' boss' step-son. Surely there'd be consequences – it might as well be murder-suicide, really.

But this rage that I feel towards the one who betrayed me and could've very well cost me my own true love can't be ignored.

I must do something, or I feel like I'll never be calm again. I can't live the rest of my life, however long it is, like this.

So I'm going to kill Danny.

So I am.

Anna says "you're not thinking straight, Elliot. Listen to me. It was my fault. I shouldn't have bought more. I should've just been happy with what I had. Have. You. But I'm addicted.

"Please, stay with me Elliot," she says weakly. Sadly.

"And we'll take care of your addiction," I try to say calm and assuring. "We'll take care of your addiction. We'll get you better. I'll take care of this," I say. And maybe it's the drugs or the antidrugs she must've been given affecting her, but she doesn't seem to have much of a fight left to put up – she must be expending herself entirely against the heroin.

I would like to think this must be the case – that she'd try to stop me from doing something so stupid. And I think I realize it really /is/ something stupid that I'm doing, but I'm doing it anyway. I'm going to act on these feelings.

I must do this. Now.

I kiss her softly on the lips and whisper in her ear, "I love you," but she's really out of it now and so probably she doesn't even hear me, so I call her cell phone while I'm standing there next to her and I leave her a voicemail after it buzzes at her side for a few moments. "I love you" is all I can think to say. "I love you, Anna. I love you." Maybe it's just the three times or maybe it's more, but I leave the hospital in a full-fledged panic attack and I think the people around me can feel the air of death that follows with me.

It's the same energy I felt when I first entered the hospital, overpowering me now.

Nothing I have on the radio can match my intensity and so I just turn it up as loud as it will go and end up screaming to myself, nothing like lyrics, just unintelligible screaming, which is all I feel like right now – unintelligible.

I stop off momentarily at my apartment (and I did, leave the door unlocked) and pick up the gun which I'd stashed in the same place where I'd kept my money and drugs behind the mirror and take just a moment to hit "order" on the plane tickets I was looking at earlier and another moment to swallow the rest of the bottle of pills which couldn't have been too many. Maybe 2 or 3 or 6 and I'm back in the car shortly speeding to Danny's place and I'm going to knock on his door when I get there, where there will almost certainly be a party in full-swing because there always is at Danny's and there's always drugs and drug buyers and I guess what I'm going to do when he answers the door is to shoot him in the face, in front of all these people because my best estimate is that they'll all be too doped out of their minds to either get a good look at me, /or/ they'll be in possession of too many illegal substances to be willing to stick around for the police to show up and start asking questions. But it's a moment like this that these fucking junkies prefer to turn a blind eye to. Shit like tends to happen when everyone's looking out for themselves. No one will see it coming and no one will see it going.

But on second thought, maybe /speeding/ to Danny's place wasn't my best plan, as evidenced by the red and blue flashing lights gaining on my rearview mirror. I quickly stow the fucking gun that's sitting in my lap under the passenger seat and crank the music down as I'm pulling, maybe too violently, to the shoulder.

The squad car nestles up nicely right under my bumper it looks like and in a moment the officer is approaching the passenger-side window and I'm actually pretty calm, thanks I think to my magic pills and the window's already down because dammit, it's beautiful out tonight and the officer says "hello there. Got somewhere to be?"

"Huh?" I "ask."

"Do you know how fast you were going tonight, sir?" he asks. "Sir?"

"Uh, no officer. I–"

"88. In a 75. Trying to get back to the future, were ya?" he says, flipping through the license and registration I've handed him from the glove compartment where a moment ago I briefly/stupidly considered stowing the gun.

"I–"

"Sit tight," he says, clearly unwilling to put up with any kind of excuses I might be able to conjure tonight, which in my current state is apparently "I–" and that's about it.

He sits in his car for a long, long time, while I sit in silence in my own and I'm trying to see what he's doing back there but all I can see in my rearview mirror is the blinding reflection of his chiding lights and for a moment I'm even expecting him to have to hightail it somewhere else, to something more pressing, and leave me behind in my stupor, which would just be incredibly lucky, but I'm all about that luck lately, so I don't think I'd be too surprised.

Not as surprised as I am when another squad car pulls up behind his and both officers step out of their respective cars and are slowly approaching mine, one on each side maybe gauging my reaction to see if I'm going to try something stupid, but I wouldn't dream of it, and now that same officer is back at my passenger-side window and the new one is right next to me (he's older) and they're "asking" me to step out of the car with my hands where they can see them and it's all pretty cool kind of. I feel like I'm on an episode of World's Wildest Police Videos, but I haven't done anything television-worthy yet. Just your average traffic stop, really, I imagine. He's reading me my Miranda rights though, and he's pretty much going exactly off-script, exactly like they do on TV and I even start to recite them with him, and I actually don't really understand why all of this is happening or really where I am anymore, and I'm actually a little surprised the officer knows my name.

"Elliot Roberts, we have a warrant for your arrest, for the murder of Dylan Mitchell," he says.

But I don't even know a Dylan Mitchell.

# EPILOGUE

Turns out the charge actually is murder – the murder of the man on the couch, if you remember. I hardly do. I'd never even heard his name until the day I was arrested for his murder and I was too intoxicated by frenzy to even understand it at the time, and I recognize the witnesses at my trial – Eddie and the other guy who /really did/ see /me/ pull the trigger, who can place /me/ behind the gun beyond a shadow of doubt. The guys that helped me unload the truck that one night, if you remember.

The details they collected whilst they just "happened to be walking by the house while the shooting was going on" were pretty damning. I think they'd been camped out there, to see that I went through with it.

And when I didn't quite get through with it, they were employed to reprimand me. Those tickets to flee the country I'd ordered didn't exactly help my case either.

I don't know what I was expecting.

About the Author:

Elijah Kampsen is a junior at Kansas State University in Manhattan, KS, majoring in English and Creative Writing.

Contact info:  
ekampsen@yahoo.com  
KampSin.com  
Twitter: @KampSin
References

 This phrase is pulled from Innerpartysystem's "American Trash," and in that context would be followed immediately by "'cause I.........I'm just American trash."

 Tyler, The Creator's "Garbage."

 Quote from The Airborne Toxic Event's "The Kids Are Ready To Die."

 Quote from Kendrick Lamar's "The Art Of Peer Pressure," and which would correctly read "homies."

 This phrase, "so it goes," was popularized by and is referencing here Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five.

 Quote from Innerpartysystem's "Obsession."

 Quote from Franz Ferdinand's "The Dark Of The Matinée."

 Another reference to Franz Ferdinand's "The Dark Of The Matinée." In context: "So I'm on BBC2 now, telling Terry Wogan how I made it and what I've made is unclear now."

 Empire Of The Sun's Ice On The Dune.

 Of Passion Pit.

 Quote from LCD Soundsystem's "Dance Yrself Clean."

 Quote from Senses Fail's "Headed West."

 In George Saunders' Escape From Spiderhead.

 Quote from Capital Cities' "Farrah Fawcett Hair," and in that context the narrators are listing things which all constitute "good shit."

 By The Monkees.

 Imitating lyrics of Johnny Cash's "The Man Comes Around," which are actually quotes themselves from Revelations 6:7-8: "And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts. And I looked and behold, a pale horse. And his name that said on him was 'Death.' And 'Hell' followed with him."

 Breaking Bad.

 Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide."

 Quote from Enter Shikari's "Constellations," and in that context would be followed immediately by "but you're the constellations that guide me."

 Quote from Anberlin's "Feel Good Drag."

