Desperate Student, Episode 5: Drug Dealer

I'd lost my job(s), my girl, my house, my roomie, and most of my stuff. I found myself standing on the curb outside campus with a few college essentials and several trash bags of sticky dry goo that supposedly detoxified anything it touched.

At the time, I wasn't sure why drug dealers went around armed, but I knew they did, so I decided to follow suit. I wandered for a few hours into a really seedy section of town, then hopped into the nearest dumpster. Near the top of the putrid mess was a cartouche - a bullet belt you hang from one shoulder. I donned it and felt tougher immediately.

I kept digging. A few feet further, I found a doorag. That made me feel even tougher.

Finally, near the bottom of the heap, I hit paydirt. It was ancient gray assault weapon with a circular magazine attached to the top. I'd seen a few of them in movies being wielded by the Viet Cong. The clip was huge and bulky and didn't fit anywhere conveniently, but it held a lot of bullets. Think slide projector and you're on the right track.

I couldn't find any more clips for the gun, but I didn't plan on getting into a fight anyway so I didn't let it bother me. Dumpster diving destroys discrimination. I clambered back into the alley and examined my image in the reflection of a puddle. I didn't exactly look like a gangsta, but I did look like the kind of guy you stay away from. I smelled that way, too.

I meandered for awhile until I found a group of four guys sitting in the alley smoking.

"Hi," I said. "You guys want some crack?" They looked at me as one would look at a two-year-old in a tuxedo.

"Hey, bruh," One said. "Let's see the goods." I unlimbered a trash bag and opened it. The prospect's eyes grew wide at the prodigious amount of white stuff inside.

"This is stronger than anything you've ever tried," I warned, passing the leader a free sample handful.

He obviously didn't believe me. He leaned over and sniffed from my hand - hard. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the ground. A drop of blood trickled from his nose. Tears streamed down his face.

After several minutes of awkward waiting, he stumbled to his feet and exclaimed with a fuzzy tongue: "That's stronger than anything I've ever tried!"

I charged them two hundred dollars a gram, which made for a sale of ten thousand dollars. They promised they'd be back with more cash later.

So began one of the most prosperous days of my life. Druggies flocked from all over to buy my stuff. The product became known as "Crack on Crack" and then later as "Double Crack." I became known as "The Bad White Dude." That suited me fine. I had to go back to my roomie's house three times to collect more product. I also buried thousands of dollars cash in zip-lock bags in the front yard. By that night, I had scraped every bit of Double Crack off the walls. Not wanting to run out of a good thing, I called the HazMat team again and asked them to clean my house again. "I don't want a germ alive within fifty feet of the house," I said.

"You got it, good buddy," Said the HazMat captain. "We'll cater out tommorow morning."

"Sounds good," I said, and hung up.

For some reason, my roomie did not return that night, so I slept in my thoroughly sterile bedroom for the last time.

I awoke early (before my roomie returned) and headed out with the last shipment of Double Crack. I strolled lazily down the alleys, and suddenly realized that I was truly happy. I hadn't a care in the world. In fact, by college student standards, I was rich. My girl, my roomie - these people had all slowed me down and created stress in my life. Now, with money to pave the way and nothing to worry about but my own carcass, I was free.

This line of thinking was rudely interrupted by the sound of machine gun fire across the street. I turned to see what was going on and saw three Bad Dudes wielding gigantic weapons. The weapons were pointed at me and the muzzles were flashing. I heard richochets against the trash cans behind me. After a full three seconds of dumb staring, I realized I was in an ambush. I dove for cover behind a white van and unlibered the Vietnam-o-matic.

"Hey!" Shouted one of my attackers. "We have you surrounded! Give us the stuff and we'll let you out alive!" I answered with a burst from the slide projector. The bullets chunked out with bone-rattling violence. My aim was slightly off - by about forty degrees, give or take - but it was enough to make my attackers mad. They pelted the side of the van with enough lead to sink a tugboat. Then they all stopped to reload. I came around the corner and squeezed the trigger, not necessarily in that order. The gun clicked loudly and the magazine popped off. It clattered on the bullet-strewn pavement and rolled across the street.

"He's bingo!" Someone shouted. I'm not entirely clear on what happened after that, but I do know that it involved knives, baseball bats, fists, shouting, and a thick, wet cloud of Double Crack. The next thing I knew, I was lying face down in the middle of the road, alone. The hoodlums had taken everything of value, by which I mean to say everything but the Vietnam-o-matic.

I trundled home, sore and bruised, but confident in the earnings from the day before. I would quit the drug business, invest my thousands, and live on the interest. Life was still okay until I rounded the bend and saw four HazMat trucks loading up and heading out. The house was so sterile it glistened. The foliage had all been removed. But the part that really got my attention was the front lawn. It had been overturned and plowed. Bits of greenish paper fluttered through the air. I fell to my knees, hands extended to heaven, and composed a haiku.

Then my roomie showed up.

"Great idea calling those guys in," He said. "This place is better than ever!" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins. "There's still enough to split a kiddie meal. I'll buy if I get the toy. You coming?"

I looked up at him and wiped the tears from my eyes. Then I nodded.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm coming."