Society Dysfunctional

6. High for This

Chapter Six – High for This

Thomas

November 15 (6 days ago)

18:07

I absently tap my smoldering Marlboro against the edge of the ashtray to a rhythm matching Juan’s angry stomping. My eyes calmly follow his path as he storms back and forth across the room, arms crossed. Normally, when he’s angry, I just settle down with a cigarette and wait for his anger to burn itself out. But as I glance at the simple clock hanging above the door, I see that he’s abnormally more furious today, seeing that it’s taking much longer than usual.

“Just calm the fuck down,” I drawl, in a lame attempt to pacify him.

Juan stops at the sound of my voice and turns to glare at me, who is lazily sprawled on my bed, legs hanging off the frame, holding myself up by my elbows. “You’re ridiculous!” he exclaims, throwing his arms up into the air, “You expect me to calm the fuck down in a situation like this? While I’m here worrying my ass off, your ass ain’t doing shit. What, do you got a plan? You think your rich-ass daddy gonna save you today?”

I shrug nonchalantly and fix my expression to appear unfazed by his reference to my father. But he’s partially right. I don’t really need Dad to solve our current dilemma—it’s just his money that I’m after. I don’t even have to necessarily tell him that I’m making use of the money with the credit card my parents hadn’t bothered to even cut upon my arrival here.

“Juan, think. I got the cash, and I know people. There’s a guy who likes operating just down the street one of the nearest intersections. He knows me very well. I could just get him to slip something through the gates to me every now and then, and we’ll be fine.”

The other boy heaves a huge sigh, placing his hands on the back of his head before crashing onto my roommate’s bed, as he always does, figuring Marshall wouldn’t mind. “That’s not what I’m worried about…well, it kinda is. But the other thing is, what do you think happened to ’em? Who do you think did it?”

I roll my eyes. “Come on, Alves. Who do you think did it? He’s been at it for so long now.”

Juan’s eyes widen a little and I almost laugh at the surprise on his face. Who is the kid fucking kidding about? He’s feigning stupidity. We all very damn well know who it is.

“Eddy?”

“Who else?” I inhale one more lungful of the cigarette before I dump it into the ashtray, watching the smoke exit the room in dark tendrils slowly slipping out the windows and into the grayish-blue of the outside. “Bastard can’t get his own dope, I guess. Still, I don’t know how he does it each time. Even when I hide it in different places.”

With one leg hanging over the edge of the bed, Juan kicks around at a forgotten granola bar wrapper left by Marshall. One of the many pieces of garbage my unruly roommate leaves behind on his half of the room. Even as he adjusts himself on Marshall’s bed, I hear the crinkle of trash and other things from under the mattress. The messy freak of a roommate I have.

“Aren’t you going to try and get it back, though, at least?” Juan asks, “Then spend money and getting more if that fails?”

“Maybe. But you know money has never been a problem for me.”

“Rich kids.” Juan rolls his eyes. “Wish I was like you.”

“Ha.” Juan had told me his history so many time I’ve lost count. Born and raised in the typical middle-class American family, Juan’s father, Juan Alves Sr., worked long hours at the small business he owned while his mother, a housewife, had to tackle the job of caring for six children. Because of the large amount of siblings, Juan rarely got anything, even on special occasions. I know I sound goddamned snobby saying this, but it’s true : I found it hard to believe someone could be turned down for things—even once.