Dealing Drugs (4th Excerpt of DRSC)

James drove off to the underbelly of the city that reminded him of his foster home. He parked in front of a dirty convenient store and went to the pay phone; it’s light bulb flickering and its second “p” and “n” were marked out so it read, “PAY  HO E.” Everything there was dirty; the streets, the houses and stores, the people, the cars, the grass. James felt calm in places like that; they looked the way he felt inside—disgusting.1

James kicked the phone’s pole until enough change clattered down into the change bin to make a call. He forced the quarter and dime into the tight pay slot and snatched a piece of paper out of his pocket and read the number as he dialed.2

A chipper male voice answered the phone. “Hello, Randal residence, this is Jake speaking.”3

“Cut the Christian shit,” James said as he stuffed the paper back into his pocket. “Do you want the drugs or not?”4

The voice lowered and attitude switched. “Where are you?”5

“Meet me behind ‘Frank’s Foods.’ You’ve got ten minutes.” James hung up the phone and drove behind the store, waiting in his Camero until a small white car drove up beside his. The driver was a skinny, clean-cut boy around James’ age. He wore a tucked in blue plaid shirt with khakis, his hair slicked back and glasses that were too small for his head. He fit in with the surroundings as a black cat did in the snow. He was a desperate “Christian” boy whose parents forbade any drugs of any kind to him, including cough syrup.6

“How much are you willing to give?” Jake asked quietly, suspiciously, as though someone were watching him. “I’ll take what you have. I have five hundred dollars to spend.”7

James showed him one of the bottles. “It’s one of the best you can get without a prescription.” He was about to show him the other two bottles but the boy interjected.8

“I’ll give you two hundred for it.”9

Idiot, James thought without any expression on his face. “All right,” he agreed as they traded money for drugs.10

Jake’s eyes wandered over the bottle’s frame and smiled as though it were a shapely woman. “Do you have any more?”11

James pulled out the other two bottles that made Jake gasp. “Three hundred for the two.”12

They traded once more and then they both drove off. James drove until he met a dead-end road with a series of shut down shops. He parked in front of a short Veterinarian Office with its brick walls turned brown and windows either boarded or broken. James went up to the small porch in front where a bum lay sleeping wrapped in a blanket. “Rafe,” he whispered as he nudged the person with his foot until the man turned and looked at him through a hole in the blanket.13

“James?” the man said as he stood. “You didn’t call to say you were comin’. Manson likes prepare for guests, ya know that.” He shoved off the blanket and walked James around the back where the man unlocked and opened the cement door in the ground, stuffed the key back in his pocket and led James down a set of cement stairs after he shut the door behind them. The stairwell was short and James had to hunch with the door closed above his head. Rafe knew his way down, even in the pitch black air, as did James for he had visited this place a many times. At the bottom was another locked door. Rafe took a key from a small crevice in the steps and unlocked the door, showing James in.14

The room was bitter and cold with a low ceiling and thick walls. James felt and heard the dirt crunch underneath his boots as he walked into the dark.15

“Lights would help,” Rafe said as he walked past James and clicked on a few battery-operated lamps screwed into the ceiling. The light revealed the tin shelves—shelves with boxes and boxes of drugs. They almost made James drool. “Manson!” Rafe shook his head and walked over to a wooden desk. “He’s probably back in the other room banging away at Sheila again.” James heard blissful moans from behind a faraway door and nodded awkwardly to agree. Rafe called out the name again as he shuffled through a file cabinet until a man stormed out from behind that door, pulling his boxers and jeans up from his ankles, giving Rafe and James a good glimpse of his package.16

James rubbed his closed eyes after the sight and sighed.17

“What the hell is it, Rafe?!” Manson hollered, wobbling over, still having trouble dragging his pants up. Manson Klarktin was dirty just like everything else around. He had long brown hair to his shoulders—at least it looked brown, it could have been blonde but so dirty you couldn’t tell. He was tall and lanky; looking like an Izzy Pop clone that was stuck in the eighties. He must have been in his late thirties/early forties.18

“We have and old friend here,” Rafe said as he pulled out a scrap of old paper with a list of drugs written down on it. “I got his list right here.”19

“JEM!” Manson called with a smile as he walked over to James and sledge hammered his hand into his back. “I haven’t seen your punk ass in a while. You’ve been getting your shit from someone else?”20

“No,” James said quietly as he walked with Manson to a shelf.21

“Put that paper away, Rafe,” Manson said, waving his hand at the other man. “I know James’ drugs like I know mine. He’s one of my best customers—been comin’ since he was a raw thirteen. ‘Member those days, JEM, when all you wanted was a bit of numbins a week?” He jerked a black cardboard box off the shelf and opened the top. “We got you’re favorite shit here, JEM: Oral morphine, Vicodin, Oxycontin, Daryon, Dilaudid, Demerol; the best numbs around. What’ll it be? I just got laid a good four times and you’re an old friend so take advantage of my generosity. They all range from one hundred, one seventy-five to two-thirty.”22

James licked his lips at the sight of the drugs. “I’ve got five hundred so I’ll take a Oxycontin, oral morphine and Vicodin.”23

“That’ll come out to around five-fifty. If you pay the other fifty, I’ll throw in a bitty pack of crack.”24

James paid the extra fifty and collected his drugs. He almost smiled.25