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nerianasims · 4 years ago

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Billboard #1s 1975

Under the cut.

Elton John – “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds” -- January 4, 1975

He slowed it down. Of course he did. And he's singing it like every word must be perfectly enunciated so that you can understand how incredibly deep it is. Awful, terrible, ugh. William Shatner's version is actually preferable.

Barry Manilow – “Mandy” -- January 18, 1975

Barry Manilow got a lot of hate when I was a kid in the 80s, and I didn't understand from any first-hand experience because the only song I knew of his was "Copacabana." Now, listening -- he's not bad. Yeah, he's 70s light rock. But he sings with emotion that doesn't sound fake and this song has a beat. I'm not saying I like this song, in which the singer regrets sending away the woman he loves, but it's fine. I find it far more tolerable than any Elton John song on this list.

The Carpenters – “Please Mr. Postman” -- January 25, 1975

The Carpenters' asset was Karen Carpenter's amazing singing. This song does not showcase it. They'd have done better to cover "Will You Love Me Tomorrow" or "One Fine Day." Also the way they redid the music makes it sound more like a light 50s pop song than early Motown. Blech.

Neil Sedaka – “Laughter In The Rain” -- February 1, 1975

This song is about taking walks in the rain with his wife/girlfriend. There's something fake about his singing, and also he doesn't hit the high notes (which aren't that high) right. I'd actually like to hear what Barry Manilow would do with this. It's not terrible, but meh.

Ohio Players – “Fire” -- February 8, 1975

Putting sirens in a pop song is kinda dickish, because you're gonna get people driving in their cars to try to suddenly swerve off the road. Anyway, besides that, this is an Ohio Players song, so it's funk. I don't really know what else to say about it. Maybe it could have been a little faster? I'm a bit bored, and that should never happen with funk.

Linda Ronstadt – “You’re No Good” -- February 15, 1975

There are sure a lot of covers this year. Boomer nostalgia. But Linda Ronstadt put a hell of a lot of effort into this one, unlike the people who did the previous two covers. The song's also a really good one, with an interesting lyrical twist; not only is the singer telling the man who broke her heart that he's no good, but "I broke a heart that’s gentle and true/ Well, I broke a heart over someone like you.” That's some vinegar in the wound. And musically, it's really good rock -- not an ounce of schmaltz anywhere. Excellent song, and I went back to listen to it on repeat when I was done writing for the night.

Average White Band – “Pick Up The Pieces” -- February 22, 1975

It's a funk instrumental. I think this has been on a lot of soundtracks. I find it repetitive and kinda boring.

Eagles – “Best Of My Love” -- March 1, 1975

They're still in love but their marriage is falling apart. The divorce rate in the 70s was very high. People often claim those 70s statistics are the same today, but they very much are not. Anyway, it's not too whiny and he doesn't blame her, but the song is too slow and too light. You could replace the words with a straightforward love song without changing the music, so long as the love song was boring. Yawn.

Olivia Newton-John – “Have You Never Been Mellow” -- March 8, 1975

Wow, shut up Olivia. I can identify with being sick of someone who is wound up like an E string and wanting to tell them to just chill. Hell, I'm that tightly-wound person pretty often, and I do much better when I remember to be mellow when I can. But this song is condescending and superior. "Have you never tried to find a comfort from inside you?" Toxic positivity.

The Doobie Brothers – “Black Water” -- March 15, 1975

I saw the song title and the chorus immediately started up in my brain. This is a song about the Mississippi by people who may never have been east of Las Vegas. "I ain't got no worries/ Cuz I ain't in a hurry at all." Pfft right. But the music of this song is so catchy and fun, that even though I'm not fond of the lyrics, I like the song.

Frankie Valli – “My Eyes Adored You” -- March 22, 1975

This guy used to lead The Four Seasons, but thankfully he doesn't do that horrible falsetto in this one. Ostensibly this song is about how he's thinking about his first crush. I think that's a metaphor, though. I think it's a song worshiping nostalgia and missing childhood. Yuck.

LaBelle – “Lady Marmalade” -- March 29, 1975

Patti LaBelle claimed she didn't know what this song was about. Yeah right. It's about a guy who spent some time with a sex worker on his trip to New Orleans. There's no judgment. It's just a sort of funky, sort of disco-ey, definitely belted song and it’s great.

Minnie Riperton – “Lovin’ You” -- April 5, 1975

Turn it off turn it off turn it off. I hate this song. It's one of the first songs I knew I hated musically, rather than only lyrically. The lyrics are whatever, a 70s love song, but the music -- I can't handle it. It's like sandpaper on my brain.

Elton John – “Philadelphia Freedom” -- April 12, 1975

Elton John's ode to Philly soul. It doesn't work. It's too slow, it's repetitive, and Elton John's no soul singer. He's so boring.

B. J. Thomas – “(Hey Won’t You Play) Another Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Song” -- April 26, 1975

Hey won't you not play that please. It's too slow, and it's without guts or grit. The Muppets sped it up and made it a multi-Muppet honky tonk singalong, which improved it a lot. Also I think Bo Burnham took the idea for "Y'all dumb motherfuckers want a key change?" from Rowlf's "Up a key!" line in the Muppet version.

Tony Orlando & Dawn – “He Don’t Love You (Like I Love You)” -- May 3, 1975

Another cover of a 60s song. Linda Rondstadt is still the only one to do it right. The song itself, when sung by others, is a good one. Not when sung by Tony Orlando. It's like he bleached it. Also I expect him to tell me the slot machines are available all night when he's done.

Earth, Wind & Fire – “Shining Star” -- May 24, 1975

This song is absolutely awesome. It's disco-funk, and yet it's sort of a sermon about self-actualization too. "You’re a shining star, no matter who you are / Shining bright to see what you could truly be.” Compare and contrast with the condescending "Have You Never Been Mellow." This is how you inspire people.

Freddy Fender – “Before The Next Teardrop Falls” -- May 31, 1975

This song is in both English and Spanish. Musically, it sounds like it comes from way before 1975, but that's not a bad thing. The singer is losing his woman to another man, but he tells her if the new man ever hurts her, he'll be there before the next teardrop falls. It's a solid country song.

John Denver – “Thank God I’m A Country Boy” -- June 7, 1975

How much money did John Denver have by this point? He sounds like the typical rich conservative talking about how he's a good ol' down home boy while he's got a condo in New York, a mansion in California, and keeps an official residence in Oklahoma for tax purposes that he never visits. "A-raisin’ me a family and working on the farm / My days are all filled with an easy country charm." Total and absolute bullshit -- farm work is phenomenally hard, not "easy country charm." This song is offensively bad.

America – “Sister Golden Hair” -- June 14, 1975

The singer isn't ready for commitment but can't stop thinking about the woman he's singing to. So he's trying to keep her hangin' on. There's one line that I hate: "Will you love me just a little, just enough to show you care?" How about you show her you care first, you entitled brat? The music's pretty good, but the lyrics bug me.

The Captain & Tennille – “Love Will Keep Us Together” -- June 21, 1975

It has a beat and some bounce at least. She sings about how some girl may come along to try to take him away -- seriously? This silly hat-wearing doof? Okay, that's a problem. Another problem is that she sounds perfectly chipper throughout. She's not worried, but who would be? I think this song struck a chord because of the divorce rate in the 70s. That, along with it having an actual beat of some kind unlike so many other hits of the era, is my theory as to how it got big.

Wings – “Listen To What The Man Said” -- July 19, 1975

There is, of course, nothing wrong with silly love songs. But some of them are not good songs. I usually love to hear a saxophone on a pop song, but this one sounds like it belongs in background music on a TV show. The main melody line is boring. I think it's another song about divorce anxiety: "No matter what the man said/ And love is fine for all we know/ For all we know, our love will grow." Very true. But did you have to be so boring when imparting this message, Paul?

Van McCoy & The Soul City Symphony – “The Hustle” -- July 26, 1975

Doo doo doo da doo doo doo da doo. My dad actually knew how to do the two-person hustle. I think. Anyway, how he showed me to dance is the way the couples are dancing in the Hustle video here. Minus that leg kick. There are almost no words to this song. Just "Do the Hustle" and "The Hustle. Do it." And -- okay! It is an irresistible dance song. I like it, though the piccolo (I think it's a piccolo) gets hard to listen to after a while.

Eagles – “One Of These Nights” -- August 2, 1975

Tom Breihan, whose Stereogum articles I've been using to track these songs, doesn't like the Eagles when they turned to a bit more of a rock direction with this song. This is one of many examples of how he's wrong. Okay, okay, an example of how my taste differs from his, which is one thing that pushed me to do this list. But yes, I really like this song a lot. The guitars are great. The narrator of this song is looking for a girlfriend. Or maybe a friend with benefits. The lyrics are all pretty good, if hardly Stevie Nicks level, but one line stands out: "Oh, loneliness will blind you in between the wrong and the right." It will.

The Bee Gees – “Jive Talkin'” -- August 9, 1975

I made a weird noise that scared my cat when I saw this was the next one. But thankfully, I have a little more time before Barry Gibb's horrible falsetto pierces my brain. This is nonetheless a Bee Gees disco song, which means my butt is firmly planted in my seat and I have no desire to dance whatsoever. It isn't ear-bleeding like their later songs, as the falsetto is absent, but it is terribly boring.

Hamilton, Joe Frank And Reynolds – “Fallin’ In Love” -- August 23, 1975

He's fallin' in love with you again. Or maybe fallin' more in love with you. I dunno. I'm falling asleep.

KC & The Sunshine Band – “Get Down Tonight” -- August 30, 1975

Some dance songs are good listening songs. This one is not. The narrator wants to do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight. And if you are not there to get down, the song is not for you. Especially how repetitive it gets in the second half. It serves its purpose as a dance song well, though.

Glen Campbell – “Rhinestone Cowboy” -- September 6, 1975

I really like rhinestones. I like sparkly stuff. The narrator of this song does too. He's been trying to get somewhere for a long time and has had it. He's eager to sell out thoroughly at this point. I get it. Oh boy do I get it. And being a rhinestone cowboy doesn't hurt anyone. If I could churn out huge amounts of disposable fiction with a "load of compromising" to make a lot of money, I'd do it in a heartbeat. My 20-year old self would be shocked. But life's hard, and "cringe" isn't harm. Rhinestone Cowboy's good in my book.

David Bowie – “Fame” -- September 20, 1975

And here's a song about how chasing celebrity is maybe not such a great idea. A really bad idea, actually. "It drives you to crime," for one thing. Yet this is musically not a dour song at all. It's angry but upbeat at the same time. Also brilliant musically, which from David Bowie is "of course." Most excellent.

John Denver – “I’m Sorry” -- September 27, 1975

The narrator is sorry about a breakup. He says he's also "sorry for the way things are in China." That one line makes me side-eye the entire song. Saying that they're sorry for huge things that have nothing to do with them is something abusive people sometimes do. The rest of the song sounds sincere enough though. And boring. Oh, so very boring.

Neil Sedaka – “Bad Blood” -- October 11, 1975

The narrator is telling a guy that the woman he's with is bad and is going to mess him up. And he's angry about it -- not at the woman, but at the guy. I think the narrator wanted the woman and is now calling her an evil bitch to try to turn his supposed friend against her. There's this happy flute in the background that sounds really odd with this deeply nasty song. Also, nastiness should be more interesting than this. It's both mean and boring.

Elton John – “Island Girl” -- November 1, 1975

Did Elton John start all his songs with the same chords? I feel like he did. This doesn't sound like an island song. It sounds like an ad jingle. A racist, sexist ad jingle. Ha-ha isn't it funny that a woman is tall and dark-skinned. The song calls her a "well-worn tire." So, so bad.

KC & The Sunshine Band – “That’s The Way (I Like It)” -- November 22, 1975

I have never understood any lyrics to this song but the chorus, or been curious enough to look them up. I just did. There are very few lyrics in this song besides the chorus, but yep, it's about sex. It's another KC & The Sunshine Band dance song that's great for dancing, and not really meant for anything else.

Silver Convention – “Fly, Robin, Fly” -- November 29, 1975

"Fly, robin, fly/ Up up to the sky" are the lyrics to this song. Over and over again. It's plastic Euro-disco and it is bad. Not danceable, no reason to listen to it, no reason for it to exist. I can only think that large amounts of cocaine were involved in this becoming a hit.

The Staple Singers – “Let’s Do It Again” -- December 27, 1975

It's another sleepy sex song, but this one is by a band with three sisters and their father. Their father sings on this track too. Apparently he didn't want to, and I wish he'd stuck by that, because ew.

BEST OF 1975 -- "Lady Marmalade" by LaBelle and "Shining Star" by Earth, Wind and Fire WORST OF 1975 -- "Island Girl" by Elton John

#billboard number ones

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notesfromthepen · 5 years ago

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Rigged

RIGGED (Written in 2017 and is a A prequel to The Clinic)

CHAPTER 1

Waiting on your H dealer, when it's been 24 hours since your last fix, is like waiting on the results of an AIDS test after a Xanax-fueled tour of the world's sleaziest brothel.

Anxious? I'd say so.

The cold sweat beading up on my lower back, and the increasing frequency of the chills spreading across my clammy skin, reminds me that it's been way too long since my last dose of "medicine." This is my first trip to the pharmacy tonight, making it the most crucial as well.

In case you've never been dope-sick, and waiting to score, allow me to try and enlighten you. The physical part is what you hear about most frequently—probably because it's absolutely horrific. Imagine the worst flu you've ever had, combined with the aches and pains of a high speed collision. Newly aware of every inch of your biology, you discover pain in places previously unknown to exist. The individual striations in every muscle scream for relief. Every cell of your being becomes dedicated to the sole purpose of ending the misery. You inevitably realize there's only one solution—and waiting for it is torture.

In addition to the physical aspects of withdrawals, are the mental components of this living hell. First, every sensation is heightened to unbearable levels. Which might not be so bad if every sensation didn't already make you want to jump off the roof of the nearest office building. Every imagined discomfort leads to a string of terrible emotions; discomfort to anger, anger to rage, rage to acceptance, acceptance to depression. Count yourself lucky if it stops there.

Uncomfortable? To say the least.

The sweat behind my knees is making my already clammy skin stick to the dilapidated faux-leather seats in this piece of shit rust bucket! The sensation has me on the verge of snapping. If I had the energy, I tear this fucking car to pieces.

As with everything in my life, my opinion of my car is determined by the chemicals in my system—or lack there of. Currently I'm feeling a bit pessimistic.

The problem with Hondas are that they refuse to die. Like an eighty year old supermodel, trying in vain to be fully useful, she works when she can and never misses the chance to complain, but the memories and pity are just enough to keep her around.

All this waiting is excruciating. It's enough to make me wrap my lips around the first firearm I can get my shaky junkie hands on. The only thing keeping me from pulling the trigger on that idea, is the knowledge that sweet, sweet relief is just around the corner.

Hopefully.

Nothing about this lifestyle is ever a sure thing.

When you're selling a product like heroin, you don't exactly have to be punctual—or reliable. It's simple economics: the demand side, colossally outweighs the supply part of the equation.

So with nothing left to do, I curse my life and wait. I'm sitting here, with baited breath, waiting for Tina's phone to ring so we can find out which apartment we're meeting D at, so we can finally get our meds and get the fuck outta here. We've already been here for twenty minutes, and I'm starting to count the seconds.

Oh, by the way, Tina is my current companion and possible codefendant on this mission in misery.

Tina is one of the numerous and interchangeable drug buddies one acquires in this line of work. Nothing brings odd pairings together like addiction. The only thing that me and Tina really have in common is our drug of choice—which in turn, means that we have practically everything in common. She's currently sitting shotgun in my elderly supermodel of a car and she's just as anxious and dope-sick as I am.

Everything and especially everyone in a junkie's life serves a purpose. Today, Tina's purpose is that we're using her dealer.

She's been talking for the last ten minutes straight. And even though I'm her only audience, she's not talking to me as much as she's talking at me. Which is fine, because I tuned her out ten-seconds into her diatribe. Being an addict leaves very little room for any non dope-related business. Because of our isolation, only snippets of what she's saying makes it through our respective bubbles. The bits that are making it through, only do so, because she's growling her words.

"Asshole's always late!..

"Tired of this shit.

"Creepy fuck...someone should just...

"Touching me...

"Deserves it..."

The only other sound, in this Honda on life support, is the white-noise of fast food wrappers and empty Red Bull cans being shuffled around in our endless attempt to find a more comfortable position for our legs, a position no dope-sick junkie in the history of the universe has ever found. Just as I think I can take no more—on the verge of losing my shit—it happens!

Tina's pocket glows white-hot. My heart does that rollercoaster drop of anticipation. In the time it takes her to fumble in her pocket to answer her phone, my withdrawal symptoms have become slightly more bearable; a welcomed light at the end of a horrific tunnel. Before she can answer our electronic lifeline, I'm hammering her with questions:

"Who is it?

"What's up?

"Is he almost here?"

She holds her index finger up in the universal sign for: Gimmie a fuckin' second.

I hold my breath.

She doesn't have to say anything for my cold sweats and back pain to come rushing back. It's written all over her. "OK, well call back as soon as you get here," she mumbles into the phone. She tosses her phone to the floor with the other useless trash. With just a shred of hope, I wait for the official verdict—suddenly I'm all ears.

"Thirty more fuckin' minutes!" she spits. She might as well have said, "Not in this lifetime, but maybe in the next..."

"Thirty minutes? We've already been waiting a fuckin' half an hour!" I yell.

I'm not talking to Tina as much as I'm talking at her.

We spend the next ten minutes taking turns pointing out the injustice of having to wait another half an hour to score. Our shared frustration and self righteous indignation is the closest we come to sympathy; the junkie's version of bonding.

The cigarette butts spilling from the ashtray are a harsh reminder of the time we've spent in this waiting room on wheels.

I try—and quickly fail—to do anything other than count the seconds until Tina's phone reads 12:17, when exactly thirty minutes have passed, so she can call D back if he still hasn't shown—which is more than likely to be the case.

This return call must be handled with finesse. A junkie never wants to piss off the dealer—but almost always does. The user/dealer relationship can be delicate to say the least. One too many pestering phone calls, and you run the real risk of getting your appointment rescheduled or—god forbid—cancelled all together.

Just like dealers aren't punctual—junkies aren't exactly patient. If you tell a junkie that you're gonna be somewhere in five minutes, then you better be there in five minutes.

There is no figure of speech when it comes to drugs.

The dashboard clock says it's 12:05.

Twelve more minutes.

My nose is constantly running—another side effect of not taking my meds on time. In the past five minutes, Tina has gone from ranting like a drunken sailor, to an uncharacteristic, and completely unsettling, silent rage. It's tricky to tell when a junkie is acting strange—junkies are always acting strange, it's what we do—but something about Tina's recent silence is giving me indigestion. Maybe it's just the lack of dope, but it something feels off.

To say Tina is temperamental, would be an understatement. I've seen her lose her shit on numerous occasions. All five-foot three-inches of dirty-blonde, tattooed, fury. I've heard her scream "ASSHOLE!" at the top of her lungs. I've seen her punch, slap, kick, and claw her way through more than one "misunderstanding." However, I have yet to see her engaged in thought and silent rage.

I would ask her what's up, but right now I've got one thing on my mind—and it isn't Tina's mental state.

There's not a situation on the planet that I can't put off until I'm high—including death.

I lean forward and turn on the radio; my feeble attempt to distract myself from the slow crawl of time. Johnny Cash's, "Sunday Morning Coming Down." It ends up just being a soundtrack to my suffering.

How appropriate.

And Tina, like a roman statue with a lip piercing—fire behind her eyes—is unmoved. Then, just as I come to the strenuous decision that it's time to give D a return call, the gods intervene.

All the triggers I've been waiting for, come to life: the buzz of the phone, vibrating a millisecond before it rings, the radiant white-light of the screen, and the EDM ringtone that erupts from the little magic device. Brought to life by the incoming call, Tina's phone becomes our own pathetic disco ball, shooting lights and music around this coffin on wheels.

I fumble to turn radio off the radio. This call supersedes anything in my life at the moment. It's so quiet in here that I can almost make out what D's saying. And then, disaster strikes. Her phone goes dark—like dead-battery dark. Once again, my heart tumbles down my ribcage into my bowels.

"Fuck!" snaps Tina. She grabs my phone from the dashboard, dials a number, and presses it to her ear. "It's me, my phone died." A moment passes and she ends the call with a flat, but possibly, maybe, a slightly hopeful, "Yep." She drops the phone in her lap.

With the anticipation of a defendant in a capitol murder case, I wait for the verdict. Life or death?

Staring straight ahead, she says, "He's about to pull in."

"It's about time."

Finally—a victory. A slow smile creeps across my face.

CHAPTER 2

If I wasn't so distracted, I'd probably try to figure out the cause of the uneasy stirrings in the pit of my stomach—but like I said, most things can wait until I'm high.

My phone rings. Everything else fades into the background. After two more "yeps" and an "OK," Tina hangs up, and motions towards the parking spot by a nearby dumpster—the location seems fitting. I pull in—never taking my eyes off the rearview mirror, as if there's a prize to be won by being the first of two junkies to spot the arriving chariot.

There it is!

A small black dot slowly grows in the rearview mirror, getting larger and larger, until it goes from a black smudge, to a full-sized Chevy Caprice, complete with driver.

Life is full of small victories... usually followed by monumental failures.

I've seen D on a few occasions, not unlike the circumstances of today, and he's seen me. The big difference is that a junkie never forgets a dealer. A mental file we store for future use. Dealers, on the other hand, only need to remember the clients they're currently serving. As soon as a client gets locked up, or ODs, their file is deleted and replaced.

They say sharks only have a ten minute memory.

D gives me a quick once over—searching his mental files for a match. The look I get is closer to general indifference than recognition.

Tina leans forward to get a look at the Caprice. "Unlock the doors," she orders.

The command catches me off guard. D's door slowly swings open. Smoke tinted yellow from the one working street light, billows towards the sky. This is quite unusual, but I guess the "doctor" is getting into my car for this transaction. I pop the locks and slide my seat forward to make room for our company. I quickly brush the back seat clear of debris, scattering more tokens of this lifestyle onto the floor.

When you live your life an hour at a time, it's rare to be prepared for anything unexpected.

A pristine white Jordan slides from the crack of the Chevy's driver side door and touches down on the asphalt below. Before I can calculate how many packs of heroin I could buy for the price of the immaculate sneakers, there's a change of plans. Tina calls an audible. She slips from the car, leaving her door open. By the time I realize what's going on, she's climbing into the passenger seat of the Caprice. Like a scene in rewind, D's Jordans ascend back into the car. The door closes behind them.

Through the midnight tint, all I can see is shadows. Muffled bass lines are the soundtrack to these urban shadow puppets. I'm forced to watch this exchange from a severely twisted rearview mirror. I don't want to crane my neck towards the shadow show, or invade any expectation of privacy, but the mirror has no problem doing it for me.

Once again, I'm jolted by the feeling that something's off. Call it intuition or paranoia, or whatever you want, but for an instant, it runs up my spine. And as quick as it comes on, it's forgotten.

Without much else to do, I decide to try and be productive. I reach deep under the seat and retrieve what—to the uninitiated—would appear to be a regular old gym sock. I grab the sock by the toe, letting its contents spill into my lap. The opening of the sock gives birth to a silver baby in the shape of a spoon, its handle folded in half. A slender piece of plastic with bright orange ends follows the spoon—faded numbers run up its sides. I shake the sock, hoping for more. This little mama should be carrying triplets, not twins. I turn the sock inside out in search of a stray Q-tip.

The Q-tip: a junkie's prophylactic. When you cook your dope, all the good shit dissolves into the water, all the cut and foreign shit that the heroin picked up along the way, doesn't. So to keep any of that nasty shit from being shot directly into your blood stream, causing blood poisoning or death, we use a Q-tip.

The cotton is rolled into a tight little ball, the cotton ball goes into the spoon, and the needle goes into the cotton. Pull back on the plunger—and, presto, you've got your filter.

The only problem is, I don't have a Q-tip. But any self-respecting junkie knows that, in a fix, a piece of a cigarette filter works just as well, and since I've never met a junkie that doesn't smoke--it's usually an easy find. Seeing no need to ruin a perfectly good Newport, I dig through the ashtray, flicking the older butts aside, in search for a clean-ish looking filter.

Junkies are nothing if not resourceful.

I grab the least stained butt I can find and, using my teeth, start to peel the paper from the filter, when an explosion stops everything. A million little diamonds, that used to be my rear window, rain down on me. I instinctively make myself as small as possible. Everything starts to move in slow motion. I spin around towards the sound of the explosion. The once muffled music is now several decibels louder and crystal clear. Before my gaze comes into full focus, a growl emerges from the cover of the music.

Behind the guttural sounds, and the Young Jeezy soundtrack, is a woman's voice. "I told you…You piece of shit!" It's Tina—and it's all starting to fall into place. "Now who's the victim?!" She's says.

She's not talking to D, as much as she's talking at him.

Squinting in anticipation, and a genuine fear of what I might see, I slowly open my eyes. Everything comes back into focus. What starts as a blur of black mass resolves into the Caprice. G's window is shattered. His head is slumped against the empty window frame, his right hand is pressed against his head, where his ear should be. The hat that was on his head just a few seconds ago, has tumbled to the asphalt with the broken glass. My mouth hangs open. My eyes bulge in panic. I stare at the doctor's head as it drops crimson-red pearls to the ground in slow motion.

Time is sped back up by another jarring sound. This time it comes from my passenger door being furiously slammed shut. Before I can turn to face the intruder, Tina is next to me screaming, "GO, GO, GO! FUCKIN' DRIVE!"

Hmmm, a classic case of fight or flight? All things considered, flight sounds like the only reasonable response. I turn the wheel and slam the old rust bucket into reverse, clipping the front of D's Caprice in the process. And since I don't plan on exchanging insurance info, I shift the old supermodel into drive and make our getaway. Through the broken window I hear the injured doc yell, "You're dead bitch!...You and your lil' boyfriend!"

Boyfriend?..C'mon!

CHAPTER 3

Squealing around corners, in a mad dash to take every side street and backroad possible, I put as much distance between us and the black Chevy Caprice as possible.

"Goddamn it Tina! What the fuck were you thinking?! Holy shit...Holy shit...Holy shit!" My eyes dart from the road to the rearview mirror.

"Relax Daniel," she calmly replies, as if my reaction is completely unwarranted. She calls me "Daniel" in an attempt to sound motherly and sarcastic. No one calls me Daniel anymore—she knows I hate that.

"It's Danny, you cunt!...And what the fuck was that all about?!..."

"What was it about?" she says. "It was about time, is what it was. And how about principle—principle and justice...and karma, and all that shit...and well, this...this is a BONUS!"

Tina holds up a rather large sunglasses case. It's butterflied open. Between glances at the road, I see it's contents spilling into her lap. The case overflows with little marble-sized baggies. Baggies, of what appear to be, individually wrapped, pieces of dry dog food. It's close to an ounce. I swallow in disbelief. An ounce of heroin—free for the taking. Nice, convenient, gram-sized baggies of heroin.

It's funny how often the word "free" is misused.

It takes everything I've got to maintain this mock indignation with Tina. In all reality, I want to pop a bottle of champagne and profess my love for her. I want to kiss her on the mouth and do a victory dance, but I hold fast.

"Jesus Christ! You could've let me know...Where did you get a gun from anyways? You know you can't just involve me in this shit! What are we gonna do? You gotta call him and let him know I had nothin' to do with this!"

A few seconds of silence pass. I'm out of breath.

"Are you done?"

She takes my continued silence as a yes.

Look, just head north on I-95, we're goin' to Tommy's. We can lay low there for a minute—I’ll take care of everything when we get there."

I know enough to know that when Tina says lay low, she really means get high. With no other ideas of my own, I follow her lead.

As I head for the highway, Tina reaches under the passenger seat. Her arm emerges holding a small makeup case. It's her version of a gym sock. She pops open the glove box and retrieves the ancient owners manual buried inside.

Everything in a junkie's life serves a purpose.

It's obvious, that what Tina places on her lap, is a junkie's owners manual; its edges are gnarled, its corners dogeared; water stains and black smudges, from the bottom of countless burnt spoons, decorate the cover in a Jackson Pollack'esq design.

It's not just our bodies that suffer the effects of this lifestyle—it’s any and everything in our blast radius.

With the speed and precision of an emergency room physician, Tina preps and readies her fix:

Heroin.

Water.

Flame.

Cotton.

Needle.

In that order.

She pulls the rubber band from her hair, slides it over her hand, up past her elbow, where she releases it with a snap. Her efficiency reveals her experience.

I try to collect the tools I lost in the excitement. I'm not quick enough. Tina's already locked and loaded. "At least get mine ready before you..." I plead with her, but it's too late. I know this, because she's already taking the rubber band from her arm. She gathers her hair to put the makeshift tourniquet back in its proper hiding place.

Everything in a junkie's life serves a purpose.

Before she can secure her ponytail, her arms start to move in slow motion as if she's suddenly under water.

"Bitch!...At least wait for me!" My words don't even reach her. I'm in this shitty Honda Accord, dope-sick and on the run from a wounded and recently robbed dope dealer, hell bent on killing the both of us, while Tina is somewhere on or above Cloud Nine. The distance makes this a one way conversation.

I can hardly be pissed at her. Like I said, we can put off anything until we're high.

I'm pawing at the floor in search of my rig, when I'm interrupted by a gurgling from the passenger seat. Tina's slumped forward, her head resting on the open glove box. Yellow foam slowly bubbles from her pale lips. Even her bile moves like it's stoned.

"Tina! Goddamn it!" I jerk the steering wheel to try and jolt a response from the increasingly-blue girl in my passenger seat. My attempt succeeds in shaking some of the foam from her lips. That's it.

Nothing—absolutely no response.

I have to pull over. I need to find a place to sort this shit out. My mind scrambles to recall a place nearby. A place appropriate enough to bring a dead, pistol-toting, junkie-girl back to life—then it clicks. There's a Publix shopping plaza about a mile from here. Me and Sal used to park in the back, by the loading docks, after they closed and shoot dope. It's not perfect, but it'll have to do.

If you're an American of any age, race, creed, or color, you know the type of strip mall I'm talking about. They're all variations of the same couple of stores:

Regional grocery store.

Dollar store.

Chinese take-out joint.

Pet Smart.

Hallmark.

Planet Fitness.

Maybe a GameStop.

The only thing that changes, from town to town, is the configuration.

Depending on the location, and time of night, the dead zone behind this retail hell can be quite accommodating to junkies and makeshift paramedics.

Tonight I'm both.

I pull into the parking lot, the lights still buzzing with electricity. All the storefronts are dark, with the exception of the Publix grocery.

A few rouge cars dot the parking lot out front. Night cleaners and stock boys mill around behind the windows. I kill the headlights and pull around back.

The contrast between the front of a strip mall and what lies behind it is astonishing. It's a perfect metaphor for America. A squeaky clean facade of retail joy and pleasantry out front—but just under the surface, is all the trash, oil stains, and broken dreams used to fuel this corporate cancer. It's beauty on the surface, and a rotting lie underneath: the American way.

Idling here in the dark, looking for the best place to park, I still hear the faint wheezing from my passenger seat. It's a good sign—it means Tina's still alive.

I try to suppress the panic that has me on the verge of puking. Being dope-sick doesn't help.

I pull into the darkest part of the center-most loading dock. The aroma of the dumpster a few feet away says we're behind the Chinese take-out joint. I turn off the engine. The silence that follows somehow brings more gravity to what's already a black-hole of a situation.

I can hear the click of the engine cooling.

I can hear the bass drum sound of my pounding heart.

What I don't hear, is wheezing from the passenger seat.

I grab the lever on the side of Tina's seat and recline it as far back as it will go. She falls into position like a dead fish. Her head rolls to one side, her eyes, open and lifeless.

"FUCK! FUCK! Wake up you ASSHOLE!..Please wake up!"

I use the back of my hand to wipe the foam from her mouth. I tilt her head back and pinch her nosed closed. Any junkie worth their weight in track marks knows basic CPR. I go in, forcing panic breaths between her clammy lips. Her chest rises and falls with each exchange. The bile on her lips tastes bitter—metallic. I do my best to ignore the smell of rotten egg-foo-young and crab-rangoon wafting from the open dumpster.

I draw Tina's next breath, deep into my lungs. My stomach revolts. I fight the nausea as best I can. I brace myself on the Honda's armrest, trying to catch my breath. Just as I think that the worst is over, I shoot my head out the passenger window, spewing a mixture of Red Bull and macaroni onto of the asphalt below. I'm momentarily frozen, transfixed by the Kool-Aid stained pasta I had for lunch today. Little pink noodles dot the ground like some deranged preschool art project. Before I can take my first post-puke breath, the half-digested noodles begin to glow.

Shit!

Everything slowly illuminates from what can only be the headlights of an approaching car, closing the distance at a steady idle.

You gotta be fuckin' kidding me!

At this time, in this location, and traveling at that speed, it's either a cop hunting, or a junkie trolling—neither of which is welcome. I slither back behind the wheel and recline my seat to match Tina's.

The mantra: please don't stop, please don't stop, runs on a loop in my head.

From the shifting light on the surrounding surfaces I can guess the distance of the intruder. A faint illumination on the ceiling slowly expands, enveloping more of the interior, with every second. Me and Tina lie face up, like a twisted Romeo and Juliet, one of us lifeless—the other pretending to be. Our faces are gradually bathed in expanding light as the vehicle creeps closer. The impending illumination is unbearable.

I hold my breath in anticipation.

Neither one of us is breathing.

The pounding of my heart, and the crunch of tires slowly rolling over asphalt, are the only sounds in the world—and they are deafening.

This is taking too long! Whoever they are—if they don't pull off soon—Tina’s a goner. Even time starts to move like it's stoned.

The light slowly gives way to shadow. The intruders are now directly behind us. The contorted rearview mirror gives me a glimpse of a late-model minivan crawling past.

I finally exhale.

The van continues at the same slow pace down the length of the strip mall. The skunky smell of dirt weed brushes me through the window. What an infuriating relief.

Fuckin stoners!

I slip from the car and maneuver around to the passenger side. Judging by her most recent shade of blue, Tina is in dire need of a more vigorous form of CPR. If I'm gonna get her back to the land of the living, I'll need a flat surface.

I crouch down and open Tina's door. Two little baggies of dog food tumble to the ground. I swing her legs out of the car. It doesn't take much to move a hundred pound junkie. At the first little tug, her lifeless body pours onto the asphalt. She smacks her head on the floorboard in the process. This shit couldn't get much worse.

I start the process again.

Head back, pinch nose. Breath...Breath...Breath...

Nothing!

I place my hands over the center of her chest.

Three compressions.

Pause.

I go back, to force a few more breaths into Tina's lungs, when my brain realizes what my heart refuses to accept: a million breaths wouldn't be enough to reverse what heroin and time have already done.

I pinch Tina's nose, to give it one more ceremonial attempt, when our little grocery store revival is suddenly illuminated by blue and red flashing lights. I drop to my stomach and army crawl towards the rear of the Honda—dragging myself through a minefield of heroin baggies, vomit, and crushed fortune cookies. I open my eyes, and what I see sends my heart into the pit of my stomach. I pray that I'm hallucinating.

Roughly fifty yards away, the stoner van is blocked in by a flashing police cruiser. He must've seen them pull in and came around from the other side of the strip. Revealed, under the flashing lights of the cruiser, is a cop's silhouette approaching the van.

Panic.

My desire to stand up and run is overwhelming. It's becoming clear that I'm more of a flight than fight kinda guy. There's just too much of me that would be left behind if I just ran away, so without any conscious thought, I creep over and slide open the little door on the side of the dumpster.

Luckily, this scene unfolds on the passenger side of the car, blocking any direct line of sight from the cops. The hot-trash smell of the open dumpster hits me like a ton of bricks. It takes everything I have not to spew again.

The things you can do in the name of self preservation is chilling. A sort of autopilot washes over me. I scoop up Tina—they way you'd carry your bride through the threshold--and stuff her through the opening of the dumpster. It's fairly empty—considering the smell. She slides almost completely out of sight. The soles of her shoes are all I can see. The tattered bottoms of her Converse All-Stars flash:

Blue.

Red.

Blue.

Red.

It's such a disturbing image that I lose myself, and just end up standing there, staring at her blinking shoes.

I'm snapped back, by the clunk of a distant car door, and fall back into autopilot. I creep back around to the drivers side and slide behind the wheel. I close my eyes, hold my breath, and turn the key. The ancient Honda comes to life with what feels like a roar, but in reality is more like a purr. I leave the lights off and back out, the way I came. I idle in reverse, the entire way, to avoid any chance of my brake lights alerting cops.

Fingers crossed...

I think ninja.

I think stealth bomber.

I think the invisible man.

Fifty more feet and I'm clear.

Time has once again slowed to a crawl. I'm afraid to breathe.

Twenty feet left to go.

Every inch is excruciating, every muscle tight. I swallow hard.

Ten more feet.

I think cat burglar.

I think Harry Houdini.

I think James Bond.

Five more feet.

By no small miracle, I clear the back of the strip mall. No one is the wiser as I slip out of the parking lot into the Florida night.

Victory!

Left on Palm Bay Rd.

Right on University Blvd.

Left on 1-92.

Before I can process the last fifteen minutes, I'm merging onto I-95 north.

Returning from autopilot, back to my body, is agonizing. I'm greeted by the panic-sweats and dry heaves of a full fledged withdrawal. A combination of convenience and lack of emotions direct me to my destination. Just like Tina said: I'm heading to Tommy's house.

CHAPTER 4

Using the term house, to describe where Tommy lives, is a bit of a stretch. I mean, technically it is a house, with four walls and a roof but, if we're being honest, his place would be more accurately described as a structure formerly known as a house.

Tommy is what happens when someone's precious baby boy, who can do no wrong, becomes a raging drug addict. The entitled child run amok.

It's not that Tommy was unfamiliar with the word No. It's just that his experience came from saying it, not hearing it.

His parents made a decent living operating the family's carpet installation company. And though they were by no means rich, they were definitely comfortable. Growing up, Tommy reaped the benefits of his parents success—as well as their complete lack of backbone. It's really not his fault that he turned out to be an entitled, self-righteous, spoiled, piece of shit. I'm sure anyone in that situation might've turned out the same. But realizing that his current shortcomings may not be his fault, make it no easier to stomach his presence.

But like I said: Everything in a junkie's life serves a purpose—even acquaintances of the likes of Tommy.

We first started hangin' out with him by default. When me and my fellow neighborhood delinquents first started dabbling in illicit substances, we still lived with our parents. We had no steady place to consume our stolen alcohol or medicine cabinet pharmaceuticals.

Enter Thomas Rosewood.

Always eager to be accepted, and more than willing to abuse his parents inability to say No, Tommy quickly became the default host of our drug-fueled early days.

Tommy was the addicts version of the neighborhood kid with a pool; we overlooked more than a few of his character flaws for the sake of a place to hang.

Quid-pro-quo.

It didn't happen overnight, but before anyone could stop it—least of all his poor parents—the once respectable family home, became a full-fledged drug den. With the choice to either put their foot down, or leave? They left.

Since then, a nearly constant infestation of dopefiends and low lives have made Tommy's childhood home practically uninhabitable.

Everything in a junkie's blast radius suffers.

I pull into Tommy's driveway, grab the gym sock and dope, and bolt for the door, dodging an obstacle course of miscellaneous junk along the way. I reach the front door and almost break my neck on a layer of old newspapers and loose envelopes, all mailbox overflow.

Knocking is pointless, since nine times outta ten, Tommy's either asleep, or too wasted to respond. I turn the handle and attempt to force my way in. The debris on the other side of the door makes this a more of a struggle than it should be. After some heavy shouldering, I manage to wedge the door open just enough to squeeze through.

It takes a minute for me to adjust to the dim surroundings. The smell of fresh cigarette smoke let's me know that Tommy is awake—or at least he's alive. I follow the faint sound of TV chatter into his bedroom/living room.

A combination of convenience, and a total lack of self respect, has led Tommy to the "natural decision" to drag his bare mattress into the living room.

Classy.

I find Tommy sprawled face up and fully clothed on the mattress, his eyes closed. A lit cigarette between his fingers, with a two-inch cylinder of ash, dangles precariously over a burnt towel on the floor. The towel—clearly a junkie's towel—bears the scars of countless burn marks of varying size and severity. Through the burn holes, you can see that the carpet underneath has suffered a similar fate.

Everything in the blast radius...

The only source of light in the whole house is the bluish glow of the television.

Tommy hears me come in and does his best to appear wide awake and aware. “Hey...Danny?..." he says. "What's good bro?" His attempt to look like a functioning human being lasts a whole five seconds before his eyes slowly droop shut.

For unknown reasons, the more stoned a junkie is, the harder they try to look sober. It's similar to a lush who refuses to admit they're drunk, or a staunch Republican pretending he was just innocently tapping the floor of the truck-stop bathroom with the toe of his loafer slid under the stall next to him.

We all want to be what we're not.

Even in his deteriorated condition, Tommy seems startled by my appearance—which says a lot about my current condition. I step over him on my way to the kitchen, taking my shirt off in transit. I toss the shirt into what—I’m assuming—is the trash area in the corner. It knocks over a wall of empty beer bottles. I flip on the light switch, turn on the faucet, and start to washing up.

In his best sober voice, Tommy mumbles, "Where's Tina?"

"It's a long story," I shoot back, "I'll tell you as soon as I get some dope in me."

I splash my chest with water. The sensation gives me a rush of chills that stands my neck hair on end. I clean off just enough to avoid blood poisoning when I shoot up. I can't even process anything outside of being dope-sick.

With Tommy in a state of suspended animation, I pull out my tools and clear a space on the kitchen counter. Judging by Tina's reaction, this shit is of extremely quality, like stop-your-heart high quality. I figure it's best to be on the safe side—well as safe as you can be while shooting heroin.

For the third time—in as many minutes—the phone in my back pocket buzzes.

I can put off anything until I'm high.

I pop open the case and take out one of the gram-sized baggies. Even with those lost in the mayhem I still count fifteen baggies. I snap the case shut and set it on the countertop.

Now the important stuff. Using my teeth and fingernails, I delicately untie the little plastic knot securing the bag. I open the bundle. The entire gram is in one solid chuck; a testament to its life-threatening quality. I use my thumbnail to chip off a piece of “dog food" about the size of a match head. I drop the tiny chocolate chip into the waiting spoon. I lick my thumbnail clean. The bitter taste, another indicator of the high quality I'm dealing with.

A jolt of anticipation shoots up my spine.

Spoon—check.

Heroin—check.

I take the orange cap off of the plunger-end of the syringe and hold it under the drip of the faucet. Any junkie in a rush knows that this cap holds exactly 1cc of water: a full syringe. So instead of drawing the water up through the needle, and shooting it into the spoon—wasting precious, precious time—I just fill up the cap halfway and dump it in. You never want to completely fill your rig, that way you still have room to flag.

You know that cheesy scene in every drug movie, when a string of blood shoots back into the syringe? That's flagging. It's to make sure that the needle is in a vein and not in a muscle. Trust me, it's a painful mistake to make.

The water surrounds the little chocolate chip of heroin, forming a deserted island in the spoon.

Spoon—check.

Heroin—check.

Water—check.

My patience is all but extinct. I shove a cluster of beer bottles aside and get down to business. I find an old cigarette butt and make quick work of rolling a piece of the filter into a ball. I stir the mixture and drop the yellowed filter into the chocolate solution. The little yellow ball instantly triples in size as it soaks up the liquid. Contrary to popular belief, heroin doesn't have to be cooked. I lay the tip of the needle in the tiny yellow-brown pillow and pull back on the plunger. The contents of the spoon recede into the needle. I turn the rig upside down and give it a few taps to shake the bubbles free. They float upwards, where I squeeze the collected air from the needle.

Finally!

My weapon readied, I clinch my left hand into a fist to better expose my veins. I've never needed a tourniquet. I was blessed, or cursed—depending on who you ask—with pronounced veins.

I find my target and, with the precision of a brain surgeon, I angle the needle and go in, following the direction of the vein.

Pro.

I pull the plunger back just enough to see a little string of crimson shoot into the rig and swirl with the muddy mixture inside.

Perfect flag.

I push the plunger down until the syringe is empty.

After injection, you have about ten-seconds before being completely dumbstruck. Most junkies can get a hell of a lot done in those precious seconds.

I put the spoon in my mouth to clean it, and swallow the filter.

Waste not want not.

I put the cap on the needle and shove the gym sock in my front pocket. I twist the bag of heroin temporarily closed. Before I can put it back in the case, it hits me, first in the head, then down through my body. The case slips from my hands to the counter.

I'll spare you an attempt at describing what a heroin high feels like. It's not something you can truly appreciate secondhand. All I'll say is, there's no better feeling on this planet—or in this life. The problem, is that the inverse is also true, if you go without. But when you're dealing with the devil, you buy the ticket and you take the ride. And right now I'm on the upside of that deal, so I take a second to savor this moment.

I'm anxious to see how strong this shit really is. Considering how little I did, and the battle I'm currently losing with gravity, it's really-really good shit...like unbelievably good.

Tina never had a chance.

I'd like to make it to the couch to collapse for a few minutes while I get my bearings, but it's a good ten feet away. Ten feet or ten miles, it's all the same. I turn around and slide to the floor, using the cabinets as my guide. My ass hits the floor and I feel just safe enough to close my eyes for a few seconds.

Darkness.

I'm not completely out of it. A good heroin high is like watching a movie, ten frames at a time, every few minutes. And though the visual aspect is greatly reduced, the auditory senses manage a little better. I guess it's because you don't have to keep your ears open to hear.

On the edge of death's doorstep, these are the moments we live for.

For an instant it's all worth it.

CHAPTER 5

Through the pink clouds, I hear a stirring in the living room. Tommy must've been rousted by the empty beer bottles I took out on my slide to the floor. He's saying something but, between his incoherent mumblings and my inebriated state, it's too much to decipher. I muster just enough strength to open my eyes in response, but not enough to turn my head to face him. All I can see is my war-beaten shoes in front of me and the dilapidated cabinets on the other side of the kitchen.

Man, this place has really gone to hell.

Darkness washes over me again...

I hear that Tommy has made his way into the kitchen, still mumbling something, when a pungent odor hits me. It's the unmistakable smell of crack smoke.

The blast of the strong stimulant immediately pulls him from his stupor. He's instantly speaking more clearly. "Holy shit!.." he swallows. "Where the fuck'd you get this?"

Though I can't see, I know he's holding the case full of heroin. I moan incoherently in response. The thought of this dirt ball pocketing my loot, forces me to seriously consider getting to my feet. Ultimately, I go with a much easier to execute verbal command instead.

"Gimmie it!" I slur. I struggle to hold my hand open in his direction. He places something in my palm. It's not the case. Wrong size, wrong temperature. I pull my hand into my field of vision. It's a, hot-to-the-touch, fully-loaded crack stem, and a yellow lighter.

Now I'm no crackhead—it’s just not my style—but who am I to look a gift pipe in the mouth? And considering my current predicament, I could probably use a little more pep in my step.

In excruciatingly slow motion, I lift the stem and spark the lighter. A cartoonishly-large flame shoots from the Bic. I hold it to the glass stem and pull the flame into the cylinder with little short puffs—just little puffs—until my lungs are filled to capacity. I exhale everything in one deep breath. A thick yellow smoke fills the kitchen. My face goes numb. A string of saliva slips from my lips onto my chest.

I wait for the ringer.

A ringer is what crackheads call the sound that follows a massive hit of high quality dope.

It comes on like a freight train and sounds like a massive church bell ringing between your ears. My eyes snap open. I take a huge panic breath. My hands instinctively go to my face to cradle my head in an attempt to deal with the overwhelming intensity of such a strong upper. "God-damn, I hate coke!" I say, through peek-a-boo hands.

CHAPTER 6

My phone buzzes in my back pocket again. This time, I pull it out to check the caller I.D. It's a number not saved in my phone, meaning it's unrecognizable. I press decline. I have eight missed calls from the same number.

Fear washes over me as I weigh the possibilities of who the persistent caller could be. The crack-high only adds to my terror. I scroll through the call log. It's the same number that Tina dialed from my phone earlier tonight.

Fuck!..What an idiot!

In all the mayhem, I completely forgot that Tina used my phone to call G after hers died. And now he has my number. With just ten digits, he's one website away from finding out everything about me.

Just like that, a single snowflake of personal information becomes an avalanche.

The only thing keeping me partially sane, is the knowledge that D doesn't know where I am...not yet at least. I turn the ringer off and slide the phone into my back pocket.

Outta sight, outta mind...kinda.

Climbing to my feet, the reality of the situation comes down on me like a hangover. I slowly lift my head to see Tommy standing a few feet away, holding the open sunglasses case.

"Where the hell did you get this?!" he says.

Shit!

I snatch the case out of his hand. "Look do you wanna get high, or stand here and play twenty fuckin' questions?!" I hand back the stem and head for the couch. He stands still for a moment, unsatisfied with my evasion but not quite willing to pass up free dope. He plops down next to me. He pulls a spoon and rig from his pocket and drops them on the table.

I really don't need another shot right now but it's the only thing I can think of of to distract Tommy from his line of questioning. In a few minutes he should be too inebriated to ask anything.

I fish around for the open bag of dope and get to work. I come back from the kitchen with with a Mickey Mouse shot glass full of tap water. On my way back, I watch Tommy, trying to get a read on him.

Nothing.

Nothing, but the typical strangeness. He's fully focused on his phone, looking up Facebook updates, or porn. Whatever it is, his distraction brings me a sliver of relief.

He looks up from his phone and says, "Looks like you got more than just personal...Let me buy a few of grams.

"Not for sale," I say. "I'm holding it for somebody."

"Danny, C'mon bro, you can come off somethin'," he whines, like a spoiled brat.

Hoping to put an end to the chitchat, I agree, "Fine, gimmie a hundred bucks."

"A hundred?..I gotta hit up an ATM," he says. "I ain't got that much on me." He fishes out his wallet and rifles through the bills inside. "Nope, eighty-four." His math is more of a starting offer than a statement.

"Look, gimmie what you got, and a half-gram of that hard you been smokin', and we'll call it even."

Fuckin' junkie.

I'd just give it to him if it wouldn't look so suspicious. Anything to shut him up. Although, I really could use the money.

"Deal." He lays the money on the table and separates the crack into a piece of newspaper. He origamis the package closed for me.

I stuff both in my sock and continue preparing our fix.

Done.

Both rigs are ready to go. Tommy's fix is significantly more potent than mine. Not enough to kill him, just enough to keep him outta my hair for awhile. Believe me, I've had my fill of dead body disposal for one night. My rig has enough to counteract this paranoid coke high—and hopefully not much more.

I do my shot, light a cigarette, and sink into the couch. It's immediately obvious that I did too much...again. Once this crack wears off, I'm gonna be in trouble.

Tommy does his shot and, for some reason, tries to stand up. He makes it halfway before collapsing back into the couch, dropping his phone and crack stem to the floor. I scoop up the paraphernalia and head to the bathroom for a little privacy.

Once inside, I pull the crack from my sock and pack the pipe. Taking a drag from my Newport, I toss Tommy's phone on the sink and search for my lighter. As soon as I find the Bic, his phone lets out the short buzz of an incoming text. I almost didn't notice through the heroin haze currently overtaking the coke in my system. I squint at the phone. As the words on the screen register, the lighter and stem tumble from my loosening grip, to the floor.

Small victories, huge failures.

Fighting the heroin, to take it all in before I fade away, I read: Good look! B there N 20. Sender: G

Terror would overtake me, if the heroin didn't get there first. And in the worst possible moment, in the worst possible place, everything fades to black.

I'm jolted back to life by a searing pain in my hand. My eyes shoot open just in time to see the Newport drop, from between two severely burnt fingers, to the floor.

Saved by a cancer stick! I wonder what those anti-smoking assholes would have to say about this.

I check Tommy's phone to see how long I was out. Ten minutes. I gotta get moving, but first things first, I don't stand a chance in this condition. I quickly find the pipe under the sink and the lighter behind the toilet. I take three frantic blasts and gather my things. I open the bathroom door.

Two muffled car doors shut in quick succession. Sounds like D is early, for the first time in his life.

My overworked heart nearly leaps from my chest. I weigh my options. Leaving through the front door doesn't seem too practical, but leaving with the H still sitting on Tommy's coffee table, is unthinkable.

Frozen, halfway between the bathroom and living room, I watch two silhouettes sprint past the windows towards the front of the house.

The front door thuds with the weight of a doped dealer behind it. Thankfully, the trash prevents anyone larger than a junkie from squeezing through—at least not without a struggle. A hand pushes through the door, then an arm. The intruder slows for just an instant as our eyes meet. It's not G, but he can't be far behind.

This is my only chance.

Tommy's slumped over on the couch. I have to step over him to grab the sunglasses case. When I do, I trip over one of his stupid, lazy, useless, fucking legs, and in my attempt not to crash through the glass table, I accidentally kick the case, scattering its contents, like loose popcorn, across the room.

FUCK!

The front door bucks again. The henchman now has half his torso inside the house.

I bolt back to the bathroom and wedge a broom between the door and tub. It won't hold for long, but it might slow them down. I jump in the tub and tear away the curtains covering the window looking out onto the side yard. I fling open the tiny window.

The thuds have stopped. Voices approach the door. I hope the broom holds.

"Come out Davey, we just wanna talk. All we want is the girl and the dope."

I say nothing while I attempt to slip headfirst through the window.

The asshole could at least get my name right.

The door bucks violently in response to my continued silence. The thin wooden door splinters behind me as I squeeze through the pinching window frame. I rock back and forth, trying to free myself from the black hole gravity of the house. Just as I pass through the event horizon, and the window vomits me out onto the lawn, three deafening gunshots ring out behind me. For the second time tonight, I'm showered in glass.

I pat myself down for bullet wounds. Everything seems to be in order. I scramble to my feet and sprint to the driveway at the other end of the house.

Jogging through the front yard, I find G's Caprice, behind the Honda, blocking my exit. I glance around the littered driveway, looking for something sharp. A phillips-head screwdriver protrudes from a rotten pumpkin on an old washing machine

It should do

I slam the screwdriver through the front tire of G's Caprice. It slumps forward onto the rim with a hiss. I jump into my beautiful Honda and start her up.

Oh baby, please don't fail me now.

The thugs inside must've realized that the bathroom is without a junkie, or they heard the car start, because the front door suddenly swings inward. My pursuers face the same problem coming out as they did going in. The door opens just enough for a large arm, holding an even larger gun, to slide through and fire blindly in my direction. A bullet pierces my passenger door and lodges in the seat next to me.

I shift the war horse into reverse and stomp on the gas. The Honda peels backwards into G's automotive roadblock. Both cars inch towards the road. This old supermodel doesn't have the balls to push the heavier sedan completely out of the driveway.

The goons are now cranking at the door with more success. I shift back into drive and pull forward, creating as much space between the two cars as possible. I shift into reverse, gaining momentum in the new found space, and slam into the Caprice. The Honda manages to push it a few more inches.

The door swings open. G and his henchman spill into the yard. I crank the wheel and stand on the gas. The Honda lurches forward, running over a used tire and a stroller full of miscellaneous shoes in the driveway. I lower my head and aim for the road.

Several more shots ring out. Another one of my dwindling, intact, windows is shattered to pieces. The car jumps as I pass over the drainage ditch surrounding the house. The old Honda screeches victoriously as it gains traction on the road.

Together, we make another escape into the night.

I can't believe I had to leave the dope!

I make it out of that rat bastard's house with my life, but not much more:

Eighty-four bucks.

Almost a gram of crack.

And half a pack of Newports.

Oh yeah, and my life—but that's not worth much these days.

OK, Think... What next?

I have to get off the road to try and sort this shit out, but first, I'm in desperate need of gas. No doubt, the low-gas light would be blinking furiously if it wasn't forced into early retirement from overuse. It's obvious that this old girl is running on fumes from the way she's bitching and sputtering. I jerk the wheel back and forth to shake any loose gas to the center of the tank. This trick is usually good for an extra mile—at least that's what I tell myself. I make the sign of the cross and pray that we make it.

I coast into the gas station, just before my ride completely shits out. The bright fluorescent lights above the gas pumps reveal the actual state of the old girl: three shattered windows, numerous bullet holes and dents pepper her body, and the rear bumper hangs, like a broken jaw, just inches from the ground.

I scan the interior to get a loose inventory:

Three phones: Tina's, Tommy's, and mine.

Needle.

Spoon.

Lighter.

And nothing else worth mentioning...

Wait? No—it can't be. Holy shit. Please, please, please let it be!

I fling open the passenger door and brush the debris from under the glove box—and there it is! A single piece of dry dog food wrapped in plastic.

There is a God!

Small victories, huge failures. I'll take the wins wherever I can get 'em.

I make my way into the little bodega, glancing over my shoulder to check the pump number before I enter. A small cuban lady organizes cigarettes behind the counter. She gives me, and then my ride, a once over. Nothing seems to be out of place—well not enough for her to act on anyways.

The great thing about bad neighborhoods, is that the people in them have enough bullshit going on in their own lives, that they tend no to go looking for it in others.

I gather my supplies and drop them on the counter:

2 Red Bulls.

1 hotdog.

1 plastic bottle of lemon juice, in the shape of a lemon.

"Oh, and twenty on pump four," I say, "and a pack of Newport 100's please."

She punches the corresponding buttons on the register. $34.89 blinks on the display. I toss her a folded up fifty. She unfolds it and uses the edge of the counter to straighten it out. A few more buttons and the drawer shoots open against her hip. I pocket my change and cradle the items in my arms. The Red Bulls against my bare chest are freezing.

I dump the bounty into the passenger seat, on top of the shards of glass and flecks of pink macaroni. Something in the front seat steals my focus. There's a little spot of dried foam on the open glovebox. Tina. I zone out, staring at her biological fingerprint, until the intercom chirps with static.

The pump's little metal speaker has a thick Cuban accent. "Sir, jour pump iss ready," it says.

It takes me a few seconds before I get to my feet and start pumping the gas.

CHAPTER 6

The gravity of tonight's events is starting to weigh on me. With all the adrenaline, and life altering shit of the last few hours, my high is quickly fading. It's all catching up to me, until emotions begin to break through my chemical armor.

This is unacceptable!

Adjacent to the bodega is a self-service carwash. At this time of night, it's as dark and desolate as any slime ball could ask for.

I pull the battered Honda into the port furthest away from the lights of the gas station. And for the first time since Tina blew D's ear in half, I have a second to think.

I kill the engine, but leave the key one click forward so the radio still works—plus I'll need the ambient light from the dashboard when I get my shit ready. An old tape protrudes from the glovebox. I push it into the tape deck. It creaks and strains under the ancient mechanics. A low-quality recording of "Santeria" by Sublime fills the surrounding carport.

Here it comes...It's starting.

First, I just well up. Then silent tears run down my cheeks onto my chest. It doesn't take long for this episode to evolve into a full fledged sobbing fit.

I don't even know what I'm crying about.

Not to sound like a sociopath, but it's not for Tina. I've seen a dozen people O.D. over the years. It's certainly not because of G, or the fear of losing my life at his hands; I abandoned my attachment to this miserable life years ago, when Sal died. To be completely honest, I've secretly wished—for sometime now—that it would just come to its natural end already. It's not for the loss that my family would suffer over my death; again, I gave up on any real concern for the feelings of my loved ones a long time ago. I mean, hypothetically, I want them to be happy and pain free—just not enough to actually do anything about it. Besides—after the initial grief—their lives would be infinitely better without me in it.

Nope...I'm blubbering like a baby because I'm sobering up. I'm sobbing, because I've never been good at this. I've never been able to deal with this emotional bullshit!

Get it together you fuckin' pussy!

The sobbing fit becomes a punching match with the steering wheel.

FUCK!…I'm falling apart.

The tape ends. It clicks twice as it switches to the other side. The brief silence before the first song starts, is broken by 2live Crew's "Pop that Pussy."

Now, I feel ridiculous.

I turn the volume down and wipe my face.

It's time to do what I always do when this happens. I pull out my tools and place them on the war-beaten owner's manual. I'm no longer fuckin' around. It's time for a real speedball. I use my fingernails to pinch a healthy slab of crack off, into the spoon.

I know what you're probably thinking: You can't shoot up crack. But you underestimate the junkie ingenuity. You can discover a lot when you're willing to try anything.

Crack cocaine has a dense, water-resistant quality, so dissolving it in water, like heroin, won't work. It takes something more acidic. You can use vinegar or lemon juice, or—in a pinch—you can use the little sugar-free Kool-Aid packets. Just mix the Berry Blast powder with a little water, and presto—you’re ready to shoot crack.

I grab the lemon-shaped bottle from the seat next to me and squeeze half a dozen drops into the spoon. With the plunger end of my syringe, I crush the island of crack into dust, where it dissolves into the surrounding yellow sea. But that's only half of tonight's recipe. I take a nice chunk of dog food and add it to the concoction.

Crush and stir.

The rest is academic—same as always.

I draw up the solution and ready my fix. I'm trying to find enough light to take my shot when my phone buzzes.

Another text message steps on my chest. It's just one line, an address: 2765 Jefferson St. Palm Bay Florida.

My sister's house.

CHAPTER 7

Sitting in this shitty car, in this shitty carwash, I go through the cycle.

Fear turns to anger.

Anger turns back to fear.

Fear turns to self hatred.

And self hatred finally turns to the acceptance of defeat.

Checkmate.

Game over.

I text back: What do you want?

My heart sinks. Visions of my sister and her husband, lavishing attention on my two year old niece, fill my head. Holidays with the family. Vacations filled with joy and laughter turn dark, as I see those familiar faces, duct-taped and hog tied, wearing masks of fear and confusion on their faces. They might never work out all the details, but surely—in their final moments—they’d know that it had something to do with me.

I'm startled by the phone, as it lights up with the reply:

You got one shot! I want tha rest of my shit and the fuckin' bitch! Otherwise I'ma have 2 Xpress my disappointment to ur sister directly. Make it quick I'm already here.

There's no point telling him that Tina's already dead, that I spilled half the heroin when I was dumping her body—he’d never believe it. Even if he did, I doubt it would offer him any relief in the revenge department.

But one thing at a time.

Right now, my priority is keeping G and his goons away from my sister.

I take a breath and text back:

Fine. Tina and the dope, no problem. On my way to get her now. I'll text when I'm ready.

You got 30 mins bitch! U kno where I'm at.

Well, it's obvious what I gotta do.

I'm a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of 'em. Once G gets what he wants, he's just as likely to kill me, as he is to let me go. But right now he needs me to get to Tina, and the dope. If this is going to work, I'll have to make every second count. I told G that I was on my way to pick up Tina. So that's exactly what I'm gonna do.

I toss the phone into the passenger seat and grab the loaded rig. Not that I need any extra motivation. But I could use the fuel. I find a vein and push the elixir into my bloodstream. I toss the rig out of my last remaining window and crank the key forward. The engine turns over at the exact moment that the speedball takes hold. Me and my beautiful rust bucket roar to life; me and my elderly supermodel, ready for one last strut down the runway. Pedal to the floor, we screech from the carport into the darkness.

CHAPTER 8

I pull into the strip mall where I dropped Tina off. Even the overnight workers are gone. I pull around back, from the opposite side this time, and make my way to the dumpster behind The Golden Buddha. I don't see any crime scene tape, so I assume no one's noticed the contents of the dumpster.

The depth of silence is unsettling.

The cacophony of sweetly rancid smells float from the dumpster. Time hasn't helped.

The cocaine racing through my veins keeps me focused on the task at hand. I slide the dumpster open. Without the blue and red lights of the police cruiser, I can't see a thing. I open the passenger door, to activate the interior lights of the Honda. It's not much, but it helps. I turn around, and there they are, the bottoms of two, barely visible, size-seven Chuck Taylors.

I grab the ankles attached to the shoes and tug. Because of the angle, and the debris involved, Tina proves more difficult coming out than going in. Just like Chinese food. After some repositioning, I manage to pull her free from the dumpster. I cradle her in my arms, like that Madonna and Christ painting, only, Tina's crown of thorns, is chunks of fried rice and lo-mein noodles.

Thank god my emotions are currently under a chemical lock-and-key, otherwise I'd be a worthless mess, and my sister and her family would be as good as dead.

I gently set Tina down against the rear tire, so I can clean her up before putting her back in the car. I brush the debris from her hair. I reach into the car for something better. All I can find is my secret gym sock. I use it to wipe her face clean.

For the first time ever, I actually see her. She's seen better days, but behind her piercings and unkempt hair, she's beautiful. Without the attitude—and the pistol—her features are attractive and gentle. She's pretty—in that girl-next-door kinda way. I brush the remaining strands of loose hair behind her ear and kiss her on the forehead. She tastes like duck sauce.

I slide my arm behind her waist to pick her up. Something solid is tucked into her back pocket. I pull it out and before I can get it under the dome light, I know exactly what it is. The little chrome .380 that took a chunk outta G's ear.

Of course!

So much has happened that I'd completely forgotten about the gun.

I stare at the little game-changer and reformulate my plan. I toss the burner under Tina's seat and slide her into the car. I recline her seat as far back as it will go, to avoid any curious onlookers.

Trying my best to make up for lost time, while still remaining somewhat under the radar, I keep the Honda within three MPH of the speed limit. If I'm not careful, a high-speed chase over several counties, ending in a nationally televised suicide-by-cop, is a real possibility. Getting pulled over just isn't an option. I do my best to mind my Ps and Qs—well, as much as is possible while I'm high outta my mind, in a bullet-riddled Honda with expired tags, a mangled rear bumper, and a dead girl in the passenger seat. I have no choice but to use back roads and side streets to remain relatively anonymous. But this safer route is too time consuming for G's thirty minute deadline.

I send a preemptive text:

Took longer gettin Tina in the car, she's really fucked up. On our way. Gotta take back roads. B there in 15. Don't do anything to my sister.

In case G was trying to avoid any evidence in his previous texts, I just dropped an electronic bloody glove in his lap. Hopefully it will keep him from jumpin' the gun.

G: Hurry up bitch, B4 I change my mind!

Maybe not.

I zigzag through the neighborhoods, to a park a few blocks from my sister's house. The clock on the dashboard says I've got exactly eight minutes to set this plan into motion.

There are two streetlights, at half power, still on in the park, one in the parking lot and one between the playground and the picnic tables. I pull Tina from the car and carry her to the picnic table farthest from the streetlight. I do my best to prop her up, like she's a regular park goer just having a midnight snack. I do a decent job, but I can't get her head to stay up. Luckily, there are very few differences between the posture of a dead girl and the posture of a junkie. I place her hand on the table, on top of a bag of pork-fried-rice meant to look like the stolen dope.

The darkened playground is directly between the parking lot and Tina's "table for one." It's your standard new-millennium child-friendly recreation area: a few swings, a platform with plastic slides and tunnels, a tire swing made from recycled rubber, a mock telescope, and an oversized tic-tac-toe wall; all rounded corners and smoothed edges.

This is why our civilization is doomed. By the time this post-millennial generation takes the reins, we won't stand a chance. This soft-bellied, everyone-gets-a-trophy, pampered and entitled group of kids will grow up scarless and spineless.

This over padded playground is just a symptom of something larger; maximum protection, minimum adversity; infancy stretched for decades. With no immunities—physical or mental—it’s likely we'll be brought to our knees by some new form of chicken pox—or the fear of contracting it. But then again, I was never coddled or pampered and I'm not exactly the pride of my generation; and my generation isn't exactly the pride of the human race. So maybe our collective doom is inevitable.

I park the Honda behind a group of trees on the edge of the park. I jog back to the playground and slip into one of the darkened tunnels facing Tina's table.

I send a text:

Just dropped her off at the park you passed on the way in. She has the rest of your shit. I had nothin' to do with that shit earlier. Held up my end. You'll never hear from me again. Deal?

Hear from U? I better neva C ur bitch ass again. As long as that bitch is there wit my shit then I'm dun wit U. Hope you said bye to that ass 2. I'ma get my $ one way or anotha.

CHPATER 9

I hold down the power button on my phone to make sure it's off.

No more distractions.

No more surprises.

I settle in and wait. For the first time in forever, I'm in control.

Tina's words from earlier echo in my head: "Creepy fuck....always tryin to.... deserves it!.." In hindsight it sounds obvious that she was on the verge of doing something drastic, but I'm not exactly big on recognizing other people's problems—much less doing anything to help.

Thoughts of what might have driven her to such drastic measures cloud my concentration. There were stories, here and there, about G trading dope for sexual favors, junkies "renting out" their girlfriends for the weekend. Girls would come back with tales of rough sex and general degradation, sporting black eyes and bruises as souvenirs. There were even rumors of girls that never returned. I just chalked it up to exaggeration and urban legend. Like all things, I figured there was probably some truth to it, but that most was nothing more than gossip.

With the events of the last few hours, I'm starting to wonder.

My frustration turns inward. My newfound focus becomes harder to maintain. My naïveté and self-centered attitude prevented me from stopping any of this. If, for just an instant, I put someone or something ahead of this fucking addiction, I could've stopped this train wreck from happening.

G's missing an ear.

Tina's dead.

In all probability, Tommy's dead.

I've committed enough felonies to spend the rest of my life in prison.

And I'm on the verge of getting my sister and her family killed.

And that's just in the last few hours! This is just the most recent in a series of catastrophic events, and at the center of all of them—is yours truly.

Anger smolders in my chest like a hot coal. I grit my teeth and tug at my hair in an attempt to keep from exploding, but It happens anyways. It's just too much, too fast.

"Stupid! Stupid! Fucking piece of shit!"

All the heroin in the world couldn't hold this back. Tears of frustration and rage roll down my face, dropping onto the wood chips gathered at the bottom of the tunnel. I throw myself around and beat myself up inside this little plastic tube, exercising my demons.

Just when I'm ready to collapse, I hear a car door slam. One distant clunk, quickly followed by another. My focus returns—like waking from a dream. I wipe the tears away.

Mental stability has never been my strong suit.

I hear nothing for a good thirty-seconds—and right before I risk poking my head from the safety of the tunnel, I hear the faint sound of voices approaching. A resolute determination envelops me. It's surprising, the return of my single minded focus. The feeling, that all the twisted experiences in my fucked-up life has led to this one moment, becomes undeniable.

The voices grow louder, until they're close enough that I can hear footsteps. They can't be more than twenty feet from the tunnel, and maybe another forty feet from Tina. My hand slides to my lower back and grips the cool metal of the pistol. On the ride here I counted seven rounds in the clip plus the one in the chamber.

The unchecked arrogance of those in power can leave them with the false sense of safety—especially when it comes to dope dealers. I'm counting on this. Their nonchalant tones tell me that these two have all but counted their chickens. They're voicing their intentions for Tina loud enough for her to hear—if she were still alive. Threats disguised as idle chatter.

They're not talking to Tina as much as they're talking at her.

Here they come without a care in the world. I do my best to channel the spirits of great warriors.

I think Sun Tzu.

I think Miyamoto Musashi.

I think Geronimo.

I crouch down and let them pass by the tunnel. I can only see them from the waist down. They're swinging pistols as they walk.

One deep breath, then I count: 3...2...1

I slip out of the tunnel—silently, swiftly—and fall into step directly behind them. And as confidently as I've ever done anything in my entire life, I raise the .380 to the back of henchman's head and fire a single shot into the base of his skull. It's startling how fast he crumbles—mid stride—like a marionette with his strings cut. In the blink of an eye he goes from present to past tense.

One down, one to go.

My arm goes from noon to eleven o'clock. I fire again. In the split second it takes me to get off the second shot, G is turning to face the commotion. The bullet aimed at the back of his head tears through his right cheek and pops out just under his left eye. Bloody shards of shattered teeth explode from his mouth. The shot doesn't have the same effect as the first. Dazed, but definitely not dead, he stumbles forward doing his best to stay on his feet. He still grips his pistol, but in his condition it's more of a prop than a weapon. He struggles to level it in my direction. It does nothing more than give me a clear target to kick from his grasp. Disarmed, he collapses to his back, gurgling threats he's no longer able to follow through on. Blood bubbles up from between his lips; the crimson red liquid, dotted with the little white pieces of the molars and incisors he used to chew his food with.

I kneel down beside the injured shark and grip his throat in my left hand. The blood on his neck is sticky. Warm. He jerks his head in Tina's direction. I follow his gaze. Tina's succumbed to gravity. She's toppled from the table, her limp hand spilling the dope-fried-rice in the process. I see the confusion in his eyes as he tries to make sense of the bizarre scene unfolding in front of him. He summons the strength to gargle, "What the FU—“ when I put the gun to the side of his head and pull the trigger. The blast is muffled by the close proximity of the barrel to his head. A human silencer. The tiny lead round pops out of his bandaged ear. His unfinished syllable turns into a deep sigh, as the last bit of life evaporates between his lips.

Done.

I tuck the gun into my waistband and begin rifling through the pockets of the recently deceased. I'm collecting all personal identifiers:

I.D.s

Credit cards.

And most importantly: phones.

One look at D's call log and I'd jump to the top of the cop's persons-of-interest list. I mean, I'm the only person in tonight's escapades that isn't a few short minutes away from being zipped up in a municipal body bag.

I shove the personal effects, and a knot of G's confiscated cash, into my pockets. I take the keys from his belt loop and hit the lock button on the key fob before hurling them into a group of trees on the edge of the park. Something in the Caprice will eventually lead the cops to G, which will lead them to me. But I'm willing to bet that the car isn't registered in his name, and without instant access to it's contents, it should take a little longer to identify him, which will give me a tiny head start.

I scramble to the picnic table and roll Tina over. I wipe the dirt from her face and tell her, "Thank you."

In a neighborhood like this, the recent gunshots will have definitely inspired a few concerned phone calls to the authorities. Some of the windows in the nearby houses are starting to blink to life. I imagine a throng of housewives in plain nightgowns, peeking through blinds, waking up their groggy husbands, and shuttling their recently-roused kids back to bed before calling the cops.

I'm ready to make yet another in a string of recent escapes into the Florida night, but first I have one more stop to make.

CHAPTER 10

I shoot out of the park in a straight path to the highway. This is just to give the window-watchers the illusion that I immediately fled the area.

I twist my injured Honda through the neighborhood streets until I pull into my sister's driveway. For piece of mind—before I can fully commit to a life on the run—I need to make sure that G kept his end of the deal.

I look at the ever-growing pile of phones in my passenger seat. Modern day dog tags. Trophies. Evidence: Tina's, Tommy's, the Henchman's, D's, and mine. All of our phones, commingling in the seat next to me. The way this night is playing out, if your phone ends up in my possession, there's a really good chance that you're already dead.

I fish my phone from the pile, highlight "Sis" and press call. After a few rings it goes to her voicemail. I hang up and try again. The phone is still ringing when a bedroom window lights up, probably hers but I don't know. I've never been inside her house. Seconds later, there's a groggy, "Hello?..Danny?.. Jesus," she says. "It's the middle of the night. What?…" Her utter disappointment cuts deeper than any insult she could muster.

I say, "I'm really sorry, I butt dialed you—by accident. But since you're awake, I just wanted to tell you how much I love—“ Before I can finish, she hangs up. "You," I say into the empty line. Her bedroom window goes dark.

I lose myself imagining what life on the other side of her front door would feel like.

Living for someone else for a change.

Finding joy and love in a shared life.

Milestones reached together.

Love over lust.

To truly know the meaning of family...

But as the saying goes, that ship sailed a long time ago. And if I don't get outta here ASAP, my ship is going to crash head-on into the breakers.

I shake the thoughts from my head and back out of that imaginary life. My broken jaw of a bumper scrapes the asphalt as I slink into the night.

Petting the dashboard, I try to coax a few more miles outta the ol' girl. "C'mon baby, we're almost done."

I make this promise with fingers crossed.

I make a B-line for the nearest I-95 on ramp. At this point it's a game of chance, whether or not I can make it the five miles to the highway without crossing paths with an inbound police cruiser?

I wipe my sweaty palms onto my jeans and do my best to steal my nerves. Without any realistic chance of blending into traffic, I end up overcompensating for the sad condition of the old Honda Accord, with body posture. I shrink into the dilapidated seats, my elbow on the open window frame, my hand resting on the side of my face in a feeble attempt at obscuring my identity. Admitting that this does nothing more than ramp up the suspicious factor to a comical level, I return to doing my best impression of a law-abiding motorist.

Embarrassment being as much as a factor as strategy, I decide to go with speed over stealth. I put both pedals to use, weaving through the sparse traffic. The less time on the road, the better.

I clear Ocean Drive, take a right on Palmetto. There it is, just a few blocks away, the I-95 on ramp.

My heartbeat slows. A smile crawls across my face. I only notice, because I catch my reflection in the twisted rearview mirror. It's right there, a genuine smile, illuminated by the yellow-tint of the spaced out streetlights flashing by. A slow motion strobe light, a slide show, with the same repeating frame. With every approaching streetlight, the evidence of my satisfaction retreats, little by little, until it disappears completely.

The words, "small victories, huge failures," come to mind.

I flick my blinker, more out of habit than a belief that it actually works, and merge into the on ramp under the reflective I-95 north sign.

Home free.

I push the pedal to the floor to coax this beautiful old beast up to highway-speed. I shove the exposed cassette tape back into the deck. The ancient electronics come to life with an orange glow. 2live Crew leads into a bootleg version of U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday."

I take a deep, well deserved, breath.

A victory breath.

Nearing the end of the on ramp feels like entering a new world, leaving behind the sleepy, early-morning roads of Central Florida, for the rumbling, chaotic, East-Coast artery that is I-95. At this time of night—or morning, depending on the last time you slept--the highway is littered with long-haul truckers, construction crews, and vacationing families.

Just before the ramp disappears into the highway, a faint glow out of the corner of my eye steals my attention. The best part of Florida is just to my right. I take in the beauty that is the Florida sky, just before the sun breaks the horizon. It's that brief moment, when you can't quite tell whether it's morning or night. An array of pastel oranges and smears of gold, burst forth from behind a layer of billowing cumulous clouds. Rays of color beat back the inky night sky with each passing minute. Looking ahead, I can see the past to my left, and the future to my right. Caught here in the present, a warmth washes over me, and for the first time in my entire adult life, I feel safe. An overwhelming feeling—that everything is going to be OK—dawns on me.

A singular event.

An epiphany.

A revelation.

I flip the blinker and merge.

CHAPTER 11

Flashes. A movie—ten frames at a time—every few minutes.

The deafening squeal of tires.

The crunching sound of twisting aluminum and plastic.

Then nothing...

Blaring distorted horns.

Broken glass and Red Bull cans float around me.

My world tumbles, with no care for gravity.

Then nothing...

The smell of burning rubber and foam.

Singed hair.

More nothing...

A slow, warped, version of "Sunday Bloody Sunday" is the soundtrack to this confusing nightmare.

Nothing.

Darkness...

CHAPTER 12

Beep...Beep...Beep...Beep...Beep.

I'm brought to semi consciousness by the worst headache of my life. I hear the wheezing of mechanically-forced air every few seconds, and the constant metronome of electronic beeps and clicks. I try to open my eyes. A thick layer of crust, and what feels like tape, makes it practically impossible. I manage to partially open my left eye. All I can see is the ceiling. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A beeping to my right grows louder, faster. There's a commotion of people rushing around.

Again, darkness.

Cloudy dreams, distorted visions, blanket me.

Luscious blades of green grass wedge between my toes, tickling my feet. A green, so vibrant that it only exists in movies and photos, covers the ground.

The largest island in this sea of grass, is a red-clay baseball diamond. Sets of aluminum bleachers border the base lines. Festive banners, that read: "23rd Annual Corporate Softball Game," in bright bubble letters, hang from the dugouts. In smaller letters, at the bottom of the banner, the phrase: "Slow and Steady Wins the race," sits between a cartoon tortoise and hare.

A much smaller island, off in the distance, is formed by a perfect little picnic scene. A wicker basket of fried chicken and potato salad sits atop a red and white checkered blanket. A bottle of red wine holds one of the corners in place, and a woman in a sundress sits cross-legged on another.

She waves me over as if she's been expecting me.

I'm struck by pangs of guilt and embarrassment. It takes a moment, but as I draw closer, I realize that it's Tina—well, it's a version of Tina. A sober, cleaner, and all-around healthier version—one that I have yet to meet.

My expression must betray my insecurities. She attempts to comfort me with a tender smile and a pat of the blanket, signaling me to sit. A nearly imperceptible glow surrounds her. This heavenly aura suits her surprisingly well.

I sit down next to her. She pats her leg. I lean back and rest my head in her lap. I gaze up at her. The cloudless sky frames her face. She brushes the hair from my forehead, the entire time maintaining her luminous smile.

Her compassion comforts me completely.

The background chatter of the softball game's announcer, intermittently breaks the silence. "Batting third, is Sally from payroll. Careful Joe, if you don't go easy on her, your paycheck might come up missing." A few idle chuckles come from the bleachers.

I owe her an explanation.

I start to plead my case. She looks down at me, her face, upside down in my vision. She simply holds her index finger to her lips, in the universal sign for: Quiet, your words are unnecessary.

"Ball four," he says. "Sally takes her base. Coming to the plate next is Drew C, our warehouse supervisor.

I stare up, into Tina's eyes, and exhale my guilt in one massive breath. Both of us content in our unspoken communication.

Looking up at her, the bright blue sky surrounding her face dims ever so slightly around the edges.

She cradles my head and raises me to a sitting position. She pulls the basket closer and motions to the bottle of wine.

"A swing and a miss. Strike one!"

I grab two glasses from the picnic basket. Tina uncorks the wine.

"One ball and one strike," he says, "to the first thoracic vertebrae."

I pour the wine and hand Tina a glass. She winks and hands me the plates, nodding towards the basket.

"Strike three! Our next batter is a damaged C-1 vertebrae, a multiple car pileup."

I pull out a bowl of fried chicken. The smell says that the poultry's past its prime.

"Ball three. The count is one quadriplegic patient," he says, "complete paralysis, and two strikes."

I grab two drumsticks. They go limp in my hand. The bones inside feel shattered.

"Strike three! Permanent immobility."

The feel of this picturesque day starts to shift. Purple and black storm clouds roll in like waves. The wind begins to whip, sending our plates tumbling into the green waves of grass.

Tina's gaze never leaves me. Her subtle smile, her compassionate aura, the only things unaffected by the sudden shift.

She holds up her glass of wine to cheers. I raise mine to meet hers. The glasses clink together. A crack, spiderwebs through the rim of my glass. We drink. The wine turns thick and metallic when it touches my lips. The unmistakable iron taste of blood rolls my stomach. I struggle to swallow.

Tina pulls me close, her hair frantically whipping in the wind.

Thunder rumbles nearby, growing closer with every breath. Lightning crackles in every direction. A stray bolt crashes into the tree next to us, splintering the behemoth to its roots. The leaves are instantly set ablaze. The air smells like charcoal.

Blissfully unaffected, Tina takes my face in her hands. Snowflakes of ash, and lightning bugs of smoldering embers, dance around us as they float to the ground. She leans in and kisses me ever so gently. I feel upside down, as if God, from the Sistine Chapel, has reached out and touched me. Our cheeks brush against one another as she moves her lips up to my ear. Her breath feels like life itself. My body shudders with anticipation. With the world crumbling to ashes around us, she pauses, and as soft as a butterfly's wings, she whispers three words:

"No-More-Running."

They enter through my ear and tumble down into my chest where they take root.

No-More-Running.

Just three simple words.

And for the first time in my entire life—with no more road ahead, and with nowhere left to go—I finally stop running…

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