Tunnel Vision

by Aric Davis

  “Yeah, I know that, Nickel,” says Paul, all annoyed disdain. “I just want to get another bag, because as you said, it’s been a few months. You want to move quantity, and I want to make sure I don’t get stuck with a bunch of downtown brown, or a bunch of fire-damaged green.”

  “You know I wouldn’t do that,” I tell him, “and you know I don’t know anything about that fire.”

  He just laughs at that, then gets serious again. “No, I don’t know you wouldn’t fuck with me, because we’re not friends.” That is sure as hell true. He’s a connection, and not even a good one. That’s the blessing and the curse of doing business in a city the size of Grand Rapids. It’s hard to get caught up with some syndicate moving Peruvian bricks, but it’s also hard to find a real operator and not a bullshitting weekend warrior. Paul is an unreliable wannabe gangster who smokes way too much of his own supply to ever be useful for much more than a few quick bucks, but he’s all I have at the moment. “If we were friends,” he goes on, “you’d be here right now, and we wouldn’t be fighting over pennies.”

  “Paul, this isn’t pennies.” I know that he knows the rest, but feel like he needs a little reminder that we aren’t squabbling over an eighth of an ounce. “I have over fifteen pounds, all processed and ready to go as soon as we can both get happy on a number. That’s a lot of good green, and this is good green.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” he says, after a lengthy pause that’s probably the result of him trying to remember if he’s running offense or defense on the flat screen in front of him. “You can guarantee that, man: I will be the judge of just how much money this shit weed is worth. Where did you say you got it again?”

  “I’ve got a knack for sniffing stuff out,” I lie. “It just comes to me.” Which is sort of true, though not with weed. I actually do have a talent for sniffing out monsters, and usually they do just come to me. That’s where the scar under my eye came from, an angry man holding a .45 who hadn’t realized he was about to go 120 miles straight to hell. As for pot—well, I just grow that. And I don’t need Paul knowing where I stay or wanting to figure it out. Oh well, that’s why they make burner cell phones, so that I can lose a number when I have to.

  “Yeah, you better be able to sniff it out,” says Paul. “If I find out this was stolen from some downtown dopeboy I’m going to be very pissed off. The absolute last thing I need is to do you a favor and have you sell me some shit that already has an owner. Get it?” I did, and told him as much, and then Paul said, “Give me a day or two. I’ll call, you’ll get back to me—immediately this time—and I’ll get you a spot to meet me.”

  The line goes dead and I lay the phone down on my desk. Yes, I need the money, so yes, I need to work with Paul. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Was the cop cute?” June asked with a dopy-looking smile.

  Betty frowned. “No—I mean, he wasn’t ugly or anything, but he was old, probably as old as the moms, but men carry it differently.”

  “Old guys can be cute, too,” said June, and that remark sent both of them into librarian shush-worthy titters, an affliction they managed to rein in before any actual punishment could be levied on them for daring to be amused in the temple of stacked books. “I am serious, though,” said June as she wiped tears from under her eyes. “George Clooney is cute, Harrison Ford is cute, Tom Cruise is cute—”

  “Those are movie stars. Of course they look good. Real-life old guys are gross. There’s a big difference.”

  “I still don’t get why you can’t just ask the moms to drive with us to Jackson,” said June. “I’d ask my parents, but there’s no way they’d let me. I haven’t talked to my dad in like a month, and if my mom even considered the idea that I knew about her sister she’d lose her shit, guaranteed.”

  “Shit,” said Betty. “That’s us stuck in the mud then. No way will the moms be up for it, and we’re not eighteen so we need a guardian to go with us. Maybe it’s just not meant to be. Besides, we don’t know if Duke would talk to us even if we could get in to see him.”

  “He would, if we could get in,” said June. “I’m sure of it. I mean, that’s the whole point of what he’s trying to do, drum up as many supporters as he can to help him get out. The problem is going to be getting into prison, but maybe we can figure something out.”

  “Well, I’m going to see if there’s some sort of online form we need to fill out so we can see him. I’ll just need to fudge our birthdays a bit.”

  “I suppose it can’t be that hard,” said June. “I mean, you hear about people breaking out of prison, why can’t we break in?”

  “Because I don’t want to get shot?” Betty replied. “I can’t think of a single adult that would even consider helping us out with this, June. Pointless though it is, I just need to bite the bullet and ask the moms. If we’re already not going to be able to go, I may as well just ask. It’s not like there are any other real options.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” admitted June. “This sucks, but it’s weird, too. I never even knew I had an aunt, and now I’m bummed because I can’t go meet the guy that probably killed her? What sort of fucked-up sense does that make?”

  “It’s not like you want to see him because you’re some weirdo,” said Betty. “We’re trying to get a good grade in a really hard class, but more importantly, we’re looking for answers. Do you have any idea how crazy it would be if we were the ones to figure this out?”

  “It would be pretty cool to get some real justice for Mandy,” said June. “I just don’t think we can do that without talking to Duke.”

  “Then we’ll figure something out,” said Betty. “I don’t know what, and I don’t know how, but we’ll figure it out.” Betty didn’t feel nearly as convinced as she was trying to sound, and she could tell her friend felt the same way. Everything was going well until Van Endel made it sound like everyone already knows the truth. But if we can find some way to talk to Duke, then I can get us back on track.

  “Five minutes to the bell,” said June. “That means we need to get back to Mr. Evans’s class, and we never even talked about what we needed to do next.”

  “I’ll do some research on the prison, and then I’ll ask the moms,” said Betty. “I guess we just cross our fingers and hope for the best.”

  The girls walked through the mostly empty corridors of Northview High School silently. Betty didn’t know if they’d talked themselves out in the library, or if the subject matter had simply gotten too depressing to bear any further discussion. As they approached Mr. Evans’s classroom, the bell signaling the end of the period rang out, and students began to fill the halls. Betty and June walked into the classroom as students flooded out of it, and Mr. Evans nodded as they came in.

  “Ladies,” said Mr. Evans. “How goes our research?”

  “Good so far,” said June, speaking the half truth for both of them, still preferable to telling their teacher that the path was beginning to look harder to traverse.

  “Great,” said Mr. Evans. “June, you may get on out of here, but Ms. Martinez, you and I need to have a quick word.”

  “OK,” said Betty, trying to find confidence but unsure of why she was being singled out. She watched June leave and Mr. Evans close the door after her. He waited to speak until he’d walked back to his desk and sat across from where she stood, waiting for him.

  “You cut my class yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Betty. “It’s a really long, stupid, and embarrassing story, and it won’t happen again, I prom—”

  “You’re right,” said Mr. Evans. “It won’t. Forcing me to cover up your actions because you decide to just rush off isn’t going to work again. June didn’t tell me what the problem was, and I’m not sure I want to know, but I do hope that this was a one-time thing. Next time I’ll call your parents myself, and to boot, I will give both of you a failing grade.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Evans. It won’t happen again.”

&
nbsp; “I hope not. You have a good future ahead of you and there’s no reason to let youthful stupidity screw it all up.” Mr. Evans cocked his head and said, “Everything will be fine, Betty, just so long as you remember that high school is the start of your life, not the part that will define it. Does that make sense?”

  “I guess so,” said Betty. “Thanks, Mr. Evans.”

  “Thank me by not cutting any more class.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Betty found the visitor request forms online, talked briefly with her mothers during and then after dinner, but still found herself lacking in the courage department. If she had half a backbone, asking them to sign the form and then drive with her and June to Jackson should have been no big deal. Neither would calling Jake, or telling the moms that this grounding thing was going to need a fast death if she was going to retain her sanity.

  Instead of doing any of those things, Betty ate, then fled upstairs and returned to the visitor request forms. There was no way it was going to work, not unless she got the moms to sign off on it, or they got fake IDs. The visitor request required both a birth date and a valid Michigan ID number. Betty had the ID, but she knew that her birth date wasn’t going to hold water if she made herself a little older on the form. Getting a fake seemed about as likely as getting Andrea to sign the stupid form and then act as a jailhouse chaperone.

  She kept a couple tabs open about Duke and Mandy so that she could at least lie to herself about working, but she just didn’t have the stomach for it. Mr. Evans’s words had been jarring, and Betty had felt sick ever since she’d spoken to her fourth period teacher, despite his kindness.

  Betty doubted that Mr. Evans would really have failed both of them for her runaway routine the day before, but at the same time, he had told them he would be treating the assignment as if they were college students. As bad as it would have been to screw up everything for herself, Betty couldn’t even imagine how fucked up the situation would have left June.

  Mandy was June’s aunt, after all—recently discovered family through pictures alone, but family just the same. Betty hadn’t really spoken to June about how much the investigation must mean to her friend, but she figured it had to mean a great deal. They had a real chance not only to get a great grade, but also to either free or further condemn a guilty man, and even more importantly, they could be the ones to find justice for Mandy. That she looked so much like June was just the icing on the cake, and also the reminder that, with just a bit of bad luck, any one of them could be Mandy.

  There were dead kids on the news all the time and school shootings and jealous boyfriends and abusive parents and texting and driving and a million other things, but they had a chance to fix something that had gone wrong when they were barely alive. They couldn’t bring Mandy back, but ending the confusion over her murder would be the next best thing, and Betty knew she had almost blown it.

  She needed to stand up and do what had to be done. And she knew where she needed to start.

  Just tell the moms that you need to call Jake, dial his number, and be done with it.

  Betty knew that would be the best thing for all involved, but still she kept her butt planted in her chair and left her phone lying on her desk.

  Sick of herself, Betty turned her attention back to her desktop, checked her e-mail, clicked on www.punknews.org, bounced around on Reddit, and then her eyes fell on the card that Nickel had given her the day before in the park. She grabbed the card and flipped it over in her fingers a few times before clicking her mouse back to her e-mail tab and then clicking on “Compose.” She wrote:

  Hi, I’m not really even sure why I’m writing this, but I’m the girl you met in the park yesterday. Not the one with the umbrella, the other one, with all the questions about Mandy Reasoner. I’m sure this is nothing you can help me with, but I never would have guessed you knew all that stuff either, so I thought I’d ask.

  I need to talk to Duke, and I need to do it soon, so letter writing is out. I know my parents wouldn’t let me, but if I had a fake ID that said I was 18, they wouldn’t have to know. It would need to be a really good one, like good enough to fool a guard, but I don’t have a lot of money. I don’t know if this is something you can help me with or not, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to ask.

  It was super nice to meet you yesterday,

  Betty

  Betty considered the e-mail for a few moments, then took a deep breath and clicked the “Send” button. She knew it was a long shot, but it was worth the risk. The worst that could happen is that Nickel would say no. Betty left the e-mail tab and went back to punknews. Nothing had been updated in the ten minutes or so she’d been there, but when she looked at her e-mail tab again she saw she had gotten a response. Betty smiled thinly, knowing it was far more likely to be junk mail than a response from Nickel, and then clicked on the button.

  Hey. I might be able to help with what you want, we can negotiate cost. Meet me where you saw me the other day when you get out of school. Come alone.

  N

  There was something about the e-mail; even just how short and simple it was, was somehow exciting. Betty found herself already looking forward to meeting this mysterious boy again the following afternoon, though she was going to need to explain away her absence to Ophelia.

  Not that a little fib to Ophy will be tough to pull off. Her head’s been in the clouds lately with the new painting. Betty felt a touch of remorse at the thought. It was a little wrong to take advantage of Ophelia just because she was busy, but the whole grounding was pretty unfair. Betty didn’t like herself for doing it, but she knew that when given the option of not meeting Nickel or bending the rules a little bit, bending was an easy pick.

  I talked to Jason again, and this time he told the truth about what happened with us. What’s been happening when he comes over. I think I’ve probably known all along. I’m not even sure that D. would be mad at him at this point, most likely he’d just be pissed at me, because lately Jason has a ton of money for smack, and that’s all D. really cares about.

  I hate knowing that about D. I hate that I stay, and I hate that I’m so weak.

  Instead I just sit here and get high. I don’t paint anymore, I don’t go to shows—hell, I never even listen to music. I barely ever even write in this stupid thing. The only times that I even remember that I write a damn journal are when I’m so strung out that I actually start thinking like a human again. There is no reason why anyone should choose to live like this, but I’ll bet you anything that I’m high again later today and that all of this is forgotten.

  Things I will do when I am sober:

  1. Go to a show and be clean and happy, no matter how much I hate the music, my hair, or my scars.

  2. Call Ben and apologize. Let him know how sorry I am, and that the world needs another Old Croix Road record. I helped them record that first demo by hooking them up with a friend who had a four-track, and that was the best thing I’ve ever done, and now I can’t even be around them. Not the way that I am now. Ben would try and help me, I know he would, and in my current state I’d just lie and steal until he never wanted anything to do with me ever again.

  3. Do something positive to make other people know how dangerous heroin is. This is a hard one, because I don’t want to be one of those nuts that kids laugh at, I want to be their mom’s cool old friend who’s been there, done that, and survived.

  4. See the ocean. Both coasts, either coast, don’t care. I want to take my shoes off and get in the water. I don’t care if it all just swallows me up, I need to do this.

  5. Meet Claire’s daughter. This one might never happen. ☹

  6. Be positive every single day, always think about using, and still never do it.

  7. Write poetry that I’m proud of again. Pick up a guitar.

  8. Remember that I am a good person, and know that I have worth.

  9. Smile at Duke, and be so happy that we made it through all of this together. There won’t be many stories we can tell our
grandkids, but who cares.

  10. Live.

  11. Live.

  Fucking Jason. Or, I suppose: I’ve been fucking Jason. I was scared that it had happened once when I was too high to know what was really going on, but now I know the truth. Jason who I didn’t want to move in with us, Jason the felon, Jason the drunk, Jason the enabler. I thought it was a weak moment, but he said months, MONTHS. How the fuck is that possible? I honestly feel sick when I think about it.

  I’ve been with worse men than Jason. Men that hit me or do things that I tell them are off the menu. Men that fuck me and don’t pay me, men that lie about wearing a rubber, men that take and take and take, but somehow this is worse. I can’t decide what would destroy me the most, if D. found out, or if D. knew all along.

  I need help, I need some savior to just walk in the door and tell me to pick myself the fuck up, but I know that’s not going to happen. D. doesn’t even need me anymore, not since he broke down and started selling himself as well. He made money as a pimp, but he makes more as a rough-trade bottom. He hates me for that, I know he hates me for not being able to earn enough, like I could at first. Maybe that explains Jason, maybe D. gets off on seeing me used like that when I’m at my weakest. If that’s the case, then it’s the saddest revenge I’ve ever heard of.

  I need help, but I’m too fucking weak to ask for any myself. I need my sister to come get me, I need Ben to come get me, I need any of those people that told me that they cared to come care right now. Right now my brain is begging me for that release, and my body is screaming for dope, and I know I’m going to tuck this away and get high.

  I’m sorry to leave you like this, but I’m making a promise. Next time I pick up this journal, things are going to be better. I have no reason to lie to you, that would be like lying to myself, but next time things will be better. Maybe D. and I will be in rehab, or maybe just me. It’s not like D. is who he was anymore, or like he and I have what we did. Of course, I’m not what I was anymore, either, but I think I could be. There are boots on the stairs.