For reals.
I look at my wrist like I’m wearing a watch. I say, Should be done in about an hour.
He a good cook?
I cock my head. You for real? Guarantee you’ve had it. Clear as ice, shards bigger than golf balls.
Talking shit now.
Bigger than… I don’t know, pretty big though.
Word.
Yeah.
It’s fucked up talking about dope with KK. It feels like some violation, the colliding of two worlds that were never supposed to intersect, us and drugs, us together using, and that’s what had fucked us up, us trying to make them merge, us trying to have it all.
Maybe she senses this because she says, How you been?
I laugh. I say, Other than everyone who isn’t a junkie being dead, nearly dying myself, and now being stuck here?
Fucked up, right?
So fucked up. Like for the longest time, thought I was done for. Dead. That this was some sort of fucked-up trip that wouldn’t end. Like that shit people talk about when you die and your brain floods with chemicals.
Have no idea what you’re talking about.
You know, like white light?
I guess.
She hands me a butt. I light it. I think about the Chucks seeing two floating cherries.
Pretty shitty, I say.
What is?
Me. How I’ve been.
Word.
You a gangster now?
Sho’ nuff.
Just the same old shit. Selling and smoking. Selling and smoking. Day after day, I say.
The life and times of Chase Daniels.
Pretty exciting, huh?
Beats the alternative, KK says, sometimes, at least.
You really believe that?
Not even a little bit.
Then what the hell happened? I mean, Jesus, thought you were all about sobriety.
Don’t have to be a dick.
No, no, I say. I put my hand on her knee. This feels weird because it’s kind of like her boob. I put my hand back in my lap. I tell her I just meant how serious she was about it.
I know.
I’m waiting for more but it doesn’t come. Finally, she says, The same thing that always happens. You know how shit goes.
Yeah.
Life. You’re going about your day, maybe six months into the new you, and then one day you look around and you’re stocking shelves at Target, wearing that stupid fucking outfit of khakis and red polo, and people are just walking by, you know, like you’re invisible? Just some girl working for fifty cents over minimum wage. And all you’re thinking about is getting off work, but then you think about what you’ll do, like really, and you know you’ll drive home, cook macaroni and cheese, go to a seven o’clock meeting, listen to the same bitches complain about the same shit—I’m fat, my dad abused me, my job sucks, resentments are the number-one offender—and then you’ll go home and watch Laguna Beach and a rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond before going to bed by ten thirty. All to get up and do it again.
Suicide, I say.
That’s what I’m saying. But that shit always comes. Always. You know?
Don’t have to tell me.
KK says, And the thing I get to thinking is that maybe it’s not that great either way. Like I take one look at you, no offense, and know you’re fucking dying, like inside. And then I think about the alternative like I was just talking about, that moment when you realize that the best you can do, I mean the absolute fucking best, is to be a less successful version of our parents. Like what the fuck? Seriously?
She’s speaking pure fucking gospel. The truest things I’ve ever heard and I want to believe there’s something else but I’m not sure.
Guess that’s not a problem anymore, I say.
How so?
Sobriety isn’t much of an option.
KK laughs. It’s not as gentle as the one earlier. She flicks her cigarette. She says, Full-on guiltless using, yo.
We smile. I want to kiss her.
Guess we’ll figure out the answer to that question, KK says.
What question?
If shit still sucks when you get what you wish for.
10:17 AM
We’re staring at a Tupperware bin of scante. We’re giddy. It’s like the moment when the first pair of spread legs says come on in. I put the blue cover back on the bin. I say, We need to be smart about this. A schedule. Yeah, we need to make a schedule.
Bro, Typewriter says.
Yeah, for real, KK says.
No, he’s got a point, Jared says. We need to do this responsibly.
Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Okay, KK, how long did it take for Jared to start getting all fucked up?
What do you mean?
In the apartment. How long was it between the last use and when he started getting a fever?
They look at each other. Jared shrugs. KK thinks it was maybe two days. Jared agrees, then adds, Probably closer to a day and a half.
Okay, good. So we know we can’t go more than a day without dope, give or take a handful of hours.
Not going to be a problem, Typewriter says.
Stop, man. This is serious. So we should be smart about this. Maybe each of us is rationed a teener a day. This can be consumed however you want. But that’s it.
Dude, KK says.
Let me get my teener then, Type says.
In a minute, Jesus. We’ve got to get organized first. Have to make this place livable, safe.
That’s what I was talking about, Jared says.
So we each have responsibilities—
KK says, You serious? We’re going to have chores? Checklists?
Not chores, just… responsibilities, like I said. Let’s not forget what’s waiting out in those woods.
Can we get our heads first?
KK, Jared says. He touches her forearm. He says, We need to make this place as secure as possible.
Fine, KK says.
Type?
Yeah, fine.
Okay, good. So the fence needs to be inspected, make sure it’s sturdy all over. And we need to do something about the sleeping arrangements. Get bedding or something.
And food, Jared says.
And food, yeah.
The Albino’s got plenty. Dude stocked up for this, knew it was comin’, Typewriter says.
Right, but we need to organize it. Make sure there’s nothing we need.
Weapons, Jared says.
Good, yeah. We’ve got plenty, but need to teach KK how to use them.
And Jared, she says.
Good, this is good, I say. I’m feeling better about everything. I’m holding hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of meth. I’m thinking about handing out the rations. I’m wondering if I’ll smoke mine or shoot it. And I’m thinking about us getting this rural shithole White House secure, us doing our chores, as KK called them, us sweating in the sun and working together and then us sitting around at night telling funny stories and it being good, a dinner party, friends catching up after years estranged.
So I can start with the fence, I say. Could use another hand, though.
I look at Typewriter. He stares into the dense forest. He says, Fuck that.
I’ll go, Jared says.
I’m still staring at Typewriter and his eyes jump between the trees and the bin of dope, never meeting mine. Okay, I say.
KK says, So that puts me in the house, making beds?
Unless you have another idea?
Could teach her how to load a gun, Type says.
Fine. That’s fine. But then you guys get the house ready, check on the food.
And what about your BFF? Casper the Friendly Ghost over there, KK says.
Not really trying to fuck around with him. Just let him be, I say.
Smart enough, Jared says.
Okay, so we’re good?
They all nod, staring at the bin. I crack the top. KK starts forward and I tell her I’ll dole out the rations and she
tells me I’m a controlling motherfucker and I say, We need to be smart about this.
Got needles? she asks.
This breaks my heart. I tell her inside.
I hand a hardy shard to each of them. I take one for myself, palm an extra little guy. I tell them this needs to last the day. To not do it all. None of them respond. They’re already heading back inside. I think about following and distilling my dope on a spoon. It was better, shooting it, and I know it’s a quick hop, skip, and jump to completely fucked when needles become oxygen, so I head to the Civic. I hide the bin under the trash bag in the backseat. I take out the glass stem from the glove compartment. I place the smaller of the two chunks into the bowl. I take out my torch. I burn and the chamber fills with the acidic aroma of meth, of pure fucking love, of any person I want to be, of any mood I want to claim as my own, and I take a slow pull, release the chamber, and my mouth is being suffocated and poisoned and ass-fucked and then my throat and lungs and I hold my breath, hold on to Buster, hold on to the pipe, hold on to my vision of us being some new colony, harmonious, all of us.
11:22 AM
It’s obvious Jared is one of those annoying tweakers who can’t stop his stupid mouth from flapping when he’s spun. He also pulls out his pistol at every swaying branch. I tell him to shut the fuck up.
He doesn’t. He’s all, I’m extremely excited about all of this. It’s not unlike make-believe. Cops and robbers. Indians and cowboys. Marines and aliens. God, that’s totally what it is. Am I right or am I right?
I try to ignore him.
Jared drops his voice all movie trailer–like. He says, They survived the apocalypse, and awoke to a foreign world. Five of them total. The Albino, Typewriter, KK, the Ex, and…
He stops, probably realizing he’d just typecast me as the ex.
Sorry, he says, then continues with his fake voice, The only thing that kept them alive was Tina, her touch sometimes loving, sometimes gentle.…
I run my hand along the chain-link fence enclosing the Albino’s compound. We’ve been walking for a half hour and there’s still a third to go. I’ve marked one section so far that’s in need of repair. I hope the Albino has some extra fencing. I figure he probably does, because he’s that guy, the one who’s thought people were coming to slit his throat since he was old enough to crawl.
Jared’s still blabbering: And lurking behind every tree, the Chucks crouched giggling and licking their lips, waiting for night to fall.…
I wonder if the fence will do a damn thing. Probably not. It’s about five feet tall, staked every few yards. I remember the little girl with the umbrella socks. How easily she bashed through Typewriter’s door. But what else are we going to do? Sit in the shack and wait for them to beat their decaying fists through century-old cedar? Maybe it’s just the feeling of movement, the illusion of productivity that I’m craving, that I think we all are. To feel like we have options and actions we can take. To feel like we can do something other than wait to die.
Jared’s like, But the walking dead weren’t planning on crossing paths with one young man with a deadeye shot. With this, Jared lunges into a wide stance, his gun held like a gangster from a rap video. I tell him that’s enough.
Huh?
Noise, man.
Then he’s whispering. He says, Roger that. I feel what you’re putting down.
I can’t stand this motherfucker. If this is what it’s going to be—daily role-play-Jared-as-adolescent-hero—then count me out. I’ll take my chances elsewhere. I wonder how KK was able to deal with it. She was so deadly serious when she used. Everything doom and gloom, and if she didn’t have blond hair you’d think she was goth queen of America. Then I’m remembering us using together. How it was fun at first. How this changed, like it always does. I’m remembering one night when she locked herself in the bathroom. I was annoyed and then worried and then frantic, knowing I’d see her ninety-pound body in a crimson bath, one wrist hanging over the porcelain, the tile stained with blood. So I broke through the door. The lock crumbled. She sat on the toilet, wearing an ugly pair of cream panties. We made eyes, then I followed her gaze to her abdomen. It was covered in raised circular bumps. I was like, What the fuck? She didn’t say anything. Just took the cigarette dangling from her thin lips and pressed its burning end into her stomach. I rushed over, knocked the cigarette onto the floor, and I was on my knees, my hands on her thighs, yelling, demanding she tell me what she was doing, and her stomach was like a fly’s eye—countless raised circles, each one staring at me like I’d let her down.
She petted my hair. She said, Can do bad all by myself.
J-Bone, Jared says.
Huh?
J-Bone. You like it?
What?
A nickname. J-Bone. I think it has a nice ring to it.
I shake my head and keep walking.
C-Money, Jared says.
No.
No?
No.
Hmm. Thought I was onto something with that. You sure? C-Money? J-Bone and C-Money out patrolling the grounds?
No.
We keep walking.
J-Bizzle and C-Maker.
You need to stop with that shit. I can’t deal with it right now. You feel me?
Roger.
I wish we had cameras set up around the property. That each square foot was covered with an eye in the sky and we had a control station set up and we’d take turns watching these grainy feeds, take turns making sure of our relative safety. Then I’m wondering how long the power grid will stay up. Nobody’s left to do whatever they do to keep power going. I think about total blackness and about having to go out and loot generator after generator and gasoline and how much this is going to suck.
J-Snizzle and—
I turn and grab the front of Jared’s T-shirt. His eyes widen. I’m about to hit him because he’s so fucking annoying and because he’s somehow found his way into the pants and heart of KK. He looks scared, surprised, his eyebrows all sorts of arched. I let go of his shirt. I say, Stop talking.
The hell, man?
I blame it on the need for silence, that we don’t know what’s out here.
He seems only somewhat satisfied with this explanation. He starts walking. I can see him straighten out the creases I’ve caused in his shirt. We’re quiet. I run my fingers along the chain link. I like the way it feels. It reminds me of driving on roads under construction, the smoothness between bumps.
Jared starts talking, his back to me. He says, I know this is hard for you. Would be for me too.
I don’t want to have this conversation with Jared. The proverbial husband and ex-husband moment of forced connection. It feels trite. I don’t respond.
But I appreciate it, he says. I really do. I know it would have been easier to leave me in that apartment. Nobody could have blamed you for that.
You would have done the same for me.
He shakes his head. He says, Not sure about that.
I laugh because this takes me by surprise, this comment, its honesty.
Seriously, Jared says. If the situation was reversed.… Shit, even if it wasn’t reversed, even it was still me with KK and I had to save you while putting my life in danger… might have been on your own.
Bullshit, I say.
Maybe. I don’t know.
The fence turns right, not quite at ninety degrees. We’re a good distance behind the shack. I’m glad to see he’s calmed down with the JLo comments and the aiming of his pistol.
The reason is simple, he says.
What is?
The difficulty I would have saving you.
Kind of a dick, I say.
I see the way she still looks at you.
I ask him what he’s talking about and play it off like he’s crazy, that I’m not following, but really I’m thinking that he might be right, that I wasn’t delusional, that we still share a connection, and maybe that’s just the reality of any two people coming together under the most fucked up of circumstances, u
s meeting in a round-cornered psych ward, and then us doing it together, sobriety, meetings, the moments when one of us was the lifeboat to the other’s ship sinking under the weight of self-hatred, and then us succumbing together to that sinking, convincing ourselves and each other that it was a good idea, scante, that we could weather any storm as long as we did it together. And then the end, us realizing we couldn’t. Maybe having gone through that, we shared something deeper than vows? Maybe there’s still a chance?
I’m about to try to change the subject because I don’t want Jared to see my full hand, but I hear something. I grab Jared. He flinches, thinking I’m going to get all aggro again. I whisper listen. It sounds like a motor, maybe the beaten motor of a pickup coming from somewhere deeper in the woods. My heart pounds in my ears. Then the engine noise fades.
You hear that?
Jared nods. He says, A car.
That’s what I thought.
Are there even roads back there?
Not sure.
They can’t drive, can they?
The walking dead? No, man. No fucking way. But somebody is.
Should we go check—
No.
You sure?
I run through the possibilities—some local guy trying to flee, some high school kid waking up from a bender, somebody who knows we’re here—and whoever it is, they are junkies, have to be, if my theory is correct. This person or persons must realize this too. They must know about the Albino. I think about meth being the one limiting variable to survival, and we have it, at least a week’s worth, and I hold Buster a little tighter.
What do we do? Jared asks.
I think about going out to investigate. Maybe it’s just a kid wanting a fix. I think about the walking dead roaming through the forest. I should warn the others that we heard a truck, that we might be expecting trouble. Or I could just tell the Albino. Other people know he’s here because that’s what he did, cook shit, ounces a week, and Typewriter and I weren’t the only ones he sold to. There are others. He’d know what to do. But then I think that maybe alerting him isn’t such a good idea. He’s already fucked up about us being here, and the thought of more coming might be too much.
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