Little Baby Faulkner

16

Rambuncto lived up to his name. Short, chunky, a guy who worked out his hands. He was the beast plus the beast, a thought stopper. Rambuncto had fewer tattoos than me, but Rambuncto's tats were of a mouse whose tail had come stuck in a mouse trap. Then that mouse had tattoos: a cartoonish skull and crossbones with Xs for eyes. A dead mouse. Rambuncto emphasized this tat by flexing his left forearm. If he had witchcraft tattoos I would have been less cautious. For this was the type of guy whose adrenaline drive was hooked up to random acts of violence—he would fuck you up just because he was excited and two hours later realize he'd been jailed for the incident.

Brooklyn introduced us and Rambuncto ignored me and grunted. This is the kind of guy if I was alone with him on a desert island, I would put him down in his sleep and then I would sleep much more soundly.

I said "Hi"—but in a non-assertive way so as not to draw extraneous attention from the mouse in the mouse trap—I assumed it was this part of his iconography he identified with.

Rambuncto's boys, Cujo and Kepler, mumbled some "hi"s and did not make any move to bump fists but stood just inside the front door and played master to our dogs, petting them and letting them jump up on them.

Charisma's grammy and little girl Wendy sat watching TV.

Rambuncto, Cujo, Kepler all ignored everyone but Brooklyn. Brooklyn was all over Rambuncto, wrapping her thigh around his leg. She whispered in his ear but it came out a hiss: "Want? To? Go upstairs? With me and we can fuck?"

Rambuncto pushed her off—Brooklyn slipped to the floor. "Let's go upstairs," 'Buncto said, and Charisma led us all upstairs, past the bathroom on the second floor and up the tiny switchback stairway to the attic. We all spread out here, the six of us, Rambuncto and his boys on the folded futon couch and Brooklyn, Charisma, and I sitting on the floor.

"We got this," Charisma said, throwing out bag #1.

Rambuncto leaned forward.

Brooklyn got my California ID and cut off a line. She indicated the mirror to Rambuncto. Rambuncto knelt next to it, leaned his face in, refused the straw Brooklyn gave him, and snorted it though one nostril, cleaning the surface of the mirror.

Kepler and Cujo went next. Then Charisma, Brooklyn, and me.

I held my knees and rocked in the chair thus created.

Rambuncto said, "I bet this is crap compared to what you got in California."

I looked over Rambuncto, seeing his face chiseled with lines of hate (giving and receiving) and I thought of him in jail, making it through that shit day by day like anyone else would.

"Actually—and I haven't done much coke in California or anywhere else—but this is at least as good as what I had in CA."

"You're shitting me," Rambuncto said.

"No way. This is among the best coke I ever had. I'd guess you'd think coke from Hollywood would be better than Ohio, but..not so in my limited experience. Have another line."

"You first," Rambuncto said.

"Ok." I went to the mirror and knelt beside it. Grabbed my straw—you can do coke with a rolled up $100 bill but aside from the celebratory aspect of the high-dollar currency, most regular coke people use straws—one for each person so as to avoid infection. Sniffft it up!!

"Now you," I said—and Rambuncto's two friends who were guys and my two friends who were girls watched me take a line then Rambuncto take a line and there was a sense of approval that settled across the room.