Love Is Like a Dying Ember
I imagine that if Nicky could have scripted an end to the big joy ride, we would have gone out in a cinematic blaze of glory. Maybe we would have soared off some high cliff into the ocean, holding hands and professing our eternal love for one another all the way down. I knew that what we were doing was not sustainable. I figured, unrealistically, that at some point, we would decide we had made enough money to ride off to some safe haven where we would spend the rest of our days together in bliss. A beach in the Caribbean perhaps, or a villa in Spain. But realistically, I thought it more likely that it would all end on a routine traffic stop with some county deputy popping the truck of the car, and long jail terms for both of us.
I first started to worry that things were going wrong when Nicky decided that he would no longer sell the marijuana he grew with his brother Wayne. It really wasn't a bad business decision. Pot is labor intensive. It's bulky. It can go punky on you, it can get moldy. Pills are easier to deal and yield more profit. It wasn't the decision to stop selling it as much as the way he went about it that troubled me. He just decided to stop selling the pot without any warning. Wayne showed up at the cabin as he always had, toting a duffel bag stuffed with tightly wrapped ounces. Nicky told him that he wasn't going to deal it anymore, leaving his brother with a bag full of product he had no way to sell. Wayne tried to get an answer as to why Nicky had made his decision, but he would not answer him, and just continued to load the car for our delivery run. When we drove away, Wayne was still standing in the driveway, holding his duffel bag and imploring his brother to tell him why we had cut him out.
I wanted to know that as well.
"I just don't feel like I can trust him anymore," he explained.
"Nicky, he's your brother."
"Yeah, but he's small time, and we aren't small time anymore. It's a whole new ballgame, and he's not up to it. Do you think, if he got busted, he wouldn't narc us out on everything?"
"Actually, no, I don't think he would. Besides, Nicky, that's giving up some good money if we don't sell the pot."
"Don't worry about it, baby, I've got things in the works."
"What things? Nicky, we are are in this together, don't just do stuff and not tell me about it."
He just shrugged and the conversation ended. In the past, he had always valued my opinion, but more and more lately, he was dismissive of what I had to say.
One of the dangers of long term cocaine use is that can induce paranoia. I felt some of this myself, but I turned it inward, twisting it into self doubt and feelings of inadequacy. Nicky directed it outward. When we made deliveries, he would count the money, then, once we were in the car, he would count it again, and have me double check his count. Sometimes, he would question my count, and do it yet again himself. He started driving winding, out of the way routes from deal to deal, because he was afraid we were being followed.
I allowed myself to overlook his paranoia when it was directed towards others, but before long, I felt it directed at me. He would quiz me at length about men I had been with, what I had done with them, how long it had been since I had seen them. I repeatedly had to deny that I had ever fucked any of our customers.
But worse than the paranoia was the arrogance. The reason cocaine is so popular with performers is that it amplifies your sense of self assurance. You don't just feel good when you are high, you feel good about yourself. You feel like you can do anything. But enough coke over a long period and you start feeling that way about everything, all the time. Nicky had always been cocky, but he was becoming overbearing. While earlier, he had taken pride in being a big tipper whenever we ate in restaurants, now the service was never good enough for him. He was becoming snide and condescending with our own customers. I could see more than a few of them looking back at him with expressions of resentment.
We were making a drop at a run down motel just outside of one of the northern mill towns. The customers were a middle aged couple, Ernie and Wanda, who usually made a substantial buy and resold most of it in smaller downs further north. It was usually a good stop. They would invite us in and share a joint with us. It was like the early days, when we rode around selling pot, and everything was casual and friendly.
When we pulled up in front of their room this time, Ernie came out. He seemed tired and upset, wringing his hands and shuffling his feet, and he kept looking back at the door.
"Hey guys, how's it going?" he said as we approached him.
Nicky looked around apprehensively. He was leery of any changes in routine, and Ernie had never met us outside before. It wasn't the sort of thing you did, greeting your drug dealer in the middle of a public parking lot for anyone to see.
"What's up, Ernie?" Nicky asked. "Let's go inside."
Ernie looked at his feet and shook his head. "No, man. Wanda, she's really sick. Some kind of infection or something."
I told him I was sorry, that I hoped she'd feel better soon, but Nicky stood with his hands on his hips and an expression of annoyance on his face.
"Yeah, that's too bad, but I'm not handing off right out in the open."
Ernie shook his head more emphatically. "No, no, you don't understand. She's been sick and I been here with her. We didn't sell the last batch yet, we can't buy no more."
Nicky became infuriated. "We drove two fucking hours to get here, and you don't want the shit?" he barked at Ernie.
"Nicky, keep it down." I said.
"Fuck this. As far as I'm concerned, you ordered it, you pay for it."
Ernie cringed. "Man, I told you, my old lady has been sick. We don't have no money to pay for that."
Nicky grabbed the front of Ernie's shirt. "If you didn't sell what you bought last time, go get it. Give it back, that will pay us for our fucking trouble coming up here."
"Man, we ain't got but about half of it left."
Nicky drew back his fist. I stepped in front of him, trying to calm him down.
"Nicky, no, don't. Cool down."
He turned away and paced a circle in the parking lot. When he came back around, he was calmer, but still obviously angry.
"Listen, man," Ernie said, "I'm sorry. You know, we are out money too, right? She got sick, what would you say if it was Melissa, right? I mean, you'd say fuck all that shit, I gotta take care of my girl, right?"
Nicky stared at him and didn't answer. That raised my anxiety level more than a little bit. I would have liked to hear his answer. Finally, he shrugged.
"Alright, Ernie, what about next week?"
"I don't know, man."
"Nicky?" I interrupted. They both looked at me. "We sold to Ernie how many times? Twenty? We never had any problem before. We can sell his shit to someone else this week. It's good business. Maybe we take a hit this week, but we keep our relationship with a good customer in a good place."
He liked thinking of himself as a businessman. He nodded. "Alright Ernie, but don't dick us around next week, or we're done. Right?"
They shook hands.
"What about what's left from last week?"
