by Kara Storti
“Just give me a few minutes,” I say gently.
That’s all I need, just a few minutes, and then I’ll be there for her. I’ll always be there for her. I peer up at the top window of the building, in fact I peer up at all the windows—not a single light seems to be on. Is this a trick? Have I been set up? I pat down my pockets, to make sure I’ve got the money to buy.
“How many minutes?” she asks, her voice sounding like she’s ten.
“Not long. It’s going to be all right, okay?” I say this as encouragement for myself too—it’s too quiet around here for comfort.
“If you’re in Glenville, it will take eighteen minutes for you to get home,” she says.
“I won’t be late. Just hang in there. I’ll see you soon.”
I end the call, ring for the dude to let me up, and wait a stupid amount of time before he finally buzzes me in. I’ve got to get to Faith. I don’t have much time to do what I’ve got to do. I’m checking out the clock on my phone, figuring that I’ll be a few minutes late. Maybe she won’t notice. Of course she will, Finn, she notices everything. By the time I’m walking up the stairs, I’m shaking, from the thought of Pop, to Faith, to the need for a fix.
A good brother would just leave, say fuck this.
The hallways are littered with empty soda bottles and beer cans, broken furniture, a baby carriage that looks like it’s been dragged through the River Styx. Cigarette smoke and grease from cooking aren’t just in the air, they are the air. There’s spray paint on the wall and the only words I can recognize are “suck a dong 4 life.”
I knock on a busted-up door on the top floor; someone opens it right away. A strung-out girl in her early twenties is chewing gum in my face; it’s cinnamon, it does nothing to hide the smell, the dirty, sweaty smell of her.
“I’m looking for Carter.” She opens the door wider and says nothing. I step in, answering her silence.
It’s a one-room apartment with barely any furniture, save for a black leather couch that looks way too expensive for its surroundings. Small kitchen with just a microwave and a sink. Minifridge. Flat-screen television that’s already driving me nuts because it’s crooked on the wall. Three guys on the couch, four on the floor, Ms. Strung Out the only female and take advantage is written all over her. Bongs of varying sizes, thickly stained, beaners scattered about. Burned foil, empty bags of potato chips, canisters of shoestring potato sticks, Dunkin Donuts coffee cups. But what strikes me the most are these gallon-sized bags of . . .
“Are those poppy seeds?” I ask, pointing at the filled plastic bags. Carter is in the middle of the couch, smoking a blunt. He’s a skinny mother-effer, olive complexion, rat tail (hello, 1989), but I don’t let his looks deceive me. He can tussle; he’s a quick son of a bitch. At a bar in Saratoga Springs, I saw him take six-foot-seven Kevin down for the count over a ten-dollar bet.
“My man, Finn. What’re you doing here?” He isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t look altogether pissed that I’m here.
“I tried calling, but you weren’t picking up. I’m looking to buy.”
It’s not like I’ve never been to a place like this—I have, many times—but there’s something darker at work here, and it’s like I stepped into the brain of some drug-addled, sociopathic freak. The most frightening thing is that I’m hypnotized by what I see—the vibe and people are wretched and slimy, the light is dim, the space is tight; it’s the perfect place to use. Faith is calling for me, but this place is calling for me too, saying Finn, you know you kind of like it here, you know you kind of belong here, so give in. Just for a few minutes.
Carter disrupts my thought process. “PST,” he says, pointing at a jug on the table, filled with turd-color liquid. “Poppy seed tea. Opium, get you done up right.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, but what I really want to communicate to him is that I don’t care, and that if he could just send me on my way with a little fix-me-up, then all will be well. But then I start focusing on the empty packaging of the poppy seeds thrown to the floor, sixty-five-ounce Ocean Spray bottles with just the dregs fermenting at the bottom. It’s disgusting. It’s cheap and desperate. If I want poppy seeds, I’ll call Martha Stewart. Yet I can’t look away. I want what they’re having.
Carter pushes his friend off the couch, the friend plunks down, outraged and amused at the same time. He’s got a stoner laugh that’s more a cough.
“You chill out, sit down, homie, stay awhile,” Carter says, clearing his throat. “Hook me up with that indigo shwag and maybe I got something for you. I like how we made that deal last time. H for I. A hi for a high. How ’bout that?” The dude he just pushed off the couch explodes with laughter. I flash the guy a look. It’s not that funny, dude.
“Nah, brother, I’m not looking to trade tonight. Got nothing on me anyhow.” I tap my pockets to make the point. If only I kept a little indigo in my car, then this wouldn’t be a problem. It’s too bad I store it halfway across town in Tupperware and ziplock bags in the crypt. I figure right now, with Early around and Mike, it’s too dangerous to have any on me for more than an hour.
Carter smiles slightly, motions to the empty seat next to him. I stay put. “All my friends here want to partake. They’re crazy for it. Go home and get some. We got all night.”
There are knots in my stomach an expert Boy Scout couldn’t tie. I just wanted this one simple thing. I need to go, but I can’t leave without something. Forehead sweat, palm sweat, back sweat taking over. Faith’s waiting for me. Why are there so many unpaired shoes and sneakers on the floor? Jeans and boxers scrunched in the corner; a belt at my feet. The air in here is bitter and suffocating and no amount of window opening is going to air this joint out.
“I . . . I . . .” I can’t catch any of my words. “I’ll pay you double for the H. Don’t be holding out.”
The desperation colors my voice, I’m starting to pick up shit from the floor, looking for some dope, turning over the grocery bags filled with empties, scanning the countertops, tabletops, anything, everything, goddamn what do I have to do around here to get a little happy?
In the meantime a voice is telling me, this is what it’s come to. You’re rooting through garbage like a homeless person.
One of Carter’s friends gets up, pushes me with all the weight he’s got, which isn’t a lot. I’ve seen him around town, only rides a dirt bike, never seen the kid in a car.
“Stop messing with my stuff,” he yells. “We don’t got nothing for you.” Acne-ridden, punk motherfucker. My rage becomes center stage, it’s like, right there.
I swing, sail a good crack into his face, and it’s a solid hit, I tell you, a jab that’s felt across the room, into middle America for God’s sake. Carter signals him to back off when he tries coming at me for more, and I want more; the anger is still there, taunting me, doing its devil dance on my shoulder, expert tap shuffling, step, ball, change. Three guys are standing up, closing in on me, and this is the last thing I want right now, I just need to leave. Should have listened to the other shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Hands up. Surrendering. “I’ll give you some bills, and I’ll be out of your way.” I’m feeling around my back pocket for my wallet. Check the time on my phone. My phone is blowing up with texts from Faith. Where r u?!?! You should b here by now!!! It’s already been fifteen minutes since I walked into this hellhole.
“Nah,” Carter says. All it takes is the flick of his eyes for his guys to sit back down. “Let’s start over, okay? I want us on good terms. I have an idea you’ll like.”
“All right,” I say. I just need something. Anything.
“Hey Lisa,” he says to Ms. Strung Out. “Why don’t you give our friend Finn here some of that tea as a peace offering?”
She hands me a water bottle filled with that rank concoction, but how can I trust her when the tattoos on her wrists look like misspelled words?
“Taste some, honey. Just brewed. It’s an intense batch, too, dark seeds, that earthy stank. So good. L
ike nothing else. Won’t you?”
“I’m not trying that. It looks nasty.” I smell the stench so hard I can taste it without drinking. I’m staring into the fluid, its diarrhea brown mesmerizing.
“Trust me, dude, just push through the first couple sips, and you’ll be as right as rain,” Carter says smoothly. And I give in. If I can’t get high on H, I guess I’ll have to get high on something else. I don’t care anymore what it is. I know Faith is waiting for me, but she’s such a smart girl, she’ll figure out what to do. She’s Pop’s favorite anyway.
“Cheers,” I say, raising the drink.
Bottoms up. I swig it down, drinking almost half in one gulp, that’s some poison . . . holy hell it hits quick, my stomach assaulted but my body warm, tingling, going, going, gone. Pain? What pain? Guilt? As if.
“Amazing, right?” the chick says, snatching back the bottle. “You can make that yourself. Just soak a pound or two of seeds in water, strain them out, and voilà!” She giggles, and the sound I can bite into like a lime; I can hold it in my teeth and feel the acidic fizz.
“Yeah,” I say, dreamily, immediately wanting another swig, it’s premium vampire blood, certified, funk-ified. I’ve got to sit down for a spell, take this in, man, though I can’t see my pupils dilating, I hear their expansion, creaking, groaning, settling like a door in an antique home. Fuck. I don’t even have to ask, and Strung Out is giving me more, and why the hell has no one told me about opium? Just a sip, just one sip and it’s amen hallelujah.
At some point I’m lying on the floor while everyone else is getting baked; I’m on this separate island, in a field of poppies, red, pink, orange, joy, life, love, you don’t know the parts that hurt because they don’t hurt any more. I think the chick is asking if I’m all right, she’s wondering if I drank too much of it, you know, you can die from this shit, she says, my brother’s friend . . . yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m just going to lie here for a few more minutes and get a grasp on the situation. Then get in my car and . . . Faith. Oh Lord. I fumble around for my phone, find that it’s already in my hand, and discover ten more texts from her. I jerk up, blazed out of my gourd, anybody got some water, I ask, but no one’s listening, I might as well not be there, ghost Finn, just passing through, boo! I pull myself up, trip over the poppy seed bags, Christ, how many are there? Make sure I got my keys, and nod to Carter who nods back. Ms. Strung Out walks me to the door, real guest-of-honor treatment, she kisses me on the cheek, and twiddles her fingers in a cutesy, blitzed, barely there bye-bye.
Chapter Thirty-five
It’s a quarter past two by the time I get home, an hour later than I promised. I can’t remember the drive home. All the lights are out in the trailer. Pop is snoring on the couch, empty bottle of Jack tipped over on the floor, cigarette butts and ash everywhere but in the ashtray. In our room I slide off my shoes.
“Faith,” I say. She’s in her bed, on her side, got her back to me, covers pulled up to her ears.
No answer.
“Sister. I’m sorry. I got caught up. Ran into Max, he had this problem with his car—funny how you’re having car trouble too—and I had to help him out. Jumped his car, that didn’t work, had to call some other peeps . . . things seem okay, here, right? Are you okay?”
Still no answer.
I sit on the edge of her bed. She moves closer to the wall, away from me. That obvious disgust of hers guts me.
“I don’t understand,” she says, voice muffled against the blankets.
“You don’t understand what?” But I do.
She waits, then shifts over on her other side. The dim lights from the other trailers seep into the room through the blinds and onto the sheets of her bed.
“I don’t understand,” she repeats. I’m wrong. There’s no disgust in her voice, no anger. Just distance. “If you just want to go and use, then use. Don’t make shit up. Just say you’re going to do it, then do it. Knock yourself out. But the story about the pants at Walmart? Max and his car? That’s where it gets disturbing. I don’t recognize you anymore. We share the same genes but it’s like you’re a totally different species.”
There is sadness on her face, and in her eye, which is fine, I get it, but what I can’t stand is pity coming through.
“I’m the same,” I insist.
“No, you’re not. You’re a liar and a user.” She says it. She’s made it true.
It’s time to change tactics. “Pop didn’t do anything crazy, did he? Is Mom okay?”
Faith answers with no tone in her voice. “Even if he did, it’s too late for you to do anything about it, isn’t it?” She flips over onto her back now. Someone in another trailer is banging around pots and pans to fix a late-night snack. One of those little shit dogs yaps. The poppy seed tea high is dead and gone, and the itch to get even higher is superiorly powerful; it’s a sharp-nailed finger tapping my shoulder.
“I apologize,” I say, smoothing down the covers. “Are you . . . did anything . . . how are you? Do you want me to get you one of your lorazepams?”
Faith just squeezes her eye shut. Not a word between us for a while; the dog continues to bark and the smell of fried potatoes is wafting through our open window.
Finally she breaks the quiet. Her voice is different now, not mad at me, no pity, not about me at all in fact. “I’m not going to Harvard. I rescinded my acceptance.”
“No!” I exclaim, kicking the bed with my heel, unwilling to come to terms with this. I know this was bound to happen, and maybe I’m stupid to be this upset, but this makes it official. This makes her officially stupid. Life is about goals, isn’t it? If anything, life is about goals for people like Faith. And now here she goes pissing it all away. What am I going to do now? What goal do I have, now that she won’t let me help her?
“No,” I say again. “Faith, you’re being totally unreasonable. I—”
“I counted your money tonight,” she says softly.
“You did what?”
She sits up now, legs scrunched so her knees meet her chin; she’s a tiny ball, a miniature version of Faith. She never grew as tall as me, hence her stupid arsenal of high heels.
A mixture of anger and embarrassment is bubbling up inside me. “It might not look like a lot. But more is coming in, I promise. Please, Faith, please.” I’m desperate, almost whining. I don’t think anyone has ever wanted to give this bad. I don’t think anyone has ever felt this bad about not being able to give. Contradictory thoughts ping-ponging back and forth: wanting to provide for my sister equals selling indigo, but keeping Stacey and Orah out of danger equals not selling it. Now I understand the meaning of you can’t have everything.
She looks at me like she knows how pathetic I am.
“Did you know that if I had a million dollars right there, all in one-hundred dollar bills, it would only weigh twenty pounds?” I ask.
“Shut up, Phineas. There’s no one around to impress. I know how much you have: $8,027. How long did it take you to make that?”
I hesitate. I don’t know what the right answer is, so I go for the truth. “About a month.”
“That much in a month?” She looks scared. “You say it’s not a lot, but it is. That’s a lot for such a short amount of time. That’s too much for this to be safe.”
“Why are you fighting me on this? All of it is yours. You. My family. Let me provide.”
She just shakes her head. Disappointment, disgust, done. I get up and collapse on my own bed and steeple my hands together, yet there is nothing reverent about it. Recently I looked up Orah’s name, thinking it sounded religious. Orah with an “h” means light, Orah without an “h” means pray. Faith is faith, and Phineas means the mouth of a snake. Enough said, right?
Faith says out of nowhere, “You know why things are different between you and Peter now?”
I look over. I don’t want to hear, but I know I have to. It’s like penance, punishment for everything I’ve done wrong.
“He can’t trust you. He says to me, how do
you know when an addict is lying?” She pauses. “The moment he opens his mouth.”
“I’m not an addict,” I immediately say.
That’s when she starts laughing, really yucking it up. I’m not an addict, I’m not an addict, I’m not one, goddamn . . . In the back of my mind I hear Mom saying you and your declarations . . . and Pop saying he’ll quit drinking every other week. Yellow outside light is streaked across Faith’s face, illuminating the scar tissue around her eye. She never wears an eye patch to bed. The skin is wrinkled, old sea captain textured, weathered, withered, yet the rest of her is a stun gun of vibrancy; potent spirit. A forever shut eye, yet still all-seeing. Sometimes it’s the damage that gives us wisdom. I hate her damage. I hate that it’s mine too.
She finally stops cackling. “Do you hear yourself? I don’t know what to do with you anymore. And I’m starting to think maybe the reason why I want to stick around D-Town is so I can be with you when you fall.”
Wow. That comment would bring down any kite at any height. And the thing is, I don’t have shit to say.
A tidal wave rolls through me, and I don’t know what I’m doing. I stomp out of the bedroom into the living room—where Pop is no longer sleeping—and suddenly I’ve got a thing called a rain stick in my hands. Mom bought it when she was in her Zen phase, it’s leaning against the wall and calling out my name. When you turn it upside down it produces the sound of rain pouring in a forest, but tonight it’s more than that—it’s torrential and cyclonic—it feels good in my hands, and good to swing too, and the first box I hit has a little bit of give, but just enough solidness that the impact is satisfying, and that’s all it takes, another shot, and down go more boxes, down goes the junk, packages burst and break, plastic and glass and Styrofoam peanuts fly, and all the while the rain stick is playing its sweet swishing, plinking song. Chaos, crash, I crash, pop of cardboard and plastic, turning round and round, sweat flying, scratches on my arms from the sharp corners of the boxes, Mom and Pop rushing in, Pop grabbing my arms and yanking them behind my back. I’m yelling something, he’s talking calmly, calmly, what’s he doing with all that serenity? Finn, he says, get a hold of yourself, there’s nothing to be upset about. Mom’s being violent and volatile, slapping me on the chest, saying how dare you, how dare you Finn, you have no right, these are my things, it’s my collection.