Teenage Wasteland Page 3

is that I’m not feeling too good right now.” He pulled out a chair, sat with his head down.

  “You’re not going to power-puke or anything, are you? ’Cause like I told you, I just washed the floor.”

  “Can I get some water? I gotta get this taste out of my mouth.” Jamie emptied the glass in a couple of gulps but it didn’t do any good. He shook his head, signaling Lloyd for a refill.

  “Forget it, I’m telling you,” Lloyd said, moving to comply. “Think about all the money you’re going to make on this deal. You could sell it for, say, seventy a quarter…but you’d be smarter if you sold it by the gram…say ten bucks a gram, fifteen if you’re really greedy.”

  “But if I sell it in larger amounts I’ll be able to get rid of it quicker.”

  “But you’ll make a lot less money,” Lloyd argued. Jamie twitched his shoulders. “Well, it’s up to you.”

  “Can you put out the word for me? Be careful, y’know, but let people know I’ve got some if they’re looking.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Lloyd agreed. “Of course,” he continued, “since I’ll be acting as your agent you’ll have to make it worth my while…”

  “Jesus, are you ever a prick, Lloyd,” Shaun observed.

  “No, man,” Jamie said, “he’s right.” He rolled a good-sized joint from his stash, handed it to Lloyd. “A down payment.”

  “Thanks. I always like a nightcap before I turn in.” He lit up. “Ah…” Then Jamie took it and bore down hard, drawing in so much smoke his eyes watered. “You’re turning into a real dope fiend,” Lloyd told him.

  Jamie let the smoke out slowly. Fuck. Shit. Piss. That taste wouldn’t go away. It clung stubbornly to the back of his throat, tickling his gorge. He helped himself to another glass of water.

  Then he was high again. But, he thought, this is nothing like Oblivion. This is a silly, frivolous sort of high. Like you’re drunk, only smarter.

  He left soon after the joint was finished.

  “Thanks a lot,” he said to Lloyd as he tied his runners.

  “No problemo,” Lloyd grinned, “I really dig the commission.”

  Then he found himself outside, alone, in the possession of two ounces of marijuana with a firm intention to traffic. The long, dark street loomed before him like a cell block and his every step was remarked upon by prying, preying eyes. By the time he got to his car, he was a nervous wreck. He popped in a Rush CD but Geddy Lee’s screeching had him thumbing “Eject” within a few seconds. He drove home slowly, both hands on the wheel, an ordinary, law-abiding citizen in every respect. He even wore his seatbelt.

  He pulled into the driveway, cut the lights (check), engaged the emergency brake (check) and made sure the keys were in his pocket and not in the ignition (check).

  As soon as he heard the television droning downstairs he knew he’d made it. He went into his room, locked the door behind him.

  Yeah!

  He dragged a chair over to one wall, climbed up, pushed a ceiling tile out of place, put the dope up there. Then he let the tile fall back. Perfectimundo!

  Brushing his teeth and gargling helped, but the vestiges of Oblivion remained. He began to wonder if he would ever be rid of it.

  He went downstairs and spent a few obligatory moments with the folks. He supplied them with a largely fictitious account of his evening then had a brief “discussion’ with his father. Actually, his father did all the talking and he just stood there and went “yes, sir” every once in awhile. But it wasn’t so bad this time because they were trying to watch some kind of nature show on PBS. Another one of those programs about how humans are screwing up the environment and killing a bunch of innocent animals in the process. His folks loved stuff like that. Once they got around to showing oil-slicked sea otters, Jamie stood up, mumbled “Night, everyone” and beat a hasty retreat upstairs.

  He flopped on to his bed, mashing his hot face into the cool pillows. His head felt like it was overflowing and at first he didn’t think he was going to be able to sleep.

  But he did.

  And he had this dream.

  In the dream, he was Tony Montana, that guy Al Pacino played in “Scarface”. He was a made dude. He had it all. Drugs, money, women, guns. Only he knew it wouldn’t last. And he knew that when the end came it would be swift and terrible. And he knew that for his sins he would burn in the fires of hell for all eternity. And for a fraction of a second—that was how long it took to escape the soul-piercing pain into fuddled wakefulness—Jamie felt those flames upon him, felt his flesh melt away and his essence spill out and he saw that it was black…

  © Copyright, 2014 Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)

  From the short story collection Sex & Other Acts of the Imagination

  (Black Dog Press; 2014)