He was fucking scared. No shit. Really scared. Although he was in his mid-thirties, he’d never done such a thing before—picked up a woman at a bar, driven her crosstown to the west side to buy cocaine. Never. Never even done coke himself. But he did what she wanted him to. He was horny. Hadn’t had a girlfriend for over a year now, and had been with the last one for twelve years. And he wasn’t lucky with the ladies, always told his friends, “No, you don’t understand, I have to chat them up first. I have to charm them.”
But that night he didn’t have much of a choice; testosterone had taken over, and although there were slim pickins, he made his move to the end of the bar where she was standing. She had a thumb hooked into the pocket of her jeans, and in her other hand she held a cigarette over the ashtray on the bar. It was late, closing time. The barkeep announced last call. And rather quickly—it had been easier than he’d thought it would be—they left the bar together, and he found himself driving his truck farther and farther away from familiar territory. She asked him to get money for the dope. He drove to the closest bank and withdrew forty bucks, guaranteeing, he thought, he’d get laid.
“Lights off,” she said softly. “Turn your lights off and pull over. Yeah, right there, man. I see him. Ahí esta. Good. We lucked out.”
He coasted to a stop. “Where?”
“Over there. Shhh … I’ll be right back.”
She opened the door, slipped out, then closed it really carefully and walked over to a car parked on the other side of the street, a little behind where they had rolled to a stop. Through the rearview mirror, he saw the car’s door open slowly. A man stepped out, a gun stuck into his pants right above a big silver belt buckle, like a rodeo champion. The revolver sparkled in what little light shone from the moon shrouded in silvery clouds.
The windows fogged up quickly, the air hot with alcohol and adrenaline. Inside the cab of the truck, it smelled like a bedroom after two very drunk people had sex.
He was scared. “And all for pussy, all for pussy,” he whispered, eyes darting from the rearview to the mirror on the driver’s-side door, then ahead of him.
Suddenly she tapped at the window as he zoned, drunk, focusing on what he thought was someone inside a car two vehicles ahead. He twitched, then adjusted his vision, squinted to make out her face through the clouded window, had to double-check; the streetlamp had been shot out. Her earring clinked against the glass.
He rolled down the window. Even in this dark craziness, she looked beautiful, like a movie star, like a young Sophia Loren. Thumb hooked into her jeans pocket again. She had sad eyes, he thought, pleading and lost.
“Give me the money, man.”
“What? How much, how much?”
“Twenty, thirty, whatever. C’mon, man. He’s waiting.”
“Well, I’m a little uncomfortable—”
“Shhh … just gimme the money, man, come on.” She placed her hand on his mouth, pressed down hard like she meant business. It hurt a little. “Shhh … just gimme the money, man. He’s waiting. I gotta give him some money now or he’s gonna get mad at the both of us. C’mon.”
Her teeth clenched tight.
The urgency in her voice scared him. He fumbled through his shirt pocket, into which he had shoved the bills, and pulled out the two twenties, crisp, folded in half, fresh out of the ATM.
I’m gonna die. Dear Jesus, I’m gonna die, he thought, his upper jaw still smarting from her forceful grip.
She quickly counted the money he gave her and went back to the car across the street.
“Thank you, God. Gracias, Jesus Christo Redentor.” She was jonesing, jonesing really bad.
“Here, babe, two big rocks. Smoke ’em, man. Break ’em up a little, then smoke ’em. You’ll get the most mileage that way. It’s good stuff. Promise. Good stuff.”
“Thanks, Johnny Boy. You’re my man. You always got my back. Thanks, man.”
“Hey, Sonia, do me a favor. Don’t bring that dude back here no more.”
“No, Johnny Boy. He’s cool. Promise. He’s cool. He’s all square, man. He works at a bank. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t bring ’im here no more. Okay, mi morenita?”
“Okay, papacito. Love you, man.”
She put two fingers to her lips to flick him a kiss and went back to the truck. He would’ve hurt her if she had come here with no money—not badly, but he would have slapped her a couple of times. She knew it. She’d seen him do it.
But she was beautiful, and this had always helped her.
He acts all nice and all, but he’d hurt me, just like that, she thought as she walked back to the truck.
In one hand she held the dope in a tight fist—tight, tight fist; the thumb of her other hand was hooked into her jeans pocket.
“Thank you, Jesus.” She made the sign of the cross, and at the end, right at the end of the sign of the cross, right when she usually kissed her thumb as if holding the cross hanging at the end of a rosary, just as her mother had taught her to do, she kissed the sweet little plastic pouch and jumped back into the truck.
Once in, she put her face to her shoulder, sniffed her underarm. “Damn, I still smell like fish,” she said. “I gotta quit that job, I swear. Let’s get the hell outta here.” She leaned over, kissed him, slipped him some tongue, let him know she was grateful for the money, for the ride, for bringing her all the way across town, and sat back. The dope was in her hands. She could feel it there. It reassured her. Made her happy.
He put the truck in gear and drove off slowly, didn’t turn the lights on until the end of the block. He’d gotten the picture. He wasn’t stupid.
She checked her underarm again. “Do I smell like fish? You know, fried fish. You know, like my work. Do I smell like Long John Silver’s?”
He wrung the steering wheel. “No, you don’t smell like fish.”
“I told you I work at Long John Silver’s, right?”
He nodded yes, kept his eyes on the road, afraid to get stopped. He thought, Not only am I drunk, but there’s speed in the car now too. Fuck.
He had just wanted to loosen her up. Never thought it would be this dangerous. He could’ve gotten held up, hurt, the truck stolen. But no, had to go along with it, didn’t I? he thought. I gotta get home. Gotta get home. Gotta get home. Gotta get home.
“I have a degree, you know. Aha, an associate’s degree in food management. That’s right, from City College on the east side. You know, right? You know St. Philip’s, right?”
“Yes.”
“I graduated in May. My grades weren’t so hot. But I finished, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“What bank you work at?”
He thought up a lie, afraid now of the guy back there in the car, of her ilk.
“I work in real estate at the bank. Don’t really have anything to do with money.”
“Ooh, good. Yeah, me, I’m a home owner. That’s what you mean by real estate, right?”
She pulled a cigarette out of her bag and lit up.
She didn’t even ask me, he thought. He wanted to tell her not to smoke in his truck. Decided not to.
Be careful. Slow down, he thought. They got to a busy intersection. Slow down, slow down, he kept thinking.
“Take 35. Take the expressway,” she said. “I really gotta pee.”
“I can’t get on the expressway right now, like this. I’m drunk. Too many cops. Can you hold it for ten minutes? We’ll be at my house in ten minutes.”
“Can’t you pull over and let me pee? Just over there. Look, it’s dark. Pull over, man. I gotta pee.”
“I promise. We’re five minutes from my house now. Okay? You okay with that?”
“Okay. Okay.”
She really didn’t have to pee, just wanted to get to his house and smoke the crank. He knew it and started getting angry, feeling upset, used. But just then, just as he turned the corner, her purse rolled over and popped open. He saw it in there, clear as day, a knife, a big one, a switchblade. So he shut up.
She looked at him as she grabbed her purse, put it back in order. Leered at him. Hated him for not pulling over. For such a smart man, banker, real-estater, whatever, he’s a fucking idiot, she thought. Look at him, such a sissy, all scared and all. I ain’t gonna hurt you, honey. I just wanna smoke a little of this shit, man. I just wanna get out and smoke a little of this shit. Fuck him. Like he can’t pull over for just a minute? How much longer? How much longer?
“Hey, how much longer?”
“See that white house over there … on the right? That’s my house.” They pulled into the driveway. “Relax, we’re here, we’re here.”
Yeah, shit, you relax with these little candies in your hand, motherfucker, she thought, you fucking relax. She was turning into a fiend, a monster, someone he had not recognized in that dark bar.
She jumped out of the truck and waited for him at the door. “Come on, man, I gotta pee, please hurry.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Don’t make so much noise. It’s late. The neighbors—”
“You wanna fucking commotion? You wanna see what a commotion really is?” she said loudly.
He got the picture, hurried and unlocked the door, switched on the light.
She slipped in. “Where’s your toilet?”
“Straight ahead, straight ahead. You’ll see the door.”
Just take the damn stuff and then I’m going to get you out of here, he thought. I promise, Jesus, get me out of this one and I’ll never do it again, never, promise.
She came out of the bathroom rather quickly. He didn’t even hear the toilet flush. “Do you have foil? Tin foil? I need some foil.”
“What for?”
“To smoke this stuff. Come on. Get the foil.”
“You smoke it? I thought you were supposed to snort that stuff?”
“Can you get the foil, please?”
He went to the kitchen. He wanted to find it, was desperate to find it, take it back to her, let her smoke her damn stuff, then get her the hell out of the house. He grabbed the box of foil and rushed back to the dining room where she was sitting at the table.
“Hey, get me a little plate, okay, like a coffee plate, you know, like for under a cup of coffee.”
He ran back to the kitchen, pulled a saucer out of the dishwasher, ran back to the dining room.
She opened her hand. The little plastic baggie was stuck to her palm. She peeled it off, struggled with the tiny seal, finally opened it, and carefully poured the two crystals onto the plate.
“Give me the foil.”
He handed her the box.
She reached for her purse, which she had set on the chair next to the one she was sitting in. Pulled out the switchblade.
He jumped back.
She giggled. “Hey, man, don’t worry. I’m just gonna break this shit up, man. What’d you think? I was gonna slice you up, man? C’mon, man. You’re silly, silly, real silly.” She stared at him, pressed the button, and the blade switched open. She broke one of the crystals in two—clink.
“Fuck the foil,” she said, and went back into her purse for her pack of cigarettes. She pushed the little piece of crystal that looked like rock salt into the tip of the cigarette. Lit up. Her eyes rolled back into her head. They were solid white for a while, almost pearlescent, almost beautiful.
“Take a hit,” she said. “Let me load it for you. Here. Look …”
“No, not really. Don’t do that. Thanks. You do it all.”
She pressed hard on the second piece to break it up into smaller bits, the blade flat on it this time, and when she did so, a few grains spilled off the plate onto the floor.
“Oh my God! What did I do? How much fell?” She pushed off the table and fell immediately to her hands and knees, touching the ground as if blind. Then she looked up at him suddenly, crazed, and asked, “Is somebody back there? Are the cops back there?”
Damnit, she’s wigging out, he thought. “No, there’s nobody back there. Promise.”
“Let’s go see.”
“Okay.” He took her to the back of the house, past the bathroom. Pulled her into both bedrooms. Showed her the closets. Pulled up the dust ruffle from around each bed. Made her look underneath. “See, no one’s in here. I promise. No one’s in here.”
“What about outside? They’re waiting outside, aren’t they, the police?”
“No,” he said loudly, almost yelling, exasperated. “Come and see for yourself.” He pulled the curtain aside, yanked up the blind. Nothing there. She saw. Just a backyard. Plain backyard. Not even a dog.
Then she looked at him, dazed, stoned, and slurred, “I thought your house was bigger, you know, being a banker and all.”
She turned away from him and started walking, slowly, headed back to the dining room, almost as if she were floating, sat down at the table, but in the chair opposite the one she’d been sitting in.
“So I can look back there,” she said, pointing to the back of the house. “Wanna make sure no one’s back there. You sure no one’s back there?”
He stared at her. Started hating her.
She smoked the rest of the crank. With every hit, her eyes rolled back into her head. Smoked it all except for two crystals still on the saucer.
He started wondering if she’d been casing the house, acting wasted, paranoid, looking for vulnerable places, entries, windows her gun-toting friend could break in through in the middle of the night, kill him. For what? he thought, my TV, my VCR, my computer, my DVD player, my poor, dead mother’s silver? He thought Johnny Boy might even be on his way over already, right now. He trembled, barely, but visibly now, visibly, at least to him—angry, truly afraid for his life. She puffed away.
“Positive,” he said. “You saw yourself. No one’s back there.”
He was now beginning to think that she was going to overdose. She’d smoked so much. It seemed too much. He’d never done it, but he knew what speed could do to a person. He’d seen the movies. Seen the special report on Nightline, “The Meth Crisis.” He imagined her heart pumping faster and faster, harder and harder, then stopping. Just like that. He closed his eyes. Should I call an ambulance? What’ll I do if she ODs? How do I explain it to the police? Jesus, help me, he thought.
“Haven’t you smoked enough of that stuff?”
She looked at him, one eye closed. “What? You pay for this shit?” Then she giggled, remembering that he had. “Just kidding, amigo, just kidding. Sit down with me.” Stoned. Wasted. Gone. Here. Come. “Sit right here, my sweet papaya. Close to me.” She patted her hand on the seat of the chair next to hers, then pulled another cigarette from her purse, pushed the last two pieces of rock into the tip.
He sat down.
She caressed the inside of his thigh, made her way up to his crotch. Smiled sweetly. Lit up.
“Oh, sweet little jewel,” she said.
“Why are you so quiet?” she asked him, coming out of her stupor, as she had done a few times during the ride to get her home, enough to let him know where to take her. Back to the same neighborhood they’d been the night before. He thought about dropping her off at a bus stop, dumping her. It would’ve been easy enough, she seemed so lifeless, wasted. But he couldn’t do it. He’d take her home even if it meant going back to that part of town. He’d take her home. Get rid of her. Anything to get rid of her.
“I’m tired, that’s all,” he answered. No interest in talking with her, angry, really angry now that the sun was out, now that it was light, now that he felt safe.
“Hey, don’t worry. I know lots of guys who can’t get it up sometimes. No big deal. Get some Viagra,” she said to him rather lucidly, giggling. This made him even angrier.
He pulled down the visor—the strong, early morning, South Texas sun blinding him. He could barely see where he was going. Even now, still a little drunk. In shock. Still nervous. Edgy. Knew he wouldn’t be all right until she was out of the truck. Away from him. His life. His home.
She nodded off again.
“Hey, wake up,” he said to her a few blocks later, shaking her rather severely, a little too hard. “You have to tell me where we’re going. Wake up. Don’t fall asleep.”
She opened her eyes slightly, dazed. “Where are we? Oh, yeah, up there. I see. Up there. Take a left on Zarzamora. Just up there. Yeah, right up there. Up there,” she repeated, pointing in no particular direction. “Yeah, one more block. Right here. Turn. Right there. Yeah, just right there on the left. Yeah, drop me off right there. That’s my momma’s house. She’s dead now. Dead. She left it to me. The house, that house, the white one with the red roof. Que pretty, right? Yeah, that one. Right here.”
She leaned over, tried to kiss him. He turned away. She laughed, got out slowly, slammed the door shut.