The Good Stuff

The alley air hung heavy with the stench of car exhaust and stale urine. The minivan's engine purred to sleep as the headlights dimmed. There he was, as promised, leaning his shoulder against the dumpster's edge, one ankle crossed in front of the other, hands in his pockets and cigarette hanging from his lips: James Dean with a mullet and a moustache. Dave's sweat glued his hands to the steering wheel, his backside to the seat. His feet rattled against the pedals, his knees bounced with uncontrollable energy. He heaved a lamaze-like breath, shaking his head. He took one last glance at her message, hoping he had read it wrong, hoping she had changed her mind: "Honey, I'm in so much pain. I can't wait any longer -- please get some tonight." He knew his wife was hurting, and despite his assertions that she try a more conventional approach, she had her heart set on this. What choice did he have? He put his phone in his pocket and stepped out of the car.
"Hey man," Dave growled. "Are you uh, are you the guy?"
"That depends." The shadow beside the dumpster inched forward. "How'd you find me?"
"Jake. Jake Barnes. Said this is where you go for the uh, the good stuff." A sly grin spread on the stranger's filthy face.
"Jakey! Good man!" The man's threatening grimace began to fade from his face. The change put Dave at ease. "How much do you want?"
"Oh uh..." Dave paused, afraid of sounding like the novice that he was. "How much do you have?" A hoarse laugh bellowed from deep in the man's gut.
"Enough," he replied, pulling a small bag from his jacket pocket and handing it to Dave. "Even hundred, my man."
An icy chill rushed through Dave's veins. He stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders as he pulled out his wallet. He sighed, his lips vibrated. He closed his eyes, mustering just enough confidence to grasp the crisp bill in his hand and hold it out to make the exchange. He felt something light drop at his feet, the bill still in his hand. A slight wind brushed along his face as a hard, cold cylinder smashed firmly into the base of his neck.
Click.
"On your knees."
Dave opened one eye wide enough to see his contact kneeling, his stash on the ground, hands behind his head. He shuffled his feet behind him, inching down toward the ground, tears welling in his eyes.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God ..." The words uncontrollably leapt off his tongue. "Please don't hurt me. Please -- God!"
"Shut up!" Cold metal clanked against his skull. He writhed in agony as he felt a wet trickle on his ear. He bit his lip, desperately holding in a scream.
"Listen. Ravi. Calm down, man." The stranger shuffled on his knees toward Dave and his assailant. "Take the stash, man. Whatever you want, it's yours."
"I said shut up, Jimmy!" Dave sighed a breath of relief as his attacker raised the gun away from his head and pointed it toward the dealer. The accusations poured out, one after the other.
"You stole my spot, stole my clients, stole my stash. You tried to turn me in!" Ravi's voice boomed louder and louder with each accusation. "I've been lookin' the other way, Jimmy. Lookin' the other way. But now --" His voice echoed, bouncing off the brick walls of the alley. Dave let his mind wander, desperate to escape this moment. He pictured a remote island, the sun on his face, the soft breeze blowing in his hair.
"This isn't happening," he thought. "This is not happening." He imagined his body floating in the air, hovering above the scene playing out around him. As he entered this meditative state, the conflict became a blur, the voices blending together, warbled and indistinct. He let a calm smile spread across his face, but his fantasy was interrupted by rapid explosions, thunder crashing from all directions. His heart rose up into his throat as he coughed out cries through a haze of smoke. He strained to see what had happened, managing to make out nothing but dark shapes and sparks. Dave Bartlett, an accountant, a desk jockey from the suburbs, was caught in a crossfire.
He wanted to scream, wanted to run, wanted to take back the last hour of his life, but he was trapped. He remained kneeling, his arms wrapped over his head. He curled into a ball, hoping to disappear from sight. He thought of his wife, of his two beautiful children, ashamed of his own cowardice. Was he just going to lie there and wait for a stray bullet to pierce his skull? He raised his head from the ground, biting his bottom lip and grunting with resolve. It was time to fight back. He eyed one of the men, pistol in hand. He bent his legs into a running formation behind him, his fingers barely touching the ground, poised to erupt in a sprint toward the threat. His courage increased along with his adrenaline. He leapt forward.
Sirens.
A deafening wail consumed the dank lane as vibrant lights broke through the darkness. Red and blue illuminated the faces of the officers who peeked their heads out from behind the car doors.
"Drop your weapons!" one shouted.
"Hands in the air!" yelled the other.
Dave immediately stretched his hands high above his head, grateful for the timely intervention, and heaved a sigh of relief. His relaxation was short lived. The two gunmen ran full speed out of the alley way, past the empty bars and down opposite ends of the street. Both officers took off, one chasing down each perpetrator, leaving Dave alone with a pocket full of cash and a large stash of controlled substances at his feet. He stood bewildered, contemplating his next move as he scratched his chin. It seemed as though a lifetime had passed in a few short minutes. An overwhelming exhaustion set in. Dave bent down to pick up what he had come here to buy.
"Get your hands in the air!" The command rang out from behind him. A third officer stepped out from the vehicle. Dave smashed his eyes closed once again and hung his head in defeat.
"Shit!" he howled as he raised his hands once again. This time, there was no hesitation. No cowering, no waiting for some sign, some miracle. His courage no longer needed mustered. Dave was ready for this to be over. Embracing the heat of the moment, he ran to his van and hopped into the driver's seat. He heard the officer's protests, his firm warnings, but assured himself he was doing the right thing.
"I can't go to jail," he thought. "Busted for possession--me! My wife, my girls... they can't lose me! Not like this!"
He was a man on a mission. His panic transformed into focus, his fear into resolve. He shifted into reverse and slammed his foot on the gas. The crunch of cars colliding sent a rush through his spine. There was no going back now. Shots pinged off his fender as he accelerated, screeching down the road as fast as his van would go. He watched as the flashing lights faded in his rear view mirror.
Dave sped from avenue to avenue, whipping and weaving through traffic, refusing to let up until he was positive he was in the clear. He was a fugitive on the run. His noble intentions wouldn't matter to the men in blue. His wife's agony, his refusal to let her suffer one more night, it wouldn't absolve him of his guilt in a court of law. He was caught with the shadiest of company in the most violent of situations, and what if the other two got away? He would have been left to shoulder all the blame!
Still, his doubt doubled with every turn, every stop sign. What if they would have let him go with a simple slap on the wrist? What if he could have helped them catch Jimmy? Or Ravi? Would he have been able to 'make a deal'? The countless possible outcomes ran through his mind as he wondered why he hadn't thought of them before. By the time he pulled into his neighborhood, he was absolutely certain that running was the wrong decision. He wanted to turn around, go back, turn himself in, but it was too late. A simple misunderstanding had become a full blown catastrophe. There was only one way for this to end.
Dave slowly pulled into his driveway. He heard the damning ring of sirens in the distance. He inched toward his front door in disbelief. How had this gone so poorly? A simple transaction! College kids have a lifetime supply of the stuff. Surely they didn't have to go through this special brand of hell each time they needed a high. Damn that Jake Barnes and his atrocious advice!
He twisted the doorknob and stood pitifully in the doorway. His wife was instantly there to greet him.
"Oh my God honey, are you okay?" Her shock was evident. She brought her hand up to his face to examine the dried blood and fresh sweat. "What happened to you?"
Dave said nothing. What could he say? How could he possibly explain? He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small bag. His heart swelled with pride as he collapsed, his arm outstretched with gift in hand.
"Oh good," his wife sighed as she took it from him. "You were so late coming home, I assumed there must have been a problem with my prescription."
Dave choked on the air. He tried to reply, but found himself muttering incoherent sounds.
"P-p-per-scription?" His face grew hot, flushed with disbelief.
"Yeah, my prescription." His wife knelt down in front of him. "I slipped it into your jacket pocket this morning."
Dave leaned forward, grasping her by the shoulders, steadying himself and gazing into her eyes. He was hoping to find a trace of sarcasm, some hint that this declaration was a god-awful, mistimed joke. Her face was stern and somber.
"B-but," Dave sputtered, panting. "Sandy, you needed... so I... Jake told me..."
"Honey," she used one hand to caress his cheek, the other hand reaching into his jacket and pulling out a small folded piece of paper. "The prescription. Right here? I told you last night. I wrote the address of the dispensary on the back."
Last night? Last night? That was ages ago! Dave struggled to recall the conversation. Had she told him? No. He would have remembered. Unless... during the game perhaps? She did say something about... It couldn't be.
Outside the sirens intensified, the familiar glow appearing in the yard.
"Dave?" Her tender concern turned into genuine fright. "What the hell happened?"
Dave clutched the prescription in his hand, clenching his fist until his fingernails broke the skin on his palm. Violent sobs exploded from his chest, massive tears flowing freely, saliva dripping down his chin. Sandy Bartlett, perplexed as ever, nervously cradled her devastated husband in her arms, assuring him that it would all be okay. Dave's sobs transformed into mad, bizarre laughter as the officers advanced on his house, hollering threats and moving in formation, ready to catch a criminal.