This story makes reference to a once-legal prescription diet pill, officially known as a biphetamine, which is no longer on the market. It had many street names like black beauty, but in the South it was called a black molly. In recent years certain designer drugs, also called Molly, have appeared on the rave scene. They are different compounds than the old diet pill.
[Many thanks to my volunteer editor LadyVer, whose helpful investment of time made this a much better story.]
* * *
The year is 1996. Late at night. In a small, lonely, off-campus apartment. The last week of school before finals. A term paper was due the next day.
Andrew Vinson was drowning in despair and self-loathing. Despite numerous promises to never let this happen again ... there he was, like so many times before: his mind as blank as the screen he was staring at, cursing himself for not starting the project sooner. The deadline for an extremely important term paper was approaching like a large, ruthless, predatory animal.
The class: English 436, Studies in Modern American Literature. An upper division course, primarily for junior and senior undergraduate students seeking a B.A. in English. The assignment: a final project of at least twenty pages on one of the authors studied in the class.
Andrew was a mathematics major. What the hell was he doing in an English class as a senior? He thought it'd be fun when he chose it as an elective. He'd always liked reading, fiction in particular. Maybe exercise some right brain muscles that had atrophied over the last few years while he buried himself in differential calculus and impossibly complex theorems. His math advisor had warned him to take something easier.
Too late now. This class was the only thing standing in the way of his getting a degree. The finals for his other courses would be a breeze. Why did he do something risky like this in the last semester before graduation?
There was no final exam for the English class; the term paper would be more than half of his grade. Professor Darden was very strict about punctuality and deadlines. If the paper wasn't delivered by the beginning of the last class at 8:00 AM, the lecture hall doors would be locked—and his grade would be zero. Not even straight A's up to that point would help.
He had chosen the author William Faulkner. The table was littered with paperbacks and library books. Andrew had the two that were on the required reading list:
Absalom, Absalom!
and
The Sound and the Fury
. Plus about a dozen others, well-known and obscure, novels and short stories, as well as Cowley's
Portable Faulkner
.
Andrew was from a rural area of Massachusetts. There was no shortage of New England colleges and universities for him to choose from, but his parents pushed strongly for him to attend a school in a different part of the country and in a large city. He had been exposed to several Faulkner short stories in high school, and they were one of the reasons he selected a university in the South rather than on the West Coast.
Andrew's paperbacks had so many yellow highlights and red underlines as to be meaningless. Post-Its bristled from the pages of every book. A stack of note cards was full of scribblings and random thoughts. All that was missing was an insightful topic. One that could be fashioned into a term paper at least good enough to let him squeak by with a passing grade. But the private scolding he had gotten from Professor Darden after his midterm project haunted his thoughts.
Andrew had been the only one who didn't get his graded paper handed back to him in class. Professor Darden had asked him to come see him in his office afterward.
"Mr. Vinson, what grade did you think you got on your midterm assignment?"
"Uh ... maybe a B?"
"No, you got a D minus. Actually a 'gentleman's D minus, if there is such a thing. You really deserved an F, but I thought you might get discouraged and drop the course. Not something a senior should be doing in his last semester.
"Mr. Vinson, this isn't a book club. There are no special favors or relaxed standards for math majors in my class.
"Your attendance has been steady, but your classroom participation has been particularly uninspiring. You need to do more than just read the books. Wouldn't you agree?
"You must do a
lot
better than this on the final project, otherwise you
will
get an F. Which in your case means you won't graduate, unless you have some other credits I don't know about. I've done it twice before to other students, so don't think I won't follow through on the threat. Both of them had to waste their time and money in summer school so they could finish. And attend a sad little winter graduation ceremony later on."
Andrew had been overcome with flop sweat that day listening to Professor Darden. Those feelings were welling up again: fear, confusion, shame, panic. Like when you're about to be fired from your job. Or handcuffed by the police. A half-assed term paper wouldn't cut it.
The refrigerator was filled with Cokes. He had a bag of strong dark roast coffee and water on the boil. Even some caffeine pills. But what he really needed was a "study aid": some speed to keep him awake all night and maybe get the ideas rolling. Like a black molly. They had become scarce on the underground market in recent years. He had nursed a small supply of them until they ran out last semester. Andrew had called everyone he knew to find just one diet pill. No one had any, not even the sketchiest "friend of a friend" types who seemed like people who should have been in jail long ago.
He glanced at the bank envelope that contained $250 from his grandmother's graduation check he had cashed earlier that day. Andrew would need that and a lot more if he didn't come through. He'd be on his own for summer school tuition, rent, and other living expenses. She was coming to the commencement ceremony; it would be humiliating to tell her to cancel the trip. What if she wanted the money back?
Actually he wouldn't have hesitated to spend the whole $250 on a black molly right then. Just one to get him through the next eight hours. A heavy rain began falling, perfectly matching his mood.
Despair was interacting with fatigue, a delirium of exhaustion that no amount of caffeine could conquer. And from which no useful academic ideas would flow. Tomorrow morning at 8:00 would find him asleep, head on the desk, and drooling—without a single word having been written. And his future unnecessarily shot to hell.
Andrew was startled upright by his ringing phone. It was after 11:00. Who would be calling this late? He thought about not answering. He let it ring—over ten times. In his delusion he thought it might be Professor Darden saying he could take an extra day to finish. Andrew finally reached for the phone.
* * *
Earlier that afternoon, in another part of town.
The Aurora Bakery was an employer of people who needed a fresh start. Ones who had completed rehab or were trying to leave the gang life—or both. Tanja Tomczyk was an ex-junkie in her twenties, four months out of rehab, slowly putting her life back together. She had been at Aurora since she got out. It was the major reason she had stayed clean. The steady work and modest income were rebuilding her confidence and self-worth. And many of her co-workers had been trapped in the same hellhole of addiction. They understood how you could slip into that life and how hard it was to pull yourself back out—and stay out.
The bakery work was hectic and physically demanding, hot and noisy, dusty and sometimes dangerous. But she liked the act of creating, transforming, providing sustenance. Plus the camaraderie of the other women who helped keep her head straight.
Getting away from Ethan Nelson had also been a major step—her ex-boyfriend and partner in addiction. She hadn't seen him in months, just before she went into rehab. He wasn't like the lowlifes she usually hooked up with. Ethan was a college senior, ruggedly handsome—and from a solid, upper middle class home. He liked rock climbing, mountain biking, and other outdoor pastimes. And he was a few years younger, which was a first for her. She wasn't sure whether her job as an exotic dancer was something he merely accepted or actually thought was a plus.
The early months of the relationship were fun. Sure, they got high a lot, but they both seemed to have that under control. Tanja had a "no needles" rule, but she tried most everything else. When Ethan offered her a little snort of "something different," she foolishly trusted him. Ironically, if it had been one of the losers that she typically hung out with, she would have declined.
But now things were looking up for her. She had impressed her boss enough to land a promotion to a waitress position at their retail restaurant, the Aurora Café. It would be better pay and tips, but she needed a car to work the irregular hours. She was due to start next week.
Her Uncle Marek had promised to get her old Honda Civic running again if she ever got clean. He had done the labor for free, and Tanja had agreed to split the cost of the parts once she got settled into her new job. She was going to pick up her car that weekend.
Tanja was also nearing the end of her time at My Second Chance, a sober living residence for women. She had developed a friendship with Alice, who also lived there. They'd made plans to find a place together next month.
* * *
Her shift was almost over when her boss said she had a call on the pay phone.
"Tanja, you know we frown on people getting personal calls here at work, but the guy said it was an emergency."
She walked down the hallway and picked up the receiver dangling from the phone.
"Hello."
"Tanja Tomczyk?" asked a gruff, raspy voice.
"This is her."
"You're the one who lived with Ethan Nelson?"
"Not anymore. I haven't seen him in months."
"Well, your boyfriend Ethan owes us money, a lot of money. If he doesn't get it to us by noon Monday, we're coming for you. It won't be pleasant. We're going to hurt you. Then after we're done hurting you, we're going to sell you to our friends in Sinaloa. For your new career as a sex slave. A nice, young
gabacha
like you with big
