You were ready to die for this girl, and she hadn’t even kissed you.
YOUR CONCUSSION WAS MINOR. More disconcerting was the new gimpy sensation in your right leg. When you tried to run the iliotibial band next to your knee registered tight, hot pain.
You had to drop running for a week. Better to let it rest than blow it out.
Ava was an Olympic-level tease. When she dropped you off at your Uncle’s house she leaned in close, said she wanted to look at your pupils. Be sure you didn’t have any brain damage. She locked you in at the eyes. Her lips floated a hair’s-breadth from yours, the heat from her face mixing nicely with your Valium/brain damage buzz.
She whispered in your ear, “I think you’ll be just fine.” Then she told you what nights she worked at which clubs.
She didn’t seem surprised that you were there every night. You dipped into the box in your closet, swapped jewels for cash at pawn shops, loved spending ill-gotten gains on Ava.
You bought every lap dance you reasonably could. When anyone else got too close to her they looked like Mikey Vinson.
You turned creepazoid one night, crawled her apartment when you knew she was at the beginning of her dance shifts at Sassy’s. You were pro at climbing in through windows. Summer heat had everyone’s open. Seemed she barely lived there aside from her disheveled futon and the explosion of clothes scattered throughout. You threw two pairs of her underwear in your CamelBak, rushed home for an epic stroke-fest. You tied her lacy yellow G-string around the base of your cock, huffed the blue cotton pair, and pounded yourself into exhaustion. You never ran short on fantasies—your favorites involved her sneaking into houses with you, violating every room.
If it wasn’t obsession, it was pretty damn close.
Things seemed fine, spectacular really, until the night she invited you over for coffee at her place. You accepted, secretly ecstatic, but caught the heebie-jeebies when you noticed she wasn’t talking to you on the way, kept looking over her shoulder.
At her apartment she brought you into the loop—She liked you, more than she expected. But she already had a man, on the low, and he was insanely jealous, sometimes to the point where he got rough. She didn’t know how to leave him. She didn’t want to endanger you. The guy never came down to her clubs, but his friends sometimes did. They’d noticed you. How could they not?
You puffed up your chest. “Who is this guy?”
“Have you ever heard of Stump Lo?”
Shit. You had. You un-puffed your chest.
Stump Lo was a Portland rapper who’d been struggling for years to pimp his pseudo-Cali-gangster-style hip-hop to an audience more interested in commercial hits or backpacker rap. He was the dude you sat through while you waited for the good rappers to come on— tolerated but not loved. You could feel his resentment on stage.
Word was he’d shifted to coke sales a year or two back—he wanted the cred and his album sales weren’t churning out the royalties—and had worked his way to the upper echelon of Snortland suppliers.
This moment is when you should’ve jumped ship.
Instead you looked into Ava’s eyes and decided to tell her about your hobbies. It was the best sales pitch available, to offer an alternative bad-ass, one who wouldn’t trap her in jealousy.
You told her you weren’t a roofer, you were a fucking roughneck criminal. At the top of your game you were Portland’s best cat burglar.
You also broke your code and exploited your parents’ death, saying you’d even had to see their bodies. You told her you hadn’t felt fear since that day. If she didn’t want to stay with Stump she could roll with you.
You escalated your bravado with each detail. Her eyes sparked.
She wanted to hear more about your break-ins. You told her about all but one of them.
She loved your runner’s scheme for evading the law.
She leaned over, put her hand on your face. Said she had an amazing idea.
You were all ears, you sorry Rescue Ronnie Captain Save-a-Ho motherfucker.
YOU SOLD THE REST of your stolen swag, a whole day of pawn shop hustling.
You liquidated your trust, cashed out your swollen checking account.
Ava found a great place in the Caymans online.
You’d miss your Uncle, but had no other ties and figured that Ava’s legs around your back could ease any pain.
Ava told you she’d already bought tickets.
She confirmed she’d found a buyer for Friday night—she knew dealers who liked to show off their cash in the clubs. Now it was just a matter of acquiring the blow.
Stump Lo was going to open a show for Keak da Sneak that night. A small opening, maybe a few hours, but after your score all that remained was a shot up I-5 to meet Ava’s connection. Then on to PDX and paradise.
You met with Ava after her shift on Wednesday night. You wanted her to have your best diamond ring, from your first break-in. You couldn’t bring yourself to hock it. You waited near her car, not wanting to risk any of Stump Lo’s friends seeing you inside.
She ate it up. Even got a little teary-eyed. She put her hands on your hips, pressed her cheek against yours and said, quietly, “I think I might be falling in love with you.”
She smelled like sweat, cigarettes, too much perfume. You loved it. You wanted to kiss her but she was gesturing you towards her car. You got in, thinking she couldn’t contain her need anymore. You’d fuck right there in the lot . . .
Instead she wanted to review details for Friday. She would drop by Stump’s place before the show, wishing him luck. She would make sure that his Rottweiler—named Scarface, of course—was kenneled. You’d watch for Stump to leave. Once he did you’d run around back and disconnect the A/C unit running into his office. That’s your access point. After that it was simple—grab the coke/get out. Then a quarter mile jog to your meeting point. You’d roll in her car, make your sale, then get into costume for the airport.
She’d been inspired by your adventures in social camouflage, figured it could work to her advantage too. You’d enter PDX as proud parents-to-be. Her prosthetic belly-bump and draping maternity gear would conceal your collected cash nest egg as well as half a brick.
You questioned the wisdom of bringing drugs. Carrying serious cash was already suspect. The coke made the trip trafficking. Why risk it?
“The US dollar is on the decline. Coke is universal tender. We can turn it into money, connections, favors. I’ve never seen a pregnant chick getting searched at the airport. Have you?”
You hadn’t.
“And now, with this rock on my finger, we’ll look like we’re engaged. It’s perfect.”
You considered proposing. Make it real, right then. But it might spook her, and you knew better times were coming. Wouldn’t it be cooler to propose at sunset, in the sand, with a buzz kicking from some tropical cocktail?
Besides, you hadn’t even kissed yet. For all you knew, though you tried to exterminate the thought, she might still be fucking Stump Lo. But if she was it was just to perfect her cover, keeping things smooth until you could begin your life together, right? You squashed the thoughts.
She pinned you down with her eyes.
“Are you ready for Friday night?”
The version of yourself that you were selling could answer only Yes.
GETTING IN WAS SIMPLE. You saw those window-mounted A/C units as “Open House” signs. You’d brought your LifeHammer as back-up, but all you’d needed to access Stump’s residence was a small screwdriver and the ability to disconnect a plug.
You were halfway up the stairs to the guest bathroom where the stash was supposed to be hidden, feeling like the air had been replaced with a Dexedrine mist. Your mouth was dry, your face a sheet of sweat.
You noticed a drop of perspiration fall from the tip of your nose to the carpeted stair underfoot, and wondered if it could pop up as evidence.
You were bent over using your runner’s glove to swab up the droplet when Scarface caught your left
calf in his jaws.
At first you thought it was a severe cramp. Maybe you’d been favoring your left leg to protect your fragile right and the imbalance caught up with you.
Even when you heard the growl and felt teeth sinking in you couldn’t quite believe it. After all, you’d received Ava’s text: DG KNNLD, STMP LVG 1 HR.
What neither of you’d considered was that Stump might extract Scarface prior to leaving.
Call it an oversight.
An oversight that was quickly turning your left leg into shredded meat.
You collapsed forward on the staircase. Scarface dug in deeper, swung his head.
Agony.
You’d stopped thinking. You tried to kick out at him with your other foot but couldn’t land more than a glancing blow. You wished you’d started running in steel-shanked boots instead of sneaks.
You tried to say, “Good doggy let go doggy” but when you opened your mouth to assuage, all that came out was, “AAAAAAA! SHITSHITSHIT! JESUS!” It riled him; he clamped deeper.
You found the beefy treats you always carried in your pocket for just such an occasion. You tried to extend your arms backwards with the snacks so Scarface could catch the scent.
No interest. So you did your best to wing the snacks at him.
A yelp! Sweet mother of mercy—his jaws cut loose for a second. You rotated, braced for further assaults.
Scarface was pawing at the right side of his face, whining. One of the stale old snacks must have clipped him dead in the eye.
For one tiny moment you felt bad for him. Then his head dropped below his shoulders. He was about to pounce again. You kicked out in desperation, eyes closed . . . .
Both of your feet made contact.
Scarface thumped to the bottom of the staircase, laid out.
Shit! You felt terrible—instantly cursed. Steal a man’s coke and his girl and he might move on with his life. But kill his dog? He’d probably hunt you to the ends of the Earth.
Without thinking you were limping back down the stairs, towards the dog, to see if you’d actually killed it. Then you heard a low growl.
Scarface popped up in full bristle, teeth bared, bloody.
Your blood. It took a second to recognize that.
You leapt up the stairs, four at a time. You had to lean more weight on your right. The tightness there turned to razor-wire. Then you were in the upper hallway and bounding, trying to remember what she’d said.
Third door on the left. Guest bathroom.
You collapsed into the third room, no longer caring if it was the bathroom, just wanting to kick the door closed. Shut out the beast.
You heard the door click shut and pressed your right foot against the wood, bracing it.
You could tell he was out there, hear him gnawing at the door with the side of his mouth. You reached up, locked the door. Gnashing turned to barking, guttural eruptions.
You worried about the neighbors being alerted but remembered what Ava told you—the whole joint was soundproofed since they used to get complaints about the studio bumping beats at all hours.
You flipped the light switch and caught yourself in the mirror. Bloody. Shaking. In track gear. The image ran ugly.
But at least you’d landed in the bathroom.
You were glad the mirror had to come down—seeing yourself in that moment brought in a rush of feelings and questions that were better not contemplated. You grabbed each side of the frame, lifted up, and pulled it back off its mounting screws.
The hole in the drywall was there, as she’d described. You reached in and found the plastic loop, pulled it off the nail in the stud. The loop was attached to a vinyl cord. Your shoulders strained to reel in the compressed duffel bag at its far end.
Seeing the loot gave you new confidence. You’d found your grail—your princess was waiting for your return. You re-mounted the mirror, used a towel to clean your blood off the floor and then wrapped it around your leg to staunch further bleeding.
Scarface’s paws thumped against the door, nails scraping, not calming down. You scanned the bathroom for a weapon and found nothing that would allow you to confront the hound with confidence.
That left one point of exit—a small sliding window above the shower.
You slid the window open, popped the screen. You tied off the duffel bag to your CamelBak and used the vinyl cord to lower them to the ground.
The drop from the second floor was unfriendly no matter how you went about it. You managed to hang and exit feet first. Both legs felt equally savaged so you couldn’t pick one to bear the brunt of the fall. Instead you tried to let your legs collapse and shift your weight to the back so you could somersault out of it.
This did not work.
Your left leg hit first. Before you could shift your weight your knee was driven into your jaw. A world-class uppercut delivered by yourself. For a moment everything was fireworks, copper, dust. Then your brain cleared out.
You’d made it.
Your contraband was to your left, Scarface was a distant threat, and you were only a quarter mile from an angel-in-waiting.
WHAT YOU DIDN’T EXPECT was . . . well . . . any of it.
Ava was at the meeting spot, a dusty trailhead near the Wild-wood hiking areas. That part matched up with what you’d pictured.
She’d stepped out of the car, closed the door. She’d left the headlights off. You couldn’t see her well. You’d taken longer than expected to reach her, moving along with a limping trot. You began to apologize.
“I know I’m running a little behind but you won’t believe . . . ”
And then she hit you with the Taser.
You were already on the gravel before you recognized the crackling sound, felt the darts piercing your belly.
For a moment you thought that you’d been shot. That Stump Lo had found the pair of you and you were dead for sure.
But it was Ava holding the Taser, and she wasn’t letting up on the volts.
Your right leg was folded underneath your body. With the next blast of juice you felt your calf pull too tight. Your fragile iliotibial band finally gave with an audible snap. You would have screamed if your jaw wasn’t clenched shut.
Ava let up on the trigger. She said, “Bag!”
You gestured towards your pack and the duffel bag, thrown three feet to your side.
“Ava, what . . . ”
She turned the juice back on. Grabbed the duffel, clearly not interested in conversation. She stepped closer.
“I’m going to release the trigger, but if you start to talk I’ll Tase you until your hair starts on fire. Got me?”
You made your best effort at a nod.
She crouched closer. “You’re not coming with me, but you should still run. You probably didn’t even think of this, but Stump’s place has a shit-ton of cameras. They make him feel gangster. He’s no killer, but the people who supply him will not be pleased.”
She’d been rehearsing this, leaving no room for emotion. Maybe she really loved you. Maybe this was some kind of test . . .
She continued. “You’ve probably killed me. This is what people will think. They will find a letter at Union Jack’s, talking about how you’d been planning to rob Stump. You threatened to kill me if I didn’t go along with it. You’d even joked about burying me out here in Forest Park and keeping the drugs for yourself. The girls I worked with last night think I’m scared of you. I really sold it. There are plenty of people who’ve seen you staring at me for hours. It will read as stalker behavior after the letter gets out.”
“But, Ava . . . ”
ZZZZRNT! You seized up. She was not trigger-shy on the Taser.
“Don’t try to find me.”
Another long jolt with the Taser. Then she was kneeling by your side, properly pegging you as too jellied for combat. Even in the dark, you could sense she was smiling. She was back at your ear.
“I did love the ring, by the way, but I had to sell it today. Easier to send off the single m
other vibe without it.”
Then she was over you. Her breath smelled like black licorice. She leaned in to kiss you on the lips.
And you, you sorry sonofabitch, you still wanted it. When her lips met yours you closed your eyes, hoped time would slow.
But it ended, and she was up and the Taser was left in the dirt.
“You’re smart enough to know I’m right. Get the fuck out of Portland.”
“Ava . . . ”
“Good luck.”
Her car door slammed. Headlights slapped you blind and she was gone.
YOU HOBBLE-DRAGGED YOURSELF THREE miles before realizing you couldn’t go further. Dawn would come and you were far too savaged for your runner’s ruse to help you.
You made it to a house which looked unoccupied. You memorized the street address, crawled to the backyard to keep from being spotted street-side.
You drained the water from your CamelBak, still felt Death Valley thirsty.
There was one stroke of luck in all of this. Ava left you with your cell phone.
Call it an oversight.
Your first phone call was to Uncle Joshua. He slurred a groggy “Hello?” but was alert after hearing your voice. You gave him the address. Said to come to the backyard of the house. Don’t ask why.
He didn’t. You’d run with him as best you could this last Thursday, knowing it might be your last time together. He’d started to ask you questions about late nights, your hitchy right leg. You’d cut him off.
“Things are just kind of crazy right now. I met this girl . . . ”
Uncle Joshua had laughed and let out a slow, knowing “Oh.” You’d worked hard to ignore your leg, picked up the pace. He got the message.
You hoped he’d pick up his pace now. You’d lost a lot of blood. How long did you have before Stump figured out he’d been jacked? How long before Ava’s friends would have the cops scanning Forest Park for a body they’d never find?
A light turned on over the patio at the rear of the house. Could be on a timer—you weren’t taking any chances. You crawled across the grass, spotting a large and thankfully empty dog house.
Entropy in Bloom Page 3