The Pleasure Trap by Niobia Bryant Page B

shoulder. Pogo stood beside where he sat on one of the battered sofas of their break room. He saw the older man’s face fill with concern.
    He dropped his head and looked away. “I’m a’ight. Just got a cold,” he lied as he felt his nose run. He sniffed and swiped at it with the back of his hand.
    When the older man didn’t move, Graham looked up at him in question.
    Pogo walked over to the door but he did not walk through it. Instead, he closed it and came over to sit down on the sofa next to Graham. “Let me talk to you, son,” he said, reaching over to pat his fist against Graham’s knee.
    Graham laughed. “Yo, Pogo. I don’t get down like that,” he joked, hoping to lighten the mood because he could already see the serious light in the other man’s eyes.
    â€œI’ve seen and done a lot in my sixty-five years,” he said with a sad smile. “A lot of shit I wish hindsight could change.”
    Graham sniffed again and swallowed, fighting the urge to wipe his runny nose again. Fighting even harder to fight his crave to sniff the bag of powder hidden in his sock... again.
    â€œI can already see that it’s getting to you, boy,” Pogo said. “I can see it all in your eyes and in the way you act ’round here. That shit ain’t nothing to play with. Trust me. If you need help, I know a place. I’m still tryin’ to recover from twenty years of chasing that shit.”
    Graham rose to his feet. “What shit?” he asked, playing crazy but far from it.
    Pogo rose to his feet with effort and walked past Graham to the door. He opened it but paused in the doorway. “Get off that shit, boy,” he said, locking eyes that were graying with age on him.
    Laughing nervously, Graham walked over to the door leading into the bathroom that was nothing more than dingy walls with an even dingier toilet and sink. “Nah, you better get off that shit, Pogo, if you think I’m messing with drugs,” he said, his heart already pounding in anticipation at the thought of getting to the package in his sock.
    He closed the door and the stench of urine flooded his nostrils. Graham didn’t care. Relieving his bladder was the furthest thing from his mind. Bending down he used his forefinger to pull the small baggie up the length of his ankle and free from his sock beneath his blue uniform pants. He barely took the time to stand up fully before he dug his pinkie nail inside the bag of coke and sniffed it with one nostril and then the other.
    The bathroom door jerked open and Graham whirled to find Pogo standing in the doorway. “Damn. What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped, turning his back on his coworker and coming face-to-face with his reflection in the fading mirror. In one millisecond, he took in his red and tired eyes and the cocaine residue still around his nostrils.
    His shame and anger came in a rush. Turning from the sink, he crossed the dingy floor in three long strides and grabbed the front of Pogo’s uniform, lifting his slight figure into the air with ease until their eyes were leveled.
    The fear Graham thought he would see in the old man’s depths was not there, but sadness reigned. Sadness and pity.
    The rage lining Graham’s face softened as Pogo reached up to pat him as if he were a child. “This ain’t even the worst of it,” he said in a knowing voice. “That white bitch ain’t nothing to love, boy.”
    Graham shook. He did love it. He loved it hard and fast. He’d gone from taking a hit once or twice a week to every day in just weeks, and in just a few more weeks he was snorting small amounts damn near all day.
    Oh, he loved that white bitch so much. Moreover, he hated that Pogo had picked up on it. He hated that Pogo was minding his business and he hated that Pogo thought he wasn’t in control.
    His grip on Pogo’s shirt tightened and he shook the man a little