No seriously. He is.
Isaac Freedman used to be just this old cook that I buy my coke from. Nice enough guy, I guess. Didn’t really know anything about him until recently—but he definitely was a little cooky.
Think: “Dumbledor—but, like, if Dumbledor did a ton of candyflipping in the 90s and now he goes under a different name cause he believes the CIA has it out for him, so he never leaves his house and usually doesn’t even put pants on, and he somehow has the best coke hook-up in the Midwest.”
It was a good system we had: when I needed a little baggie, I would shoot him a text with just an emoji (which was code for a weight) on it, then he would call into Patrick’s Pie’s, where I was the delivery driver and he’d order something. Then I’d deliver him a pizza, he’d slip an Eightball in my hand when we exchanged goods for currency and I’d leave him the cash in the pizza box.
Piece of cake. Usually.
But last time when I went to get my weekly pick-up, I knew something was up with him before I ever even saw him.
I think, maybe, it was the vibes I got while just approaching his house that tipped me off to the fact that this wasn’t going to be my usual pop-in, pop-out type of deal.
That’s the way I liked it. And so far in my life, this was the absolute best and easiest and smoothest set up I’d ever had. See, you don’t want to get to know your coke dealers. Trust me. Just keep it all business. You buy drugs from him, don’t go showing him your family photos from vacation. He can stalk you Facebook if he’s really that interested. (probably find a new guy, actually, if he’s stalking you on Facebook—in fact, you should probably just keep your real name to yourself) And don’t let him start that shit either. You are strictly there to trade U. S. Dollars for a fine powdery snow-white substance that, when you put it up your nose, it makes you feel like a fucking god.
Anyway, I had the feeling in my gut that this wasn’t going to be the way I prefer it to be. Maybe it was the October air, it can get a supernatural chill to it in Indiana—even here in Downtown Indianapolis.
It’s like it all just switches in a single minute. One day, you’re there in the waning days of summer, a few leaves have changed color but most are still a vibrant green like they were all summer, a couple of the tree have got some sparse piles beneath them, but it doesn’t have that “fall feeling,” (as the white girls would say). And that is probably because it is still 85 fuckin degrees outside—just a guess.
Then the next day, often happening during the night—usually accompanied by a hell of storm too, like the deathrows of a dying summer—it would all change, and when you woke up none of the leaves would be green, half of the trees wouldn’t even have leaves anymore, and you couldn’t step outside without at least two jackets and the knit hat that Lori made for you with the big back on it so that it can fit your all of your long ass hair that you really probably need to cut soon. (Okay, maybe the hat thing only applies to me.)
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