It's been about three weeks since Richie passed away. That world came crashing down after he slammed a half a gram into his arm one night and from what I heard the stuff was dosed with fent, which must've taken that bastard for the ride of the century before he vacated this world. I guess that's how it went for all of 'em – or at least, that's what I heard. He probably would've croaked anyway given the dose and that being his first time 'n all, so… yeah.
The day before he sent his body packing, Richie called me after buying the stuff and got me all kinds of excited to meet up and give it a try. He talked about how he'd got the real stuff this time. Called it 'creme de la smack' and said it was finally our time to give it a whirl.
Now, the interesting thing – or maybe uninteresting thing about Richie – was that he was not normally connected when it came to drugs… or anything for that matter. Guy couldn't score a hickey at a kissing booth, so it gave me a surprise when he talked up such a gem this time around. His usual dealer was this shifty little twirp named Buzz who was always hanging out in alleyways off Atlantic slinging for customers.
To put it plainly: Buzz was only good for one of four things on any given day you ran into him. That was either grass, glass, pills, and maybe, I dunno, cigarettes… I think he even had some bootleg porn at one point or another if my memory serves me right. Regardless, the guy was a slimy, conniving little bastard. I personally had a whole laundry list of reasons not to like him: his paranoia, his outbursts, the way he smelled – jeez – but the main reason was because he was constantly trying to pawn off his excess Percocets on me at an exorbitant price when his pockets got light. Not once in my life had I asked for the stuff because of my family's history with it, and I made sure I told him that each and every time he offered. But still, he persisted every godforsaken day I stepped foot into his trash-infested garage and sat down on one of those cracked buckets. The only reason I put up with the zipper freak was because, well – it's obvious, isn't it?
Funny enough, aside from the rigmarole he dragged us through, the main thing about Buzz that annoyed me was how Richie acted in the midst of all our interactions. He never made a fuss when the freak chimed in with his slimy offers and it was mainly because he didn't want to sour his relationship with the guy by coming to my defense. Richie was terrified of losing the one drug connect he had in this world, and to be fair, I understood that. I truly did. But it still hurt me. I mean, you at least could've given the guy a 'chill out' or something to shut him up… c'mon Richie, I thought we were buds? He wasn't offering you any Percs!
Thankfully though, when Richie called me on that day he said our crappy relationship with Buzz was about to be far, far behind us… No more having to deal with the incessant side hustles or light bags. No more kicking garbage around his dump of a shack waiting for the freak to return with our product. Buzz was getting a fast pass to the dingy, pistol-packed past, never to be visited by us again. I remember as soon as I heard Richie shout that over the phone, the day shifted with delight and an intoxicating relief poured over me. A rare smile found my colorless face and it only grew in intensity when Richie talked on about successfully securing a more reliable plug. Once he mumbled that, my happiness exploded with a might I hadn't felt in God knows when. Looking back on it, I think it was because I was more or less caught up in the joy of never seeing Buzz again that I didn't question this new contact Richie had found seemingly out of nowhere. All I knew at that moment was that a new, apparently more dependable drug dealer was finally at our disposal, and with that understanding, it gave us all the necessary inspiration we needed to wet our whistles on the good stuff. Don't get me wrong, we were always inching towards it. Even if it seemed to be at a snail's pace… but now that we had that dash of certainty in the pot, we thought, What's a better time than now?
So, enough about the zipper freak that was Buzz.
After I got off the phone with Richie, I remember sitting at some gas station around the corner from my parents' old house. It used to be a Chevron, but nowadays it's an Arco. It might've even been a Mobil at one time or another if I'm thinking of the right one. Well, I'd just gotten done putting another gallon or two in my heap of rust and decided to walk into the shop to snag a coffee and a lighter. Slowly, ever so slowly, my brain granted my shaky hands permission to hobble my morning cup of joe together, and I waddled over to the counter to lull through the transaction. Medium coffee, dash 'o hazelnut cream, two sugars – don't forget the sleeve – and one lighter.
After I got done purchasing my post-bender pick-me-up, I made for the door… and it was at that moment I made eye contact with an encroaching woman dressed in a dark suit that hung like a shadow with the way it absorbed the light from the fluorescents surrounding the entrance of the store. I was immediately terrified of her. So much so that I couldn't hold my chin up to maintain a steady gaze as I stepped past and felt her stare clawing at the back of my head. As I reached for the door to make my escape, suddenly the woman called out to me with the softest, most reassuring voice.
"George?"
I froze halfway out the door. She spoke again with more certainty.
"George, is that you?"