Getting Higher

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  "Shit, I almost forgot!" he yelled. "We gotta' drop that money off by midnight! Where's the bag? I bet you dropped that bag, man! Where is it?"

  "Cool it, Joey. No problem." Crank lifted his hand, with the shopping bag full of cash dangling loosely from his stubby fingers.

  Joe blew out his breath with relief. "Man, I don't believe you still got it! That's all we need, to have us lose that damn money! How in hell'd you hold onto it?"

  Slowly, Crank pulled himself to his feet, and dusted some of the dirt from his slacks. "Joey, there are two things in this world that I do not drop: one, a good joint, and two...," he smiled knowingly, "...a bag of money. C'mon, man, let's go see what time it is."

  It was eleven forty-five when Joe and Crank left the alley. They walked two blocks, to an old gas station that was closed and boarded up, then waited for ten minutes. At five minutes till midnight, a rusty blue Mustang pulled up, and someone rolled down the window on the passenger side. Joe and Crank ambled over, handed their bag to a man who called himself Freddie, and left. They returned to Crank's place and went to sleep, Crank in his spattered sleeping bag, Joe on the gritty floor.

  *****

  Chapter Nine

  The next day, Thursday, Joe and Crank woke up at noon. Since neither of them had been drunk or stoned the night before, the morning was not as tough as it usually was; there was no hacking or throwing up, and for once, both started the day without splitting headaches.

  Since it was Thursday, they had to go to the unemployment office and sign up to get their checks. Every week, the two men, and many other people in Brownstown, had to go to the office and register their incomes; if anyone receiving government checks did not register, they would not get their money in the mail the next week. Since the steel mills had closed, the unemployment office was usually pretty crowded.

  At around one o'clock, Joe and Crank left the apartment and headed for the office, which was located in the South Side of town. It was a single-story, red brick building, halfway up Main Street from the river, and Joe and Crank walked twenty minutes to get there since they could not afford the bus. At least it was warm and sunny in Brownstown that day, so the walking wasn't so bad.

  After making their way across town, Joe and Crank finally reached the place. As usual, they entered through the double glass doors and moved into a line. There were five people ahead of them in line, so it looked like the two guys had a long wait before they could sign up and get out.

  "Man," said Crank, shaking his head and crossing his puffy arms, "this is really gettin' to suck, y'know?"

  Joe was watching a cute blonde in another line. "Aw, c'mon, it ain't that bad."

  "Sure it is! Every Thursday, week after fuckin' week, standin' in these damn lines, gettin' interrogated by the bitch at the counter. Red tape, man, that's all it is, fuckin' red tape."

  "Yeah, but you get paid for it, man. Would you rather do this or work all the time?"

  "Yeah, I know," smiled Crank. "You're right. But why don't they just send the damn checks and be done with it? We ain't provin' nothin' by standing around here all day. What the hell's th' problem, y 'know? They wanna' know I'm still alive, tell 'em to call me on the fuckin' phone. They wanna' know if I'm lookin' for work, let 'em call me! Who needs this shit?"

  "You asshole," laughed Joe. "You ain't got no phone!"

  "Aw, fuck you, man. That ain't the point."

  "Who cares, man? Check out that babe over there. Is she nice or what?"

  Crank glanced at the girl Joe had been watching. She was tall, about six feet, with long legs and a slim but well-built body. Her long, blonde hair hung straight down her back, almost to her waist, and was cut with short bangs above her eyebrows. She wore a neat green polo shirt and pleated tan shorts and looked totally out of place in the unemployment office.

  "She ain't bad, Joey. Prob'ly be a good lay. What th' fuck's she doin' in here, though? Looks like she's got money, y 'know?"

  "Yeah, man, I know. Let's find out." Joe stepped out of line and moved over beside the girl. "Excuse me," he said to her, "but what th' hell're you doin' in the unemployment office?'

  The girl turned at Joe's voice, and her face looked stiff. "What do you think I'm doing?" she asked, sarcastically.

  Joe was not ready for her sharp response and stumbled over what to say next. "Uh, well, I just wondered, y'know, 'cause you don't really look like you need this shit."

  "Well, I do," said the girl. "Not that it's any of your business, but yes, I am out of work. I have a four-year college degree in sociology and I can't find a job. I like to eat, and that's why I'm here."

  "Wow, that's real wild. I didn't even go to college, an' here I am, in the same place as you. America's great, ain't it?" Joe chuckled and shook his head.

  The blonde paused and looked Joe over. His stringy, dark hair was tied like seaweed in a ponytail, and his beard was scraggly and full of dirt. He still wore the same T-shirt and jeans he'd worn for the past three days, and they were crinkled and smudged with dried mud and vomit. His sneakers were caked with mud and looked as if they had gone through a lawn mower.

  "Oh, yeah," the girl said, finally, "America's great. You've got it, mister." The line in front of her moved, and she was next at the window. "Well, it's been just swell, but I've got to go. Have a nice day."

  "Yeah, babe, you too." As the girl moved up to the counter, Joe returned to his place in line with Crank. Now, there were Only two people ahead of them.

  "Hit it off real good, huh, Joey?" said Crank, snickering. "She wants you, right, man?"

  "Aw, fuck you," said Joe, "that bitch thinks she's too good, y'know?"

  "She is," laughed Crank.

  *****

  "Man," Rocky said, brushing a hand through his wavy black hair, "I still don't believe this shit!"

  Crank, very seriously, leaned over the table and took another swallow of beer. "Believe it, pal, believe it. Would I lie to you?"

  "Yeah, you would," said Joe, also downing some beer.

  "Aw, fuck you, Joey. You know I'm tellin' the truth, man. You were there. Tell this ugly boy what happened."

  "Go ahead," cackled Rocky. "This, I gotta' hear."

  "Tell the fucker, Joey."

  "Okay, man. We were standin' in line at th' unemployment office, right, and I see this chick, so I walk over and..."

  Crank punched him in the arm, so hard that it made Joe wince. "Joey, you asshole. Not what happened this morning. What happened last night, man. You know, with Benny. What you think we been talkin' about for the last fuckin' half-hour?"

  "I give up," said Joe. "What have we been talkin' about for the last half-hour?"

  Rocky watched from across the table, his bearlike body rocking back and forth with rattling chainsaw laughter. His face was so flushed and puffy that it looked as if it would pop, and his eyes were squinted shut. "Ha haa haa! Oh, Cranky, this is some story! Ha ha haa! You said 'Joey knows, he was there!' 'Tell 'im, Joey!' Ha haa! He told me, all right, he sure told me!" With that, Rocky dissolved into incomprehensible, giggling gibberish.

  "Aw, screw you, Rocky. Screw everybody, man. I know what happened, and so does Joey. Shit, man, we're lucky to be alive right now." Again raising the beer to his lips, Crank took another long drink. "That Benny's an animal, man. He chased us prob'ly ten blocks before we finally gave 'im the slip."

  "Crank's right," spoke up Joe. "That dude really did chase us last night. I was just pullin' your fuckin' leg."

  Rocky's laughter faded. He was leaning over, his head on the table, holding on to the table's edge to steady himself. "Okay, Joe, okay," he sputtered. "You, I believe."

  Reaching across the table, Crank cuffed Rocky lightly on the chin. "Thanks a lot, fuckhead, I really appreciate that."

  "Oh yeah, Cranky?" smiled Rocky, slowly looking up. "That's good, y'know? By the way, you touch me again, I'll prob'ly smash your fat skull. You appreciate that?"

  Crank quickly sobered. Rocky, he knew, was being serious; though the big ma
n had warmth and a sudden, riotous sense of humor, he could explode into violence without warning. In both laughter and rage, the man was like a shotgun, ready to blow at the twitch of a trigger. Joe and Crank knew this from past, painful experience.

  "Okay, Rocky," muttered Crank calmly. "You wanna' hear this story, or what?"

  "I'm listenin', shithead."

  "All right, man, pay attention. Me an' Joey were out walkin' around, you know, mindin' our own business. It was prob'ly around eight or nine at night, I don't know. Anyhow, we were goin' down Miller Avenue, on our way to drop off this money, right, when all of a sudden, I see Benny's place across the street. You with me so far?"

  Rocky nodded, his nose in another beer.

  "Okay, so I see this shit-hole an' I say to Joey, 'Hey, let's steer clear, all right?' I knew this dude was trouble, an' I had this bag of money on me. So, we go out of our way to make sure we don't come near Benny's place. Then, we're about halfway down the street, an' we hear this scream. I turn around, and who do I see barrelin' down the road straight at us? Benny, man, hollerin' and wavin' his arms an' shit. All he had on was his fuckin' underwear, man! I couldn't believe it. He chased us twelve or fifteen blocks at least, till we ran in this alley an' hid. That fucker just wouldn't give up, y'know? We were lucky the dope didn't find us, or we would'a been dead meat, man." Crank inhaled after the long story and drained the rest of his glass of beer. He belched loudly, then looked at Joe. "Ain't that right, Joey?"

  "Yeah," said Joe, "that's right, man. Twelve or fifteen blocks." There was heavy sarcasm in Joe's voice and he glared at Crank as he spoke. The story had been a typical Crank lie, but Joe was still surprised by the new version of what had happened.

  Obviously, Rocky believed what he had just heard. He was not laughing anymore, and he even looked interested. "Huh. That's pretty wild, y'know? In his underwear, huh?"

  "Yeah," said Crank, "right out in the middle of the fuckin' street."

  "Holy shit. I always thought that guy was screwed up, man. He don't talk much, y'know, and he ain't around much anymore. Hell, a couple years ago, he was down here at Tap's every damn day."

  "I know, man, I know. We used to do some heavy drinkin', him an' I. Now, he's all messed up."

  "Kinda' makes ya' wonder, y'know?" Rocky mumbled.

  "Yeah, man, it does," Crank said.

  For an instant, nobody said anything. Crank stared dumbly at his empty glass, and Rocky picked some lint from his shirt. Then, Joe broke the silence.

  "Time for more beer, I think. You guys wanna' chip in a couple more bucks?"

  "Yeah, Joey," said Crank, reaching in his pocket. "That's definitely a good idea. Here," he handed Joe a single dollar bill, "this is all I got left."

  "Holy hell, Cranky," said Rocky in surprise. "All you got's one dollar? Shit, keep it, man. I got lots."

  "Hey, pal, thanks, but I pay my way. I get paid Saturday anyway, forty bucks from those dealers. No problem, man, really. I've lived on a hell of a lot less before for a hell of a lot longer'n three days."

  "Aw, Crank, go to hell. This ain't charity, it's booze. You'll buy me a few sometime, maybe Saturday night. Anyhow," Rocky drew himself up and looked proud. "I just got me a fuckin' job!"

  "Wow!" said Joe. "That's great, man! Where at?"

  "Up in Bartlett, with Donaldson Trucking. Remember, I told you I applied up there the other day? Well, they called me this mornin' an' told me I was in."

  "What's it pay?" asked Crank.

  "Good money, man. Five bucks an hour. It's full-time, maybe overtime, so I'll really be rakin' it in." Rocky snorted, yanked some bills out of his pants pocket, and flipped them to Joe. "Here, Joey, this'll buy a few rounds. Don't worry about it, either. Think of this as a celebration for me gettin' a new job."

  "Hey, thanks a lot," Joe said, shuffling the money in his hand. "This'll keep us busy for the rest of th' afternoon." Joe stood and headed for the bar. "I'll be right back, dudes."

  "Yeah, take your time," laughed Rocky. "Have fun."

  As he walked up front, Joe looked around at the rest of the place. At that time of the day, about three o'clock in the afternoon, Tap's Bar was never crowded. There were the regulars, six or seven people including Joe, Crank, Rocky, some drunk old men, and two kids at the pinball machine in the corner, but that was it. Tap's really filled up after five o'clock, when everybody quit work for the day, and the bar was packed at night. A few years ago, when the steel mill was still in business and everyone in Brownstown had a job, Tap's got an even bigger crowd. For a long time, it was the main gathering place of the steelworkers, legendary for the drinking and brawls that had taken place within its walls. Now, it was just another old bar on the North Side, a hole filled by derelicts during the day and where the people who still had jobs could drink themselves silly at night.

  Joe reached the bar and approached Ralphy. The dwarf bartender was polishing glasses there; he always seemed to be polishing glasses. When Joe neared him, the little man looked up and frowned. Only his eyes moved, two angry, burnt patches beneath his bushy brow. Joe put his money on the counter and leaned down to rest his elbows there as well. Now, he was face-to-face with Ralphy, directly in line with the bartender's vicious mug.

  Joe smiled pleasantly as he spoke. "Say, Ralphy, how 'bout a few more rounds for me an' the dudes?"

  Ralphy's face was livid, his rage barely restrained. "How about it, Joe?" he sneered.

  "Yeah, Ralphy, I think we'd like a few more. Keep sendin' 'em as long as this," he indicated the pile of bills, "holds out. Okay? We're real thirsty, man."

  Ralphy nodded once. He pulled three glasses from under the counter, clinked one under a beer tap and started to fill it.

  "I'll carry the first round back myself, Ralphy. Okay?"

  The bartender did not even look at Joe. He just nodded again, stiffly, and continued pouring beer.

  "Say, Ralphy, we're cash today!" said Joe. "Rocky just got a new job, so he's buyin'. How 'bout that, man?"

  Ralphy muttered something low and angry that Joe could not make out.

  After a minute, Ralphy finished filling all three beers, and put them on a tray for Joe to take to the table. As Joe picked up the tray, Ralphy reached out and snatched the money from the counter. He slapped the bills in the register, then turned and started polishing glasses once more.

  "Thanks a lot, Ralphy," Joe said as he carried the beers back to his table. Ralphy paid absolutely no attention to him, and went on working on a shot glass.

  Looking back at the angry little man, Joe considered himself lucky; at least he hadn't been clobbered with the baseball bat again. Maybe things were looking up.

  "Hey-y-y, Joey," shouted Rocky, as his friend returned with the beer. "Good job, good job! How'd you know, man? This is just how I like my brewski--in a glass! Ha ha haaa!"

  Crank did not seem very amused. In fact, he was looking annoyed. "Hey," he grumbled, "that's a good one, Rocky, real good."

  "I know, I know. Joey, gimme' that shit, fast! I'm dyin' of thirst over here!"

  Joe put the tray down on the table, handed a glass to Rocky, and another to Crank. He put the last beer on the sticky table for himself, then tossed the tray to the floor. "All right, man, let's dig in!"

  Rocky gulped a huge swallow of beer, then sighed with pleasure. "This is delicious, bud. Just right. Y'know, I was just thinking..."

  "Oh God," moaned Crank, "not again."

  "Fuck you. I was lust thinking that I should have a party. I mean, this is a good way to celebrate and all, but I need somethin' more. Somethin' big, and wild. I've got all this extra cash on me, too, and nothin' to spend it on. So why not, man? I think I will have a blast tonight."

  "Sounds great," said Joe, "but ain't it a little late? How you gonna' get enough people an' shit?"

  "Joey boy, I get what I want. There will be enough people, and there will be enough of everything else. Besides, you two are gonna' help organize it."

  "Yeah," sputtered Joe excitedly, "why not
? Me an' Crank've put major parties together before in less time than this!"

  Crank looked grouchy and skeptical. His tubby jowls slouched like fat mad cats and his eyelids shuttered closely. "So," he mumbled, "you're sayin' you want a huge blast tonight, an' you want us to do it for ya'. What th' hell's in it for us?"

  Rocky's mammoth grin was white and wide like siding. "Booze and drugs."

  Crank thought for a moment, then took a sip of beer. "Mister," he said finally, his skunky expression unchanged, "you just said the magic word."

  *****

  Chapter Ten

  By nine o'clock, Rocky's small apartment was jammed with people, and the place was rumbling with noise. The apartment only had two rooms--a living room and bedroom, neither very big; by nine, every inch of space was stuffed, a solid, sweaty loaf of bodies baked into the steamy cubbyhole. Even the miniscule bathroom was crowded, mainly because that was where all the booze was kept.

  Most of the guests were friends of Rocky, Crank, and Joe, called and invited at the last minute. Everybody who was nobody was there--the steelworkers who didn't work steel anymore; guys from the garages and gas pumps in town; girls from the bars and lunch counters; and the whole gang from Tap's except Ralphy. Even Buzz, the old guy who was always shooting pool at Tap's, was there, crouched in a far corner, sullenly sucking on a bottle of whiskey. They were all together there, about thirty of them, jammed and jumpy and yapping in the smelly two-room box, like gerbils in T-shirts and halters. They were cramped and hot, grimy and real, drinking and flying way out beyond the heavy cold corpse of Brownstown.

  Out in the living room, in the middle of the jam, Rocky was dancing like a madman on a chair. In one hand, he held a brown bottle of beer, and he was snapping his fingers with the other; somewhere in the mass of humanity, music eloped from a stereo speaker, and Rocky's body moved with the beat. As he danced, his hips wheeled wildly, his head whipped back and forth like a catapult. His eyes were blissfully closed and he lip-synched, big mouth forming the words of the song playing. As he drunkenly teetered and twisted and hammered, he spilled jets of beer over the crowd, wringing irritated cries and curses from the guests. A fat, burly guy wearing a leather vest got mad, angrily turned around and punched Rocky's leg; normally, this would have sent Rocky into a rage, and would probably have started a fight. This time, however, Rocky didn't even notice. He ignored the fat rowdy completely in his pleasure, just went on spinning on the chair and singing soundlessly.