ever
had been at strumming his guitar. Someone finally found him
overdosed in a stall of a rest area men’s room. The medical
examiner said he had been dead for two days. The police found the
rest of his band three towns over, in a dive motel room. They were
brought in for questioning, but no charges were ever
filed.
Tommy stared at the bong sitting on the
table in front of him and waited for the effects of the weed to
kick in. One hit just wasn’t going to do it. He thought about
scraping the resin from his pipe and the stem of the bong, but knew
he wouldn’t get enough out of them for more than one more
toke.
Iris hated that he got high
every day, but she put up with it because he was a decent guy and a
good boyfriend. He held down a job and that was more than any of
her other boyfriends had ever accomplished. Well, he had held down a job
anyway.
Iris was fond of saying that they were
like Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, a happy couple with the world by
the balls, showing up at parties like they owned the place and
rubbing their happiness in the faces of all those losers who would
never find love. He didn’t know how he was going to break it to
Iris that he was unemployed again.
Tommy wasn’t high. The three roaches
hadn’t even been enough to make him a little fuzzy. He looked up at
the clock again, 10:14. Grinder would throw a fit if he called this
early. Selling a twenty sack wasn’t nearly a good enough reason for
the drug dealer to get out of bed before noon. Still, Tommy needed
to take the edge off if he was going to have to face Iris later.
Maybe he would wait a while.
“Did you finish your soup, Thomas?” his
mother asked.
“Yeah, Ma, it was good,” Tommy replied
absently.
“Good boy, now you can have your treat.
Go ahead and get yourself two cookies from the jar on the
counter.”
There hadn’t been a cookie jar on the
counter for about ten years; not since Tommy had dropped it during
a late night foray with a serious case of the munchies.
“Thanks, Ma,” Tommy said, fished his
pack of Camel Lights from his pocket and crossing to the living
room window. Flipping the top open he saw that there were only
seven left, he would have to remember to grab a pack later when he
went to see Grinder.
He produced a small key from his pocket
and worked the Master lock holding the window closed. He wasn’t
worried about his mother jumping. She was crazy as a loon, but she
wasn’t suicidal; she just liked to set her house plants out in the
sunlight when it managed to break through the dreary Seattle
clouds. Every now and then, one of the large pots would plummet
five stories to the concrete courtyard below. Once she missed
hitting another of the tenants by inches.
Tommy plopped down on the window sill
and leaned out as he lit his cigarette. He wasn’t supposed to smoke
in the apartment, it was in their rental agreement, but he hated
walking down all those stairs to suck down a cancer stick and then
walk all the way back up. Sure, he had signed the contract when he
was granted power of attorney over his mother and became
responsible for the lease, but Tommy and the property managers had
an understanding; they didn’t complain about his smoking in the
apartment and he didn’t to them about how the elevator hadn’t
worked in four years.
There was shouting from the courtyard
below and Tommy leaned out over the ledge to investigate. Mrs.
Grimly, from the second floor, was standing far below with her
hands on her hips. She had that odd way of weaving her head back
and forth, as she cussed out her husband in Spanish. Tommy wondered
if that attitude was genetic or if Mexican mothers pulled their
little girls off to the side and gave them lessons in
secret.
Mr. Grimly was standing in front of her
with his hands spread wide, palms up, placating. The top of his
balding head looked shiny from this angle. He had his hands full,
Tommy knew. That young Hispanic diva had the body of a goddess and
the mouth of a
had been at strumming his guitar. Someone finally found him
overdosed in a stall of a rest area men’s room. The medical
examiner said he had been dead for two days. The police found the
rest of his band three towns over, in a dive motel room. They were
brought in for questioning, but no charges were ever
filed.
Tommy stared at the bong sitting on the
table in front of him and waited for the effects of the weed to
kick in. One hit just wasn’t going to do it. He thought about
scraping the resin from his pipe and the stem of the bong, but knew
he wouldn’t get enough out of them for more than one more
toke.
Iris hated that he got high
every day, but she put up with it because he was a decent guy and a
good boyfriend. He held down a job and that was more than any of
her other boyfriends had ever accomplished. Well, he had held down a job
anyway.
Iris was fond of saying that they were
like Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, a happy couple with the world by
the balls, showing up at parties like they owned the place and
rubbing their happiness in the faces of all those losers who would
never find love. He didn’t know how he was going to break it to
Iris that he was unemployed again.
Tommy wasn’t high. The three roaches
hadn’t even been enough to make him a little fuzzy. He looked up at
the clock again, 10:14. Grinder would throw a fit if he called this
early. Selling a twenty sack wasn’t nearly a good enough reason for
the drug dealer to get out of bed before noon. Still, Tommy needed
to take the edge off if he was going to have to face Iris later.
Maybe he would wait a while.
“Did you finish your soup, Thomas?” his
mother asked.
“Yeah, Ma, it was good,” Tommy replied
absently.
“Good boy, now you can have your treat.
Go ahead and get yourself two cookies from the jar on the
counter.”
There hadn’t been a cookie jar on the
counter for about ten years; not since Tommy had dropped it during
a late night foray with a serious case of the munchies.
“Thanks, Ma,” Tommy said, fished his
pack of Camel Lights from his pocket and crossing to the living
room window. Flipping the top open he saw that there were only
seven left, he would have to remember to grab a pack later when he
went to see Grinder.
He produced a small key from his pocket
and worked the Master lock holding the window closed. He wasn’t
worried about his mother jumping. She was crazy as a loon, but she
wasn’t suicidal; she just liked to set her house plants out in the
sunlight when it managed to break through the dreary Seattle
clouds. Every now and then, one of the large pots would plummet
five stories to the concrete courtyard below. Once she missed
hitting another of the tenants by inches.
Tommy plopped down on the window sill
and leaned out as he lit his cigarette. He wasn’t supposed to smoke
in the apartment, it was in their rental agreement, but he hated
walking down all those stairs to suck down a cancer stick and then
walk all the way back up. Sure, he had signed the contract when he
was granted power of attorney over his mother and became
responsible for the lease, but Tommy and the property managers had
an understanding; they didn’t complain about his smoking in the
apartment and he didn’t to them about how the elevator hadn’t
worked in four years.
There was shouting from the courtyard
below and Tommy leaned out over the ledge to investigate. Mrs.
Grimly, from the second floor, was standing far below with her
hands on her hips. She had that odd way of weaving her head back
and forth, as she cussed out her husband in Spanish. Tommy wondered
if that attitude was genetic or if Mexican mothers pulled their
little girls off to the side and gave them lessons in
secret.
Mr. Grimly was standing in front of her
with his hands spread wide, palms up, placating. The top of his
balding head looked shiny from this angle. He had his hands full,
Tommy knew. That young Hispanic diva had the body of a goddess and
the mouth of a
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