c. 2003 · Short story — two men waiting on a dealer.
The two men knelt in the alleyway, waiting for the drop. A pile of trash blocked one end, and the thick humid harbor air left nothing untouched by its tired wetness. The walls of the alley oozed with the slimy sweat of years of the city’s filth. Puddles reflected the distant streetlights in opalescent swirls of unnamed contaminants as the men’s breath left their mouths in tendrils of vapor. One of the men, this one dressed in faded blue jeans and a black hat, kicked the wall impatiently. He scowled and muttered to his companion, “What time is it, anyway?” The other man glanced at his watch indifferently and responded, “Five till. Twenty minutes late now.” “Fuck this shit. I’m tired of waiting for his ass. I’m calling him on my cell. I don’t give a fuck.” “Nahh, give him another five minutes. If he isn’t here by three, call him and find out what’s up. If you don’t get an answer, let’s roll.” A glossy wave of light moved its way along the surface of the street perpendicular to the alleyway. “Hold up,” said the man in the hat, “this might be the fucker now.” They waited in the alley as a car drove toward and then past them. “Damn. Make that call.” “Damn straight.” The man in the hat dialed the dealers’ number on his cell phone but received no answer. After fifteen interminable seconds, he terminated the call. “Screw this shit, stuff ain’t that good anyway.” The other man laughed in agreement and then sighed. “No, you’re right: it isn’t that good; but you wanna know what is?” The man in the hat looked curiously at his companion, who now seemed lost in a pleasant memory. He began: “I had the amazing good fortune of sampling it years ago. Likely the best thing that ever happened to me in my entire life, to be honest—the perfect high. Completely mellow yet so thoroughly satisfying. Try to imagine winning the heart of the most beautiful woman in the world—” he hesitated, “—no, more than that: the woman of your dreams; and her desires worked to satisfy your own and vice versa.” The man in the hat grinned and said, “Sounds amazing. What was it?” “It was Cody. Once sampled, even the mere suggestion of Cody would make my blood boil with desire and my flesh burn with fierce need. Cody is so addictive that once enjoyed, you never cease to want more. Cody has permanently marked my soul.” The man sighed and his head hung sadly from his shoulders. The man in the hat playfully hit his friend in the arm and said, “So how can I get Cody?” His friend laughed. “I don’t know. If you ever find yourself with Cody, don’t make the same mistakes I and so many others have, or you, like we did, will lose your chance to have Cody forever. Cody must be respected and I mean treated with the utmost deference, pal. I was a moron.” Suddenly, the man stiffened—the memory of Cody was too great—and then his body was tourtuously wracked by wrenching spasms that left the man dead on the grimy asphalt. The man in the hat screamed and ran from his dead friend into the moonless night.
Composed 2003 · part of the Short Stories collection · authorship documented on the Provenance page.