Addiction

by Roberta Blablanski

  Chet was flirting with a rosy-cheeked girl who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. C’mon, dude. You’ve got to be at least twenty-one. Find someone closer to your age and less likely to get you a permanent mark on your record.

  The girl twirled a long strand of bleach blonde hair around her finger as Chet bent down to whisper something in her ear. Owen heard her giggling from his vantage point on a bench several feet away. He rolled his eyes at the display of basic flirting.

  I bet her name is Ashley.

  Owen had forgotten the carefree days of flirting with random guys and showing his best side. He didn’t have a best side anymore. All of his sides were his worst.

  The last time he actually flirted was the evening he met Dex. Their first night together was spent talking – getting to know each other – with languid makeout sessions to fill the lulls in conversation. The desire was there, no doubt, but there was an unspoken understanding between the two that this was something special. Something to cherish and foster. Something that meant more than quick orgasms.

  An older gentleman approached Chet with a cell phone in his hand, cutting off whatever Ashley was about to say. Owen watched as Ashley stepped aside and made a face at the man's back. Chet guffawed but recovered quickly, nodding and smiling at the man.

  After a lengthy discussion, Chet unlocked the safe and retrieved two brand new cell phones in their boxes. He placed them on the small counter and continued his discussion with the man.

  Owen got up from the bench and walked closer to the kiosk as casually as he could. His heart began racing, getting faster and faster the nearer to the kiosk he got.

  Ashley walked away with an exasperated huff, apparently annoyed with Chet attending to his job responsibilities. She caught up with the rest of the high schoolers who had moved on to the ice cream cart.

  How do you expect lover boy to have money to take you out on dates if you get him fired for not assisting customers? Owen rolled his eyes at the immaturity of the girl. He was certain he never acted that petty at her age.

  Leaving the phones unattended on the shelf, Chet took the man to the other side of the kiosk. Owen was a handful of feet away and could hear Chet explain the pros and cons of the selection of phone cases.

  Is it really that difficult? Just pick a phone and a case and be on your way.

  What was Owen thinking? He needed the man to hem and haw over a purchase so that Owen could snatch up the cell phones. What a slap to the forehead moment. Chet had his back turned to the cell phones, making the perfect setup for Owen to walk by and shove them into the pocket of his hoodie.

  Another step toward the kiosk, and Owen’s stomach twisted painfully. He bent over, holding on to another bench for support. Taking several deep breaths in through his nose and letting them out through his mouth, he remained bent over until the pain subsided.

  Just get it over with and you’ll never have to do this again. People steal all the time. This is nothing new. You’re not so special that you should be making a dramatic scene.

  Owen took a few more steps, line of sight focused on the phones. Chet’s sales pitch was in full swing; he had no clue what Owen was about to do.

  A large hand on his shoulder stopped Owen in his tracks. The firm grip pissed Owen off, and he whirled around to confront the object of his irritation.

  “What the hell are-” Owen shut his mouth audibly when he saw the owner of the hand. His first reaction was to continue yelling at the police officer. His anger was dangerously close to overtaking his rational thoughts.

  The police officer towered over Owen, the badge on his navy-blue uniform shirt catching the sunlight and momentarily blinding Owen. His eyes were disguised by mirrored sunglasses, and Owen took in his reflection in the lenses.

  He looked worse than homeless; he looked on the edge of death. Scraggly beard, check. Unkempt hair, check. Ratty, dirty clothes, check. Good gods, he was a sad sight.

  By contrast, the officer was well-groomed, dark hair cropped close to his skull. He was clean shaven, his skin dark and unblemished, and his uniform was neat. He was an attractive man, the type Owen and Dex would both admire while they joked about the pickup lines they would use on him.

  The officer guided Owen back to the bench Owen used moments before to prevent himself from falling over. He firmly nudged Owen into sitting and stood in front of him with his arms crossed. “Want to tell me what you’re up to today?”

  Owen fumed. How dare this cop interfere with his business? He glanced over at the kiosk to see Chet back to the cell phones and the customer pointing at one. Seems a decision had been made. If only this damn cop hadn’t shown up.

  “Look at me, sir.” The officer’s authoritative tone had Owen snapping his head back around. The radio strapped to the officer’s shoulder went off, the dispatcher’s voice distorted.

  Please call him away to something more important than my pathetic attempt at theft. The opportunity is gone; there’s no reason to be here anymore, cop! Isn't there a real robbery happening somewhere?

  No such luck for Owen, today. The officer continued his interrogation. “I’ll ask again. What were you doing? Why are you lurking around the boardwalk?”

  Owen gritted his teeth. An outburst would surely get him arrested if he wasn't already in danger of being handcuffed. “Is it a crime to be in a public place?”

  Well, that wasn't the smartest thing to say. Sweat beaded his upper lip.

  “Nope, not a crime at all. But surveilling the same business all day is mighty suspicious, don't you think?” The officer cocked his head to the side, waiting for a response.

  I'm going to be sick again. Owen wrapped his arms around his middle, fighting nausea. His entire body was trembling.

  The officer crouched down to eye level with Owen. The crease between the officer's brows could either mean concern for Owen's wellbeing or a ride in the back of a cop car. A bead of sweat fell into his right eye, stinging. The officer removed his sunglasses. Owen blinked, clearing his vision, and met the officer's kind brown eyes.

  “Something bothering you?” His question sounded less intimidating and more friendly, conversational even.

  Owen was scared. Not terrified like when he was around Leroy. That was more fear for his life. Right now, he was frightened because a stranger was showing concern and could obviously see that something wasn't right with him.

  This was different from his close friends and colleagues recognizing he was in trouble.

  “I'm so fucked.” He didn't realize he'd spoken out loud until the officer responded.

  “I wouldn't go that far. Come on. Let's get you something to drink, and we'll talk about why you think you're...well, screwed.” The officer stood up and patted Owen on the knee.

  Owen obediently followed the officer to the ice cream cart and stood by while he ordered two lemonades. He paid the cashier and handed one cool drink to Owen.

  He took a nervous sip. His stomach was still unsettled, and his anxiety was through the roof. Was he going to be arrested? Could he be arrested? Technically, he didn't do anything at all. Would he need a lawyer? Who would he contact for his one phone call?

  The tart liquid assaulted his taste buds, making his mouth water and not in a good way. He forced himself to swallow, and the acid in his stomach practically hissed at the intrusion.

  “Let's get you out of the sun.” They settled at a table with an umbrella. The officer happily sipped his lemonade, oblivious to Owen's turmoil.

  His knee was bouncing uncontrollably, rattling the table. The more he tried to stop, the more his leg moved up and down. He stared blankly at the swishing of the liquid in his cup, anxious for the officer to speak.

  The officer waited until half his lemonade was gone before saying, “Is it heroin? Or cocaine?”

  The bottom dropped out for Owen at those words. He was well and truly fucked now. There goes my freedom. If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck, Owen is a drug addict.

  “Or maybe it’s
something else?” The officer glanced at his watch. “I'm officially off-duty. Whatever you say to me here stays between us. You're not in any kind of trouble; you can trust me.”

  This had to be a joke. He was sitting at an outdoor table on the boardwalk, sippin’ lemonade with a police officer who was asking him about drugs. Maybe he was dreaming.

  His hands trembled uncontrollably. He sniffed a few times and stared at the officer. “I don't know what you mean.”

  The officer sipped his drink, never once looking away from Owen. Owen squirmed under his scrutiny. “I believe you do. What were you trying to do at the cell phone kiosk? Steal those phones? What were you planning to do with them?”

  “I don't know,” Owen repeated.

  “If you don't want my help, I'll walk away. But I don't want to catch you staking out that kiosk or any other business. Are we clear?” The sternness was back.

  Owen's knee hit the underside of the table, sending his lemonade toppling over.

  The officer righted the cup and sighed. “You're traveling down a dangerous road. I've seen it time and again. It isn't too late to make a course correction.”

  Owen shivered, cold sweats causing his hoodie to stick to his skin uncomfortably. The intensity of the officer’s words combined with the stress of the entire day, plotting and planning the theft, had him exhausted down to the bone.

  The officer drank the rest of his lemonade, leaving Owen to his thoughts. Owen was still suspicious of the officer’s intentions, regardless of his reassurances that Owen wouldn’t get arrested for divulging his secrets.

  After finishing his drink, the officer smoothed out the receipt from the ice cream cart and pulled a pen out of his front shirt pocket. He began scribbling on the back of the receipt and told Owen, “Here's my number. If you ever need anything – anything at all – call me. Or come find me at the station.”

  Owen took the slip of paper without looking at it, not sure what to say. After a moment, he mumbled, “Thank you.”

  “Take care of yourself, man. The next time I see you, I want it to be under better circumstances, okay?” The officer stood up and patted Owen’s shoulder.

  “Yeah, okay.” What else could Owen say? The officer was being extra accommodating and super nice. Any other cop probably would have had him in a holding cell by now.

  Owen sat at the table, alone, torn between wanting to chase after the officer to beg for help and trying his hand at stealing something else of value so that he could get his cell phone back and some pills to ease his physical and mental tension.

  Before folding the receipt and slipping it into his pocket, he glanced at the name written in neat block letters:

  Officer Randall Linden

  Tomorrow might be a better day.

  * * * * *

  Two days and no sign of Leroy. Owen slept in his car the night of the botched shoplifting attempt, scared to confront Leroy. The next night, he went back to the abandoned beach shelter to find it deserted. He stayed there all night, finally trudging back to his car as the sun came up.

  He had chewed his nails down to the quick, his nail beds a bloody mess. He avoided the boardwalk, taking serious heed to the officer’s warning.

  He was tired. His joints and muscles ached and protested with every movement. He lost an entire day napping in his car. The lead weights attached to his eyelids refused to let him keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time.

  The second night, he ventured to Leroy’s shelter again. Nothing. Back to his car for another night.

  A loud bang against his window jolted Owen from his doze. Disoriented, he squinted at the figure standing at his driver’s side door. There were no street lights in the parking lot where Owen had parked his car, and he couldn’t make out a face. Was it Officer Linden?

  The car door opened with a jerk, and the figure at his window reached in and pulled him out. Owen stumbled, unable to find purchase on the concrete with his feet.

  “Stand him up,” came a cold, angry voice from somewhere behind Owen. The figure lifted Owen to standing and propped him up with his hands underneath his armpits.

  Leroy came into view. “You a rat now?” he spat at Owen.

  Confusion muddled his already slow brain. He struggled to find meaning in Leroy's words but came up empty.

  Leroy grabbed Owen’s chin, his fingers pressing painfully into Owen’s cheeks. “Do you know what happens to rats? They get exterminated.”

  Cold fear shot through Owen’s veins. He was in Leroy’s crosshairs for some misstep he’d taken. Was he mad Owen wasn’t able to get the cell phones? That was ridiculous. Leroy wouldn’t know because Owen hadn’t been able to find him to renegotiate their deal.

  Leroy released his grip on Owen's face. “Pat him down,” Leroy directed his companion.

  The man roughly passed his hands up and down Owen's body. He shoved his hands in Owen's pockets, removing the officer's note. The man handed over the receipt to Leroy who unfolded it and read the handwriting.

  A cruel, humorous laugh barked out of Leroy. Owen flinched at the sound. “You disappoint me, Owen. I thought we had an understanding. When you put my operation in jeopardy, we have a big, big problem.”

  “I don't understand.” Owen's words came out rushed and panicked. He breaths were coming short and fast, and he thought he might pass out. The fear Leroy instilled in him had him petrified.

  “Your pal, Officer Linden, picked me up for questioning. I wonder where his tip came from. You wouldn't know anything about that, huh?”

  “I don't, I swear!” Owen pleaded.

  “Sure, you don't. Having Linden's name and number in your pocket is all just a coincidence.”

  “I-” A hard punch to his abdomen cut off his words. All the air was forced out of his lungs. He would have fallen over were it not for Leroy's companion still holding him up.

  “Pretty boy needs to be taught a lesson.” Leroy addressed his companion. “Let's show him what happens to snitches.”

  6

  DEX

  “MAY I SPEAK WITH Dex Atterbury?” a pleasant and professional sounding voice responded when Dex answered his ringing cell phone.

  “Yes, speaking.” Dex sat on the sofa to lace up his shoes. He was minutes from heading out the door to work.

  “This is Melissa Hubbert at Westside Memorial Hospital. You are listed as the emergency contact for Owen Fredrikson.”

  At the sound of Owen’s name, Dex nearly dropped his phone. “I am?”

  “Do you not know someone by the name of Owen Fredrikson?”

  “No, no, I do. Yes, I am Owen’s emergency contact. What’s happened? Is he okay?”

  “He arrived via ambulance around three this morning. The ER doctor has recommended surgery, but we need someone to sign off before any major procedure can be done. We have Mr. Fredrikson‘s medical Power of Attorney on file naming you his agent. Are you able to come down to the hospital?”

  Dex’s mouth went dry. “Surgery?” He tightened his grip on his phone as his palm began to sweat. Random thoughts rattled through his head, each scenario more catastrophic than the last.

  “Yes, sir. Are you able to come to the hospital to speak with the surgeon and sign the release forms? You are the only person listed as the emergency contact. We have no other contact on file.”

  “I think so. How much time does he have? I mean, he's not in danger of…dying, right?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to entertain the notion of Owen no longer being on this Earth. The thought of Owen permanently gone was unfathomable to Dex. A breakup was one thing; the death of the one person he loved more than anyone was a whole different matter. He would die right along with Owen.

  He needed to get things in order so he could be there for Owen. He needed to… “I have to call my principal and arrange for a substitute. My kids have their end of term exams today. What…? How…?”

  “Sir, do you have someone who can drive you here? I don't think you should get b
ehind the wheel of a vehicle in your current condition.”

  “I think so? Is Owen okay? How is he doing?” His mental state had to take a backseat to whatever was happening with Owen.

  “Dr. Wen can discuss his condition with you once you arrive.”

  “You can't tell me anything over the phone? I need to know how he's doing.”

  “Sir, I am not involved in Mr. Fredrikson's care and cannot provide any details of his condition. However, I can assure you if this were a life or death matter, Mr. Fredrikson would be in surgery as we speak, and we would be having a different conversation.”

  Resignation at not getting more information about Owen had Dex sagging into the couch. “Yes, okay. I understand. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you, sir. Come to the third floor in the east wing and check in at the nurse's station. Dr. Wen will be paged, and you'll get your questions answered.”

  Dex ended the call with a thank you and leapt off the couch. In his haste to get to Owen, he forgot to tie his shoes and came close to tripping. He quickly took care of that matter and then rushed out the door.

  The woman on the phone suggested having someone else drive him, but he didn’t want to waste any time waiting for a ride. Patrick was at the diner, and a Lyft or taxi would take forever to get to him.

  He connected his phone to the Bluetooth in his car and dialed the school. The secretary picked up on the second ring, and Dex launched immediately into notifying Peggy of his impending absence.

  “Dex? Is that you?” Peggy was ancient and hard of hearing.

  “Yes, Peggy!” Dex was getting frustrated. “I'm calling out and need a sub for my classes.”

  “Oh, Dex. Are you sick? Have you come down with that stomach virus that's been going around? Sheila told me she spent the day on the commode with a wastebasket in her lap.”

  Dex cringed at the mental image of the seventh-grade science teacher in the bathroom. “Not a stomach virus. I'm on my way to the hospital. Um...” Should he tell her it was Owen that was in the hospital and risk more gossip? Thinking fast, he decided to take the vague route. “A family member was injured and needs surgery. Can you please let Principal Hardin know and reach out to my preferred substitutes? I'll email the lesson plan from my phone when I get to the hospital.”