Outside In

by Cooper, Doug

  Caldwell smiles. “Its water speaks and wind shows; what is possible, no one knows.”

  “It freaks me out,” I admit. “Just now I was in the woods behind Kelley’s and saw this weeping willow tree. When I looked closely at it, I saw faces. They were tired, old, sad faces, and they were warning me. The other trees looked so vibrant, but the willow seemed tired. It was like it was filled with souls that had lived unfulfilled lives. I could feel them urging me not to end up like that.”

  “The world communicates subtly. Most people don’t hear or see the signs because they’re so wrapped up in their day-to-day lives. We have to keep ourselves open. That’s what I think drugs do for you initially. They open new passageways, so we perceive our surroundings differently and are receptive to new messages. Notice I said ‘at first.’”

  “Which drugs did you do?” I ask.

  “What didn’t I do? Pretty common story, I guess. I started with pot and alcohol and moved to coke and pills, eventually dabbling in some heroin. It didn’t matter after a while—anything to give me a buzz. At first I only partied with my band mates. It was a bonding thing, almost a ritual. We partied only on Saturdays because we never had gigs on Sundays and would carry on well into Sunday morning. Sometimes we’d keep going all through Sunday to Monday, then sleep all day Monday and be ready to play Tuesday night. Eventually we started drifting apart. Our only friends were people who we did drugs with, and our Saturday nights began to occur on Friday, then Thursday, and so on. Before I knew it, the drugs completely took over. One night I was at a party, looked around, and didn’t even know any of the people there.”

  I try to picture Caldwell as he describes himself. I just can’t imagine him out of control. I say, “My thing is that I get bored. The majority of my life is so tedious and methodical. If I’m going to trudge along and go through the motions, I might as well do it with a buzz.”

  “Don’t let yourself get bored. Exist to question; question your existence.”

  The words flowing from his mouth are like an IV pumping life directly into me. “Do you have any regrets?”

  “My life ain’t over, so if I did have some, I still have time to fix it. Each decision I made to get to this point in my life was made independently of others. Sure, other factors influence choices, but the bottom line is that individuals have the power to choose. At any given moment, a person can make a change.”

  “Why is it we only realize that after something bad happens?”

  He laughs. “That’s a whole other bottle of vodka. I’m still working on that one.”

  “Let me know when you figure it out.” I drain the last of my beer. “I should probably head back. I got an early day tomorrow. Going up to Cleveland for the day. See you when I return.”

  Caldwell tips his beer at me. “Watch out for those trees on the way home.”

  Three passengers exiting a cab stop me in the parking lot.

  “Where the hell you been?” Astrid asks. “We’ve been riding from place to place looking for you for over an hour.”

  “Sorry, I just drifted away and ended up here. Been talking to Caldwell.”

  “No big deal,” Cinch says. “We made a game of it. We each took turns picking the place we thought you’d be. The only one I feel sorry for is the cab driver. I think this is the only place we haven’t been.”

  I say, “I wandered through the woods behind here for a while then stumbled into Kelley’s parking lot, so I went in for a drink. I was pretty fucked up. How do you guys feel?”

  “I’m coming down now,” Stein says, “but for a while I couldn’t even talk. That’s why we left the Round House.”

  Cinch says, “In for a drink?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not into this scene. I want to get up early tomorrow.”

  Astrid says, “You really are unbelievable. You know that?”

  Eyes widening, Cinch steps back and motions toward the bar. “We’re going to go inside and let you guys get back to your evening.”

  “Our evening ended when he took off on his own. I’m done.” Astrid walks toward the entrance. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

  I go after her. “Hold on a second. You’re mad at me?”

  “Not mad. Just disappointed.”

  “But I was fucked up. We all were.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You were the only one who left.”

  She was the one who pushed for this. I was happy to keep things as friends. I say, “I told you I was going through a tough time.”

  “That’s why I’m not mad. We tried. It didn’t work. Move on.”

  I soften my tone. “But what about the monument? I know you felt something.”

  “I’m tired of talking. Just go home. You have a full day tomorrow. When you get back we’ll just act like it never happened.”

  “But—”

  She turns and walks into Kelley’s. I step to go after her.

  Cinch, still lingering in the wake of the drama, intercepts my pursuit. “Just give it some time. She’ll come around.”

  I turn back toward Stein and Cinch and shrug. “I guess it was bound to happen eventually. Better sooner than later.”

  Cinch pulls me close. “You still cool about the trip?”

  Now I’m glad I’m leaving. I say, “Absolutely. It’s time for me to do my share. We’re partners, remember?”

  Cinch kisses my cheek. “Three thousand dollars and a hundred miles isn’t a simple hand-off.”

  “I’m just getting off the island for a day. Hold down the fort. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  His tone is one I’ve never heard him use. The words are sharp, the speech direct: “Remember, it’s just shit. You made the right choice that one night. We can always replace money.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I KEEP SAYING TWO THINGS DURING MY NIGHT IN CLEVELAND: ONE IS A QUESTION, THE OTHER AN ANSWER. I promised I wouldn’t put myself in a position where I stayed up all night, but as the hours tick by, I keep asking, “What’s another hour?” Then once that hour passes and Cinch’s guy Van puts down two more lines, I say the other thing: “Okay, one more, but that’s it because I need some sleep before I head back to the island.”

  At five a.m. I break the cycle. I have to sleep. Van directs me to a beat-up mattress in the basement. I close my eyes. The floorboards above me creak from the pacing of the people not ready to give up yet. My brain won’t switch off. I am so amped that it will be hours before I go down. There’s no sense in lying here. I can be back on the island by noon.

  To at least simulate a division between yesterday and today, I shower and stash the purpose of my trip in the trunk of my car. It’s almost seven thirty. I’ll just blend in with the morning commuters. No one will suspect anything.

  I pass each town and each landmark along Route 2, trying to remember what I thought during my first trip to the island six weeks ago—anything to keep my mind off the three ounces of cocaine and the fifty hits of ecstasy I have in my trunk. Unfortunately I can’t think of much else.

  When I first met Van on Monday, his dilapidated appearance astounded me. His face was puffy, his mood erratic. He seemed like a person who was trapped inside a costume, and the people around him were indentured puppets. Desperation pervaded everyone’s actions; partying had plainly lost its appeal, but they still kept pushing harder. At times I sensed them struggling to escape the macabre play they had cast themselves in, but in the next instant they would surrender and again assume their assigned roles.

  Van told me that he made one trip a week out of town, usually for three days, to get a kilo, and then he would return to sell it and party until it was gone. When I arrived he still had half remaining from his last trip.

  Looks like Caldwell was right about the slow decay of a person too wrapped up in the scene. Van had been up for two days straight when I saw him; he was going on three when I left. I felt the sadness in him right away but chose to ignore it. Initially I thought that maybe my perception was distorted because I’d never
met a big dealer like him before, but now, driving back, I know it was because I was afraid to confront him. I was afraid that if I said the wrong thing, he might cut me off and I would have to go back empty-handed.

  Van is on his deathbed. He might not be dying from anything specific, but he is dying because he has quit living, and I contributed to his death. I might not have pulled the trigger, but I pushed the gun closer so that he could do it himself.

  My excitement to deliver the payload overpowers the regret and fatigue I am feeling. Miles quickly turn to minutes, and minutes become hours. I’m almost home. It seems like I’ve been away a week. The anticipation, the risk, the lack of sleep, all make each minute of the twenty-four hours memorable.

  Once safely at the dock I lower the windows, lean my seat back, and listen to the water splash against the rocks, waiting for the horn to signal that my boat has arrived.

  Beep! I lunge forward. The car in front of me has already driven onto the boat. My car is the second to last to fit. I glance in the rearview mirror. The flashers on top of the car pulling behind me stare accusingly. My heart and stomach switch positions. It’s probably a sheriff, or maybe it’s a visiting officer who’s working on the island for the Fourth of July weekend. It’s still only Tuesday, though. Any visiting police won’t be needed until at least Friday.

  The crewmen release the lines. The cars on my left and right trap me. I slide down in my seat and watch the officer in my mirror. Seagulls escorting the ferry to the island circle above us. The rocking of the boat intensifies my captivity. Sickness swells inside me. I exit the car and pass the cruiser on the way to the back of the ferry.

  The sun and an occasional spray of water ease my anxiety. A car door opens. Like a drum roll, my accelerated heartbeat mixes with the footsteps on the steel deck.

  A voice says, “You’re a long way from home. What part of Missouri you from?”

  I avoid eye contact. Just act natural. He’ll know only what you let him know. I release the words with a casual exhale. “St. Louis. Well, it used to be St. Louis. I’m living at the Bay now.”

  “You must’ve driven all night to get here so early. That would explain your little siesta back on the dock. I know that drive all too well. I was stationed in St. Louis at Fort Lindenwood when I was in the service.”

  I don’t bother correcting his assumption about the drive and instead turn the conversation back on him, inquiring about the purpose of his visit to the island. He tells me he has to pick up a prisoner who was arrested for disorderly conduct on the island and has three outstanding warrants on the mainland. He says, “This jack-off will be celebrating Independence Day behind bars in the county jail.”

  Even after talking with the sheriff for the entire ferry ride, an uneasy feeling remains as he follows me off the boat and into town. With each glance in the mirror, I swallow harder, pushing the lump in my throat back toward my stomach to reside with the rest of the tension from the trip.

  Passing the Round House, Cinch and Griffin stand agape on the porch like suspended marionettes when they notice the car following me. Almost makes the scare worth it. I park in the back, finally in the clear.

  Cinch meets me in the parking lot. “How’d everything go?”

  I dig out the package from the trunk. “As well as can be expected.”

  He rubs his hands together in greedy anticipation. “I was worried as it was, but I about shit my pants when I saw that sheriff following you.”

  “How do you think I felt when he pulled behind me on the boat and came to chat when I got out for some air? The whole time I’m trying not to face him because I’m worried about having a coke ring around my nose.”

  Cinch takes the package from me. “Were you partying on the drive back?”

  “No, but we were up late, and I couldn’t sleep. Waited until the morning to blend into traffic. I feel pretty good overall, but I’ll probably hit the wall later.”

  He says, “Good thing you and I have the night off.”

  My legs are shaky on the stairs. I could actually use a drink and should probably eat, too, but somehow I don’t see the latter happening.

  Cinch locks the door behind us and opens the package at the table. “Let’s have a look at the goods. We finally ran out Sunday night, so I’m jonesin’.”

  “You should be happy with the score. Three ounces and fifty hits of X for the low, low, low price of three G’s. It’s all chunk, too. I watched him take it off the block. He had a glass pie pan with literally half a brick of coke and kept breaking off chunks until the scale read eighty-four grams.”

  Cinch lays the largest chunk on the scale. His eyes bulge as “50.7” registers on the scale.

  Tonight will be about indulgence. Plenty of time to worry about sales later. After what I’ve been through in the past day, I’m going to enjoy it. I have to. Why else would I put myself through all this hassle?

  After our second bottle of wine at the winery, Cinch says, “Should we get another? We can’t end on an even number.”

  The trip here was my idea. I needed something to allay the tension and ease me into the evening. At this point I’m not much more than a bag of blood. I surrender. “Okay, but then I need to go lie down for a few hours. If I cash in now, I’ll be able to rebound later.”

  Cinch is not ready to let me off so easily. He says, “Why don’t we just pop a tab? That’ll give you a boost.”

  I shake my head, which feels like a twenty-pound sandbag. “Dude, I learned my lesson last time. I’m drunk, tired, and haven’t eaten or slept in over a day. I need some down time. I don’t want another paranoid episode like before. I’ll be fine later.”

  “Whooh.” I let out a deep breath and thrust forward in darkness. Completely covered in sweat, I remove the blanket draped over me and stand. A note stares back at me from the coffee table. Meet us at the Skyway. Still drunk, I fall back on the couch.

  It’s only one a.m. Plenty of time to rally. I debate whether or not to drop a hit of ecstasy. Cinch probably has by now. I don’t want to be left out, but by the time I get going he’ll be coming down. Who am I trying to fool? Whenever there’s doubt, say “fuck it” and do it anyway. Rationalization is foreplay with one’s conscience.

  Riding my bike in a straight line is difficult. Probably should’ve just gone to bed. But it’s too late to turn back now. I never did eat, so the ecstasy will hit quick and strong.

  I stash my bike behind the Skyway and go up the back stairs, my legs burning from the ride.

  Randy is inside. He says, “Shep, where you been? Your boyfriend and Astrid just left for Kelley’s.” A concerned look washes over him. Dizziness prohibits my response. He hands me a bottle of water. “Jesus, are you okay? You’re white as a sheet.”

  I shuffle to the counter, trying to ignore the tiny flashes dancing around me. The water is gone in two drinks. I ask for a vodka and soda. He returns with a full twenty-ounce tumbler.

  I gulp the drink. “I guess the ride took a lot out of me.”

  “That’s why I don’t exercise,” he says. “Too consuming. Cinch told me to tell you to call if you got here and wanted to go to the after hours at Bean’s. You don’t want to repeat what happened last time.”

  “You know about that, too? Man, it’s impossible for people to keep stuff to themselves on this island.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been there before.”

  His comment takes me by surprise. I try to slow my roll and reconsider his words. “Do you still partake?”

  His brow rises, lifting the corners of his mouth as well. “Occasionally. Why, you got some?”

  I pat the side of my pocket. “Always.”

  “Let me help the bartenders close and then we can party. Don’t worry about Cinch and those guys. I can give you a ride to Bean’s if you still want to go.”

  “I bet you can,” I say, trying to think things through clearly, but I’m rolling too hard. If things get weird, I’ll tell him I need to go meet those guys.

>   I wait on the back steps. Sounds from the people at the pool echo in the empty night. Looking at the condos reminds me of Meadow. I’ll probably never see her again. She’s a cool girl, but then again so is Dawn. So is Astrid, for that matter. What the hell am I looking for?

  Randy gives me the all-clear sign. “You need another drink?”

  I look down at my empty cup. “I guess so. I’ll get it, though. You’ve been working all day.”

  “No, you got other things to tend to. Just throw it down on the end of the bar.”

  The whole action takes only seconds. Repetition over the past months has standardized the process. I hand him a rolled-up bill. “Did you used to party a lot?”

  “Yeah, I was your age in the late 80s, living in Fort Lauderdale.” He snorts a line. “Back then, there were two things you were guaranteed to find around gay men: good music and drugs. But things had to be kept underground. Drugs were more acceptable than outward homosexuality then. You had to be a closeted gay, whereas now you need to be a closeted drugee.”

  “What’s your deal with all that?” I ask him. “I know a lot of it is purely to fuck with people, but give me a straight answer.”

  “A straight answer about being gay? That’s a good one. I’m just open. I’ve had experiences both ways—some good, some bad. All experiences serve to pleasure. A person can have a completely satisfying sexual experience all alone. What’s that, monosexual? From there one adds elements according to one’s attraction toward certain attributes or features. Tall, short, blonde, brunette, thin, fat, black, white, male, female.” He inhales another line. “All those things will vary from time to time. Sexuality is not a matter of orientation. More like an appetite. A person might be a beef eater and eat steak every night of the week, but occasionally he’s going to crave a piece of fish or some pasta. The main thing is that a person has to be open and honest with himself, which most people aren’t.”