July 1, 2011. Maintenance

 

Each day Paul woke up, kissed his girlfriend Sheri as she left for work, and then weighed his options. But the answer was always the same. So he unhooked her TV, the one Sheri’d bought with night after night of overtime, and walked it down to the pawnshop.  “Morning, Paul,” said the pawnshop man. “Morning, Harry,” said Paul. The pawn ticket was filled out, and exchange was made. Seventy-five bucks. “See ya tonight?” said Harry. “See ya tonight,” said Paul. Paul walked the fifteen blocks to his usual copping spot to save on bus fare. He didn’t have to wait long. He bought a few bags of dope, then went back to his place, set aside his for the day, then cut the rest with powdered milk to make up for the difference. One shot now, two for later. Paul got out his rig, tied off and spiked. It was good. Like a warm bath on a January afternoon, the sun pouring in between the buildings. Then he straightened up and went out to hustle. If it wasn’t raining and the cops weren’t trying to boost their arrest quotas, he could have all his bags sold by 4pm. Then back to the pawnshop. “Hey Harry,” said Paul. “Hey Paul,” said Harry. The exchange was made, and Paul walked the TV back to his girlfriend’s apartment and hooked it up. Then shot the remaining two bags. When Sheri got home at 7, he was frying pork chops in a skillet. “Hey, babe,” he said, “how was your day?” “Shitty,” said Sheri, “what’s on TV?” She flopped down on the couch and switched on the set.

Comments

[trainwatcher]

What sad, hollow lives. Paul, always dependent on the weather, scoring clean dope, avoiding arrest, the TV not going on the fritz, raising enough cash to redeem it, getting home in time, and having nothing to offer Sheri but some fried chops. And Sheri, either too aware or too tired and disinterested to bother asking about his day. How many Paul-and-Sherri couples there must be out there, just getting through one day after another, with no end in sight except The End.

[Charlie]

That's addiction. Gotta feed the bear.