Desperate Student, Episode 4: Unemployed

Suzy, my girlfriend of six months, dumped me without warning when she finally realized I would never take her out on a date. I was devastated. For a week, I didn't get out of bed. I just lay in there and moped. Didn't get up to eat. Didn't get up to use the bathroom. I licked condensation off the walls for moisture. The room reeked. In fact ... well, you get the idea. I was down.

Fast forward to Monday morning. I way lying on my embattled mattress, staring blankly at the ghostly shadows of the tree being cast on the blinds. Then I heard pounding on the door. I rolled over and pulled a pillow over my head.

"Breach it!" Yelled a muffled voice. There was a pause, then a sharp bang and pounding footsteps. The door to my room was thrown open and I was instantly covered in a white, foamy powder.

"Sterilize him!" Someone shouted. A visored face flashed before my eyes.

"What's going on?" I groaned, staggering to my feet.

"Open your mouth and close your eyes." Said the voice. A hose was shoved down my throat and a puff of gas was pushed into my abdomen. Then everything was sucked out in about four seconds. My stomach shriveled and collapsed. I fell to my knees, gasping in agony.

"Dangerous levels of organic substrate A-4-10 detected," said a computer voice that sounded a great deal like Microsoft Sam. Then there was a flash of light and a dull boom. Ashes rained down and mixed with the dry white goo on the mattress.

"All clear," Said the first voice. "Let's go! Go, go, go!"

"Wait!" I wheezed. "Who are you?"

"City HazMat team," The voice replied quickly. "Your neighbor complained, and US spy satellites detected toxic levels of dangerous organic substrates in your bedroom. No worries. We cleaned it up for you."

"I ... thank you?" The team of four turned and ran, and my vision finally cleared enough to see that they were wearing full-body orange protective suits and thick black rubber gloves. A radiation symbol was stitched onto the back, and right below it ran the words: "We cater."

I heard the truck rev up, and the local HazMat team drove away. I heard their lusty rendition of I'm Proud to Be an American fade away down the street, leaving only the barking of a stray dog and the gushing hiss of a fire hydrant they'd plowed over. My life was ruined. Correction: my life was even more ruined.

I showered, though it was not enough to wash the salty-bitter smell off my body. Another look at my bedroom confirmed my worst fears: it would cost money to repair the damage, money which my roomie would expect me to pay (at least in part). I evaluated my options and quickly settled on the best one: run. A few minutes later, I was walking quickly downtown carrying a duffel bag with all my salvaged belongings: A toothbrush (well used), six textbooks, eight ballpoint pens, a five-subject notebook, a CD player, an old cell phone, a poster of Tom Cruise, and The Definitive Switchfoot Collection.

I had also stuffed my pockets with the white powder the HazMat people had sprayed on me. I had had a desperate but nonetheless inspired idea: to become a drug dealer.

I type this post from the computer lab at school. In mere minutes, I will hit the streets in search of stoned clients to rip off. Don't call me. Don't email me. Don't memo me. I've joined the dark side.

I hope you're happy, Suzy.