by Cooper, Doug
To fill orders, we keep everything in my locker at the Round House. All the packages are pre-weighed: grams, sixteenths, and eight balls. The grams are in a Salem box, the sixteenths in a Marlboro Light pack, the balls in a Camel box. One of us takes the order, grabs the package out of my locker, and returns to the bar or patio to finish the transaction.
At the end of the shift we empty our pockets and sift through the remnants in the red barn, counting the wads of fifties, twenties, tens, and fives as we pass around a plate, each night increasing our level of indulgence.
After work I try to hook up with Birch or Haley, someone outside the crew, but either my buzz or my preoccupation with making another sale always lures me away. I can no longer deny it: we’re drug dealers. Between the stuff we move at work, at late-night bars, and after hours, we have become quite prosperous. Word has traveled quickly that just because you’re on an island doesn’t mean you have to be stranded—as long as you have cash.
All of it only encourages us to party more, mainly so we don’t have to think about how lucrative our partnership has become, but also because we can.
In St. Louis, my life changed suddenly, completely out of my control. In contrast, my metamorphosis here has been full of warning signs, ones I have ignored while convincing myself that I can always change and that tomorrow will be the day when the change occurs. Will enough ever be enough?
Just before sunrise, Cinch slides the plate toward me. “What do you say? One more to knock us out, then we call it a night?”
I laugh at the contradiction in his question. Sleep is no longer a realistic option. “I’m done,” I say. “I need to wind down until I have to meet Bob.”
He offers to help, but why should both of us suffer? I should just go lie in bed and stare at the ceiling until it’s time to go.
Cinch does not give up. He says, “If both of us go, Bob might actually get his money’s worth. Besides, look at the bright side: at least the Fourth is over. We’re halfway through the season.”
“And that’s a good thing?” Even though technically Labor Day is still two months away, the Fourth of July is considered halfway because it’s the second of the three big holidays. But the milestone means nothing to me. I don’t know if one-half, one-third, or one-sixth of my season is over because I have no idea what I’m doing at the end of the summer.
Cinch says, “Don’t forget what we agreed to last night when we were leaving work.”
“Refresh me. I don’t even remember leaving.”
“We’re supposed to meet at the winery at five o’clock.”
“No recollection. At this point, the entire weekend is running together.”
Five hours of sleep pass quickly after being up for thirty-six. My alarm sounds, but it’s still not enough to wake me from my dream, in which I’m running through a forest. Branches and twigs break under my feet. The ocean calls in the distance. I accelerate, but the sounds of the sea drift farther and farther away. Dew dropping from the leaves chills my skin. My breathing becomes heavier as my pace quickens. My heart is about to burst through my chest, but I’m still not getting closer to the water. The snapping of wood and the faint call of waves are the only audible sounds.
Birch shakes my leg. “Dude, you okay? You’re soaking wet, your alarm’s going off, and you didn’t even bother to take off your shoes.”
I sit up and run my fingers through my hair, down around my neck, and together in front of my face, holding them as if I’m praying. “Fuck, what time is it?”
“Five o’clock. We got to get to the winery.”
“Is Cinch up?” I go to Cinch’s room and fling my wet T-shirt at his heaving stomach. “Hey, we gotsta go, bro. It’s five. I’ll shower. You chop ’em and be ready when I get out.”
At the winery, we gather in the back around the same table as before. Haley is inside with some other islanders. Griffin must’ve come straight after work. He and Stein have already finished one bottle and are two-thirds of the way through another.
Griffin says, “Where the hell have you guys been? We had to start without you.”
Cinch says, “Why didn’t you come upstairs and get us, you selfish bastard? Try thinking about others for a change.”
Griffin slumps forward like a scolded puppy.
Birch says, “The way you two were going at it, I didn’t see much left for anyone else. Come on, let’s get the game started. I have to work tonight.” Birch looks directly at me. “Antonio Montana to you.”
The game moves rapidly. Maybe because we’ve all played before, maybe because we’re relatively sober. Regardless, the names spring easily and the wine goes down slowly. Tom Cruise—Cameron Diaz—Derek Jeter—Jessica Biel—Bill Gates—George Clooney—Chris Matthews—Michael Jackson—Jessica Simpson.
We are all down to a half cup of wine when Griffin pulls a reversal on Cinch with Shel Silverstein.
Cinch holds up his cup. “Socrates. Who’s getting more wine? More importantly, who’s doing the honors in the restroom?”
Birch collects the empties. “I’ll get the wine while you guys do your thing.”
Stein and Griffin go take care of business in the restroom. I turn to Cinch. “Have you noticed Birch acting differently today? Maybe we revealed too much over the past few days.”
Cinch raises an eyebrow. “Should we rub him out?”
“No, I’m serious. Like his crack about Scarface when we started the game, and his little dig when you were busting on Griffin.”
Cinch offers his typical response. “Who cares? Come on, it’s our turn.”
When we return, the empty wine bottles have been replaced with full ones, but Birch is gone. I ask what happened to him.
“Up front,” Griffin says. “We’re supposed to play without him. He has to head back shortly.”
Stein says, “Screw him. Who’s going to start?”
“I’m done playing,” I say. “Maybe we should go hang out with the others.”
Griffin says, “You go ahead. I’m way too amped to be around those folks. I might as well tattoo a big red C on the end of my nose.”
“They’re all pretty juiced,” Cinch says. “They can hardly see past the end of their own noses, let alone worry about yours.”
One-third of the bottle of Cuervo at Haley’s table is gone, and she’s the only one drinking tequila. “It’s about time you quit being antisocial and join us. We’re only halfway through the season, but I think you two have Couple of the Year locked up. How did you survive during the trip to Cleveland without each other?”
“Gosh, Cinch, remember how peaceful it was out back?” I say. “Why did we come in here? Oh, that’s right, to hang out with friends. What were we thinking?”
“Okay, okay, how about a toast?” Haley says. “To the second half of the season. Hopefully it will be as good as the first.”
We touch plastic cups and throw back the contents. Five minutes later she makes another toast, followed by several more. Birch repeatedly looks at his watch.
I hold up my cup. “To Birch not falling off the stage tonight. What time do you have to go?”
“I should leave now,” Birch says. “I have to grab a bite to eat and get a shower. If I don’t, I probably will take a spill.”
I say, “I’ll tag along. I could use some food, too.”
Haley downs another shot. “Meet us later. We’ll probably bar crawl back—Kelley’s, Captain Tony’s, the Brewery, and the Beer Barrel.”
Cinch declines our invitation. “I ate Friday night. I’m good until at least Wednesday.”
Birch wants a bread bowl of bisque at the Boardwalk to help soak up the alcohol. The short trip in his van is like a ride in an elevator with a transvestite. My words are blatant attempts to conceal the true question hanging in the air.
Birch parks behind the Boardwalk. I say, “Wait. Before we go in, what’s bothering you? You’ve been different the past few days.”
“I’ve been different? I have? How do you think I feel?
You’ve been a completely different person ever since you came here. I should’ve never brought you into all this.”
“How am I different?” I know the answer but am unsure of what else there is to say.
“Gee, I don’t know. Could it be that the only people you hang around are your drug buddies, or maybe that you have to do drugs just to get through the day, or perhaps it’s all the not-so-casual handoffs I’ve seen you make the past week? The worst part is that I don’t think you even realize how deep you’re into everything. You actually think you’re in control. I know after what happened in St. Louis it hasn’t been easy for you, but one mistake with the way you’re living now, and your life is over. Bye-bye, see you in twenty years. And if all this happened in a month and a half, what will you be like at the end of the season?”
“Don’t worry about me and don’t feel responsible. If I didn’t come here, I would’ve been somewhere else doing it. I simply need to forget while I figure things out.”
“Just remember, there comes a time when the party isn’t a party anymore; it’s your life,” Birch says. “While you’re inventing the new Brad, don’t completely discard the old one. He’s a pretty good guy.”
After our talk, I don’t feel like eating, and I go for a walk instead. The wind off the lake is cold on my exposed arms. I bury my hands in my pockets. Might as well just go home. I cut through the park and pass in front of the Round House. Robin is on the front porch with Dawn, Brooke, and Lea. I pretend not to notice and continue to the red barn.
Back in my room, I hear the front door open. Thinking it is Cinch, I call out.
“It’s me,” Dawn replies.
I yell back, “I’m really not in the mood. Why don’t you go hang out with your new boyfriend?”
She appears in the doorway. “That’s not fair. What am I supposed to do? You obviously don’t want anything to do with me.”
“No one can call you imperceptive.” I lean over to take my shoes off. “If Mize makes you happy, go for it. I have more important things to worry about.”
“Like who your next customer is?”
What a bitch. I can’t believe she’s bringing that into this. I say, “Don’t start with me. You don’t know me.”
She sits down next to me on the bed. “But I want to. Just let me in.”
“Why don’t you help yourself? Your life isn’t exactly award-winning: broken engagement, slept with me, slept with Mize, who knows how many more.”
“Fuck you.” She slaps me and storms toward the door. “I’m trying to be your friend. You better think about that because you can’t afford to have enemies. I can think of a few people on this island who would love to know the source of the new menu items at the Round House.”
I go after her. “Hold on. That’ll hurt more people than just me. Let’s keep this between us.”
She straightens with confidence. “I guess that’s up to you, isn’t it?”
I explain that it has nothing to do with her and that I can’t be with anyone right now, but she brings up Astrid. I tell her, “We’re just friends.”
Her eyes tighten. “You’re a fucking liar. At least be honest with me.”
I go back on the attack. “Because you believe and respect honesty so much? Look, you wanted to have fun and we did, but it’s over.”
“It’s over when I say it’s over,” she says, asserting the control we both know she has in the situation. “You’re not going to make a fool of me and just walk away. I’ll be down at the bar. I suggest you join me there, and then we’re going to the Boat House for a drink.”
“This is insane. I’m not going to pretend that I like you so that you can save face.”
“What a shame. You know where to find me if you reconsider.”
Cinch has joined Dawn and the others on the porch when I finally come down. He says, “I heard you were meeting us.”
Dawn slides over in her chair. “We can both fit. Let’s have a drink and go down to the Boat House.”
My expression blank, I pretend to be indifferent. “Whatever you guys want to do.”
“There’s nothing going on there,” Cinch says. “Let’s just stay here.”
Dawn says, “Do what you want. We’re going to the Boat House.”
This is going to be tougher than I thought. I say, “Why not the Beer Barrel? Isn’t your friend working tonight? Cinch, let’s get drinks.”
At the bar Cinch asks, “Want to tell me what the fuck is going on?”
“If I don’t play along, she’ll blow the whistle on our side business.”
“Forget that. She’s crazy, but not that crazy.”
“For one night, it’s not worth the risk.”
“Should I talk to Brooke?”
“I got myself into this; I’ll find a way out. Hopefully Dawn will get drunk, we’ll have sex, and she’ll go home tomorrow.”
Despite Cinch’s continual urging, Dawn will not surrender her intention of visiting the Boat House. The look on Astrid’s face when we enter is the exclamation point on Dawn’s resolution.
I lean over to Dawn. “Are you happy?”
She kisses me on the cheek. “Not yet, but there’s plenty of time for that later.”
To apologize I try to make eye contact with Astrid, but she won’t even look in my direction. She disappears into the kitchen and doesn’t return.
I say, “I’m going to the bar for a shot. Anyone else?”
Dawn hands me a twenty. “I’ll buy.”
I ask the bartender what happened to Astrid. He says, “What do you think happened, asshole?”
Cinch comes to the bar. “Is everything cool?”
“Sure, why wouldn’t it be? Just out having fun with my friends. What’s next, sandpaper on my ass?”
Cinch proposes a trip to the restroom and I agree, needing something to make the situation better or at least to alter my perspective. When we return, Mize is sitting at the table with the girls. When we walk up, he says to Dawn, “I thought you said things were over between you two.”
Dawn pulls over another chair. “Have a seat. We’re all friends here.”
Brooke takes Dawn by the hand. “Aren’t you taking this a little far?”
I say, “This is where I leave.”
Dawn scowls. “Did I say you could go?”
“Fuck off, whore.” I turn to walk away. “You two losers deserve each other.”
Mize pushes me in the back. “Who you calling loser?”
Cinch steps between us. “Mize, cool down. Shep, just walk away.”
“Isn’t this what the little bitch wants?” I reach over Cinch’s shoulder and push Mize. “How’s my dick taste?”’
Cinch faces Mize. “Drop it. She isn’t worth it.”
Dawn says, “Boys, boys, don’t be so childish.”
“Is this foreplay for you?” I say. “Well, you ought to be nice and hot.”
Dawn says, “Too bad your two inches couldn’t do it.”
I turn to walk away. Mize lands a punch square on my nose, knocking me into a table. Cinch tackles Mize. Bouncers descend on them. A waitress helps me up. Dazed, I fall back down.
Dawn hasn’t moved from her chair. She smiles. “My work is done here. We can go now.”
I lie in bed with a bag of ice on my face. When I sit up, my entire face throbs. At least if I stay flat on my back, I don’t have to worry about my face exploding.
Astrid’s voice floats over me. “I heard what happened.”
I lift the ice and tilt my head. “It’s not what you think.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“She threatened to turn us in for selling drugs. It’s not me I was protecting.”
She sits down on the edge of the bed. “Maybe it’s time you think about yourself. I didn’t leave the Boat House because you were with her; I left because I’m sick of watching you be a coward.”
I say, “It’s not your problem.”
“It is, because I care about you.” I fee
l her eyes on me, but I can’t look. She says, “There’s just not enough room for me in your life because cocaine is your mistress. She’s there when you need her, and she makes you feel bigger than life. Why would you want anything else? You don’t have to worry about her hurting you or about you disappointing her. And you can share her with your friends without jealousy or guilt.”
I say aloud what I’ve been trying to convince myself of all along. “It’s just a vacation. I’ll stop at the end of the season.”
“Why wait and waste the next few months? Stop now.”
“I can’t. Not here, not now.”
“I guess I’ll see you around, then.”
She leaves, and I return the ice pack to my face. I wish it would explode.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MY SWOLLEN NOSE FORCES BOTH SOBRIETY AND WITHDRAWAL. I wake every two hours covered in sweat, fling the covers off, and then, shivering, I scramble for them moments later. The second night I eat a pinch to loosen the grip. Cocaine to help me sleep. I have to stop.
The days are even more difficult. It’s not because of the physical discomfort of the sobriety, but because of the huge block of time I discover now that I’m not partying. The time I had spent hustling and indulging combined with the time I spent recovering added up to another full-time job. With the partying gone, I’m actually bored for the first time since I got here. I need something to occupy my mind and fill the free time. The bruises from Mize have shielded me from after-hours activities, but once I’m healed, I’ll need another excuse. I arrange to take Caldwell up on his offer to learn to play guitar.
I ride my bike out to his campsite. He sits in a lawn chair tuning a guitar in a screened-in room he’s added to his pop-up camper. I roll off the gravel road into the grass. “Hope I’m not too early.”
Caldwell plucks a string and turns one of the tuning knobs. “Right on time. Just finishing getting ole Emerson ready.”
“Probably should pick up one of my own,” I say. “Name it after the philosopher?”
