Peter Stenson - Fiend

I have no idea about ammo. I just take boxes of everything. My duffle bag is ungodly heavy and I struggle to put it over my shoulder. Typewriter waddles over, a bag in each hand. He yells something about camping gear. I tell him we need to get out of here. I hear sleeping bags and tents . I say, Right fucking now.

We get back to the car and throw the duffles in the back. The parking lot is still vacant. Typewriter takes the wheel and throws the gearshift into reverse. I’m breathing a little steadier now, not quite believing that we accomplished what we set out to. The back tires go over the curb, then the front. I think I hear a hiss. It feels like my side is sagging. I keep quiet because I’m not going to change a tire in the middle of all this noise.

Fucking flat, Type says.

Just go, I say.

He keeps driving. I look out of my window, half expecting sparks to be shooting out.

No spare, anyway, Typewriter says.

You serious?

You know that.

Shit, I say. I think about the space in the bottom of the trunk where a spare normally sits, the space we fill with the ounces of shit we get from the Albino and transport back to the city. But part of me is glad that at least we won’t be fucking around changing the tire. I ask how long we’ll be able to ride on it. He shrugs. I ask again. He says, Just pretend the shit isn’t happening. I like this line of reasoning. It’s been my motto before I even knew what a motto was. None of this is happening.

We drive thirty-five on the highway.

I ask where we’re going.

Again with the shrug. I’m not sure why I even asked, because we both know damn well we’re going to see if the Albino is still alive. That’s the only reason we’ve been driving north. Maybe we didn’t say anything, but it’s one of those things that is understood.

You think he’s still alive? I ask.

Typewriter tells me it doesn’t matter.

How not?

A week’s gone by since we last paid him a visit.

I smile. He’s right. It’s Monday, our normal pickup day. And I think about our ounce of methamphetamines waiting there like an ice pack for a sore knee. Normally, it’s us having to sell at least enough shit to smoke for free, which is hard as hell, breaking it down into teeners, Typewriter taking the bars along West Seventh, me spending a weekend at the clubs over in Minneapolis. And this selling isn’t to make money, since neither of us owns a TV, a computer, even a headboard. It’s selling twenty-dollar bags, each one a felony possession, our pockets accumulating to felony intent to distribute, in order to support our habits. I laugh. We can’t call this shit a habit anymore. That stopped years before, back when crystal was for special occasions or to fuck all night.

What’s funny? Typewriter asks.

Kind of messed up, I say.

What’s up?

Like the world’s ending or whatever, and here we are…

Tryin’ to get our heads straight, Typewriter says.

Yeah.

He pulls his fat lips in on themselves. The fuck we supposed to be doing?

I have no idea. Driving to our cook’s house with a flat tire and thirty guns in our backseat is about as logical a reaction to being attacked by a little girl with umbrella socks as anything else.

No, really, he says, I’m asking you, what would anyone else be doing?

I don’t answer. Instead I pull out my phone and try KK and my parents again. Nothing.

Probably fine, Typewriter says.

I’m quiet for a second. For some reason, I know my parents are dead. Know might be a bit strong, but I just have this feeling, an image, them together, not breathing. I tell Typewriter I doubt it.

Typewriter tells me to keep the faith. I wonder what faith he ever kept. Maybe he’s heard somebody say that in a movie. I say, Yeah, I guess.

He reaches over my legs to the glove compartment. I notice the tears in his shirt, the bloody scratches from Svetlana. I need to keep an eye on him, need to get a loaded gun in my possession. Typewriter rifles around in the glove box and I tell him I’ve got the pipe and it’s cashed anyway. He pulls something out, turns on the dome light. It’s a photo. He hands it to me. Typewriter as a pudgy grade-schooler. He’s standing next to an Italian-looking woman, short and dark, her hand resting on his shoulder. Both he and the woman are smiling.

I don’t know what to say or how long I’m supposed to look at the picture. I don’t know what the fuck he’s showing this to me for. Then I realize he thinks my parents are dead and this is his silent vigil, his burning candle, his feeble attempt at keeping the memory of his mother alive. Miss her, man, Typewriter says.

I hand the picture back. Typewriter studies it. I don’t have a picture of my parents. He puts it back in the glove compartment. I find this whole thing uncomfortably touching, this sharing and opening up. I need to get high.

11:21 PM

We pull into a Shell station. I tell Typewriter to keep the car running. He reaches behind the front seat and pulls out two pistols from the duffle bag, then digs around for ammo. He tells me they’re Glock nines, like this means something to me. I watch as he loads the clip. I try to do the same to the one he hands me. My fingers work like I have cerebral palsy. Bullets keep slipping out onto the floor. Typewriter tells me to leave them, that dirt can jam up the gun.

Safety, he says. He flips a little switch. Orange means you’re live. Two hands. Always.

How the fuck—

Not all of us are little trust-fund junkies.

You’re from the fucking suburbs, I say.

He laughs and says, My uncle taught me when I was like fifteen. Shot his pistol at his place in Wisco.

More than I know, I say.

Then it’s on to the shotguns. I’m kind of hoping for the short one, for some reason I really want it to be mine. He finds the shells and slips them in one at a time. Maybe Typewriter senses my preference, because he hands me the mini gun. He nods for me to pump it. I do. The chu-chunk feels like I’m jerking off God. I still can’t believe what is going on—walking dead, death, guns—but the disbelief and the need to figure out my stupid life have morphed into something else, something one notch below on my brain function map. Now it’s acceptance and survival and a fucking short-barrel twelve gauge in my hands, a Glock nine in my waistband.

The first thing I notice when we step out of the Civic is the temperature, probably ten degrees colder than in the city, with a strong breeze. We stand under the overhead lights of a four-car station. One of the lights keeps flickering. This kind of freaks me out. I scan the squat gray brick building. Advertisements for Marlboros and Red Bull cover the window. Just past the building, I see the dumpster, and next to that a rack of tires. Typewriter must see them too because he says, Fuck yeah.

Being in semirural Minnesota, the gas isn’t prepay, which I’m stoked about. I start filling the car and Typewriter stands at my side, gun pointing at an invisible enemy, at darkness, at nothing. They have to be out there and maybe they’re devising strategy, like how to flank us, how to attack from all sides, from above. I look at the top of the gas station and see nothing and I tell myself to calm the fuck down, that it’s only us, that we’re safe.

We make our way over to the rack of tires. I feel like having explosive diarrhea. Typewriter slips a step behind me. The tires are secured with a crappy Master Lock. I act without thinking and smash the lock with the butt of my shotgun. It falls to the ground. I feel about as cool as I ever have.

We roll a Bridgestone back to the car. The wind has picked up even more. Why didn’t we steal some warm clothes at Cabela’s? Typewriter starts working on the tire. In thirty minutes, we should be at the Albino’s place, and if he’s alive, great, if not, oh well, because he’s a fucking dick anyway, but what’s important is that I’ll be high. I’ll burn grams of shit, my head a fucking balloon, my body preorgasmic thuds of blood, and from there, once my head is taken care of, we can figure out what to do. I hope KK is okay. I think about my parents decomposing, their skin falling off sturdy bone.