My Last RunFreddy was a charmer, always a bad sign. Someone who constantly feels the need to win over those around them usually has no choice because the truth won't sell it, whatever they're selling.At present Freddy was selling a kind of Brotherhood which led to free drugs for him. He would sell Indulgence, Good Times, Laughter, to anyone with drugs for him. He did help create real fun, but the bottom line was always wrapped around his empty wallet and disdain for honest labor. In fact those who did work regularly were the second on his list of those to be dissed once he got high. The first on the list were those who were selfish, isolated, unable to conquer their fears and let go. Essentially, those people who would never give Freddy drugs for free. I had never agreed to one of Freddy's schemes before, but this one looked too simple to fail. A straight run. San Francisco to San Diego to San Francisco. After years of unreliable and insane suppliers, I met Malcolm, a very serious, little Cuban man, whose business ran like clockwork. When his supply would arrive he'd give us a call and we would put a check in the mail. At the same time Malcolm would mail us a fist sized glass tube of speed. By the time he got our check and it had cleared, the package would arrive. Although it was not necessary at all for these transactions to happen simultaneously, the nature of the drug demanded an instantly responsive system. Malcolm's method worked for two years straight. For two years, my only runs were to the P.O. Box. Then Malcolm's supplier ran out. Dry was the occupational hazard no one ever talked about. People talked about prison, robbery, overdoses, but never drying up, like it was a jinx to even suggest such a thing could happen. The most anyone would say is, "Better to have drugs and no money, than money and no drugs." Again, not every dealer is a user, but they do all behave as if they were, and a sudden shortage of a drug whose very first withdrawal symptom is uncontrollable anxiety created a rather stressful time. Everyone wanted to act cool as penguins, but they freaked like screaming chickens instead. And once its over and the line is cleared, once anxiety has been returned to its little room, it is embarrassingly obvious just what great noisy chickens they all are and it is never brought up again, and never far away. Since Freddy was driving down to San Diego to do an acid deal, it seemed in our best interest for me to go along so that when Malcolm's supply line unclogged we wouldn't have to wait a week for the mail. We were already dry, as far as our customers were concerned, and only had about a week's supply for ourselves. From all angles it would have been wiser for me to wait in San Francisco until the supply problems were over, much wiser than mixing an anxious situation with Freddy, but speed is a harsh mistress and she demands no waiting and no long term planning. She always encourages action, instinct and plowing forward. We used my money for gas and Freddy's car. I took the first turn at the wheel, Freddy slumped drunk in the passenger's seat, which is why I took the wheel as soon as he picked me up. He promised several times that he would drive all the way back then passed out cold. Although nine hours of driving can be rather tiresome, on speed it seems like a holiday. We made it in record time despite all my stops to snort and piss. I left Freddy to his acid deal and headed for Malcolm's house to wait. Which could have been a disaster if the wait was long and Malcolm and I combined our withdrawal symptoms. As it turned out, the speed arrived the next day, as did a call from Freddy saying his deal was complete and we could leave just as soon as I refilled the gas tank. When I met Freddy the next morning he was sober, but not alone. He introduced Ted. Freddy's great drug deal idea had been to pick up Ted and Ted's acid in San Diego then drive him to San Francisco where he could sell it quickly and in the melee of sales and usage acquire free drugs for himself. I shouldn't have been surprised. God knows what Freddy was going to buy the acid with if he didn't have enough money to buy gas, but somehow I had repressed this piece of logic and it was rising to haunt me. "It's just another run," I told myself. Ted was a musician, which put him one step below "charmer" in my estimation. He was grungy, had long dirty blonde hair, spikes everywhere and a deck of cards where every other card was a sheet of acid. 100 hits per sheet. Ted was carrying over 5,000 hits, which was a major felony, but so was the 24 grams of Crystal Methadrine I had, reminding me why I loved the US Mail. The first thing Ted and Freddy did was buy 2 12-packs of beer. Freddy re-uttered his promise of driving the whole way back and headed for the freeway. I was officially out of speed. I didn't want to open the new speed tube until I was home, safe, where the local police only cared if you were hurting someone. San Diego Police would jail you for an strange haircut or the wrong skin color. I had been awake for three days, so crashing was in order anyway. I curled up on the nap sacks in the back seat and let myself go. "Done a million runs," I told myself. I was awakened by the screech of tires. Our tires. And howling. I sat up. Freddy and Ted were yelling and cheering at top drunk volume, patting each other on the back as Freddy weaved in and out of heavy traffic at 90 miles per hour, freely using both shoulders to keep from braking. I was stunned silent, which kept Freddy and Ted from noticing me for awhile. During that slow adrenalined time we rocketed blind over an on-ramp divider in order pass a car in the slow lane and at one point we were holding two lanes at once by driving half in each, coiled and ready for traffic to open left, or right, left, right, punch it. When they finally noticed me the whooping doubled and I received many pats on the back, even though they had to turn half way around in their seats. I reminded them that they were intoxicated, the amount of speed and acid we were carrying and what part of California we were in. This led to more hooping and hollering and more truly dangerous lane changes. Had any car not made the correct defensive decision we would have been metal to metal at high speed. I convinced them to let me drive by taking the remainder of the beer from the front seat to the back seat. Freddy took the first exit and pulled right over. They went out the sides to the back doors, I went over the center. I had no idea how I was going to survive the drive in my sleep/speed deprived condition, but I did know if I ever wanted to be speeded and happy again we had to move North. Freddy opened a new beer, took a sip and passed out cold. Ted curled up to do the same. "Holler if you need the shotgun." he said. "What shotgun?" "My shotgun. The sawed-off one? The one you were supposed to pass up to me if we got pulled over. He said you knew all about it and that you could fire it, too." "What? What the Hell are you talking about? I've never shot anyone." "Freddy said you have", he said like he didn't believe me. "Freddy! Wake up motherfucker, right now, I mean it" I yelled, but Freddy remained silent, stinking and unconscious. "This one." Ted said handing forward a sawed-off shot gun." "Where was that?" "In the duffel bag you were sleeping on." After a while Ted realized I did not want to take the gun he was offering and retracted it. Then he started laughing. When he finally stopped, he said, "The safety is off. I can't believe it didn't go off. With all of Freddy's bumping and sliding across lanes and you hugging it to your head. Oh man, it should have been Bang and wake up without a head. I can't believe it didn't go off. And you didn't even know it was there? Oh God, that's too funny." He clicked the safety on and stuffed it back in the pack. "Wake me up if you get pulled over" he said "and I'll hand it up." It seemed to take days and lifetimes to get home. When I was 10 years old I would walk across the school yard every Friday after school and look at the spot where my father parked. My parents had recently divorced and I could only see my father for one weekend a month. Which weekend in the month was not information I was privileged enough to have, so three out of every four times the space was empty. But one out of every four times he was there and my life improved from crap to the top. Sitting in the passenger seat, feeling the car pull out, that was the definition of Joy for me. Everything was better, across the board. Everything, all at once. |