Ever since Barney had gotten in to the show Dexter, that ol' boy had decided that Cuban music was hot shit. That, and sappy love songs. For a drug dealer, this was unusual, David thought. Petunia, Barney's overbred Boston Terrier, was given to pissing fits during some of the more flamboyant songs. Usually, at this point, Barn would shoo the dog in to his patchy backyard, and light up a joint. This was one of those times. So much for it being an intelligent dog...
"What?" Barney asked, flipping a hand at the piss. "It dries, then, you light a little incense, smoke a bowl, and hope to hell y'don't step in it.. y'dig?" He sat in his oversized, patchy-brown easy chair, amidst a seemingly alive mound of towels and tissues.
David shrugged. He didn't live here, so it was none of his concern. The music switched over to something mushy and eloquent. The look on Barn's face suggested a kind of bliss that hinted to David that he ought to get the weed, and go. Something about the idea of Barney taking his sausage hostage for a while, in this room, caused his lip to twitch.
"Hey, sweetheart, wouldja grab my Pepsi outta the fridge? It should still be frisky. If y'want some, go ahead n'take a glass, man."
David trotted off to the dingy kitchen. Socks hung off knobs, tidy-whities off the still fan, and a stained, green turtleneck sweater greeted him from the fridge's door handle. He let the shirt drop to the floor. The fridge was the only new appliance in the room; the microwave and the oven were old as jolly-jumping fuck. The inside of the fridge looked like a chocolate pudding exploded, but not before mating with something chunky and green. I wonder if this is what a shit would be like, if it was premeditated by too much coffee, and a cucumber...
The Pepsi was there, in the back. Nudging past old tupperware with mystery-meal contents, too many containers of mustard, and an empty jar of mayo, the Pepsi was thusly rescued from its fridge-mates. It was a fresh bottle, so there were no worries of contaminates from whatever poisons lurked in Barney's cool storage. He held it to the light of the fridge, cradling it like a bottle of wine. "The fuck's taking so long?" Barney asked, his voice raw from the weed. He shrugged, regardless of Barney's view. He opened his mouth, but only to take a swig from the bottle. "C'mon, man. I want some goddamn pop.. tonight."
He could hear Petunia outside, snuffling and scratching at the door. If I was that dog, I'd never want to come back in. I think I'd run away and try to get hit by one of those ugly-ass PT Cruisers everyone seems to have this year. David, with the pop still in one hand, opened the back door for the midget dog. At what point are these things considered rodents? He just rolled his eyes as the little dog trundled past, heading for its silly owner. Yeah, yeah...
He brought out the pop, along with a cup. "Not gunna get any for y'self?" Barney asked, eyes glazed and a little red. David shook his head. The loogie he planted in the bottle ought to go down smooth, he figured. "Okay, so, d-youu-de, I have some prime shit for you today. Yes, sir, yes sir, three bags full: what are you up for, a little high, really high, or the super-good shit that allows you to lose your feet for an hour?" David pointed out a bag. Instead of the one he wanted, Barney held out the one with the foot thing. He then handed it over, and David trotted to the door, putting the drugs in his jeans' pocket.
"So, like, you gonna let me see it this time?" Barney said, as David had turned to walk out.
David rolled his eyes. Turning back, he opened his mouth, and tilted his head down for Barney to get a better look. "Aw man, that's sick. Wicked-cool."
David left, waving a little as he went. The loser behind him grinned, tapping his fingers on the arms of the chair.
Getting to his own apartment was easy; the roaming gangs of teens with weaponry wouldn't be back for a number of months: school was back now. A lone bicyclist rode by, looking at him nervously as she passed. She was a stalker's wet dream: blonde, skinny, and short. She even had the long hair thing going on, though, it was braided for the ride. He averted his eyes as she went by, allowing her the comfort of thinking him shy. By the time he looked behind him, she was far enough away that she wouldn't have heard him being attacked, if some kid decided to get pissed off in the off-season. He felt a little chilled.
The apartment was warm; he hadn't been around in the day to put on the air conditioner. Things in here were tidy, but cramped. Two dishes waited for him by the sink. He sat on the couch; the bed lay behind him, pristine, and inviting. The weed's call was stronger. He brought it out. Turning on the TV, he sat passively, staring at The Price Is Right reruns for a while.
He flicked the weed-baggie off the couch, staring at Bob Barker's perfect hair.
Yep, this is life; real life involves minimum wage paychecks, being too broke to visit strippers.. and a mouth without a voice. This is my life. Yep.. this is it.
