Zhanna Slor - At the End of the World, Turn Left

“Damn,” Santiago says, the smirk moving from the corners of his mouth to his eyes. “That’s a lot.”

The other man still sitting on the couch with the other dogs shakes his head. “Women,” is all he contributes to this conversation. I sort of forgot he was in the room. I turn and scan my surroundings and suddenly notice that I am a woman alone in a room of men I don’t know. I find myself craning my neck, looking for Tristan to return.

“Don’t stress, chica,” the guy says. “I got a daughter your age. How old are you anyway?”

I swallow, my throat even dryer than before. “Nineteen.”

“Nineteen,” he says. “You’re practically a baby.” A look passes between Santiago and the other man.

“How old is your daughter?” I ask.

“I got four, can you believe it? The oldest just turned eighteen.” He taps his chest a couple of times, and gazes into the space ahead of him with genuine awe. It was a good call to ask about his children, I realize in the moment with a flutter of hope. “She’s an angel. Gonna rule the world one day.”

Everything stands perfectly still for a moment, and I start to think the danger has passed. I even forget what it is we are doing there. But then his thin friend with the half-shaved head returns with my drugs, and breaks the spell. He has two little baggies, which he places in my hand, making sure to touch my hand a little longer than necessary. I stifle the urge to cringe. I stuff the drugs into the front pocket of my backpack and put it back on my shoulders right away. Now I am starting to actually get annoyed at Tristan. He better hurry or I’ll have to get the hell out of here without him. If I am allowed to do that.

“What’s her name?” I ask, as an attempt to return to our previous casualness. “Your oldest daughter.”

“Isabella,” he says with a grin. “Real smart, like you. Not like her Papa. Don’t know where she gets it. It sure ain’t from that bitch of a mother, god rest her soul.” Here, he crosses himself. I want to ask what happened to this mother, but I’m not sure I want to know the answer. Then I regret not asking more about her, because Santiago chooses that moment to look behind him. A crease of uneasiness crosses his face. “What did this fucker eat before you got here?” he asks, forcing a small laugh. “Damn.”

“McDonalds,” I lie, because I know when he has eaten it in the past he also spent a lot of time in the bathroom. “He didn’t feel well after.” This must not be an uncommon reaction because the guy nods and doesn’t push it. He reaches over to the table and takes out a cigarette, and offers me one. It’s almost like he offered me a lifeboat, I’m so happy to take it. But maybe my McDonalds lie wasn’t as good as I thought, because I catch a look pass between the men, and soon the other one is up again. Presumably to check on Tristan. My mood towards him shifts from annoyed to furious. He put me in a terrible position. He claimed to know where the money was. If he does, then what is taking him so long? Not to mention he broke his sobriety over this dumb plan. I stand up under the premise of going to the pet one of the dogs on the couch opposite ours, the black boxer-lab. I need to put some space between me and Santiago. “Is she friendly?” I ask, walking over more spilled trash and another bong and what looks like a broken guitar being used as a table.

“As a housecat,” he laughs. I pet the other dog instead. The coke recycles my emotions in waves, like a Ferris wheel, for moments terrifying me, and then filling me with a confident joy that is totally out of whack with the present situation. It throws my intuition completely off, and I don’t even feel that there’s a man hovering behind me, until his hand has grazed my backside.

I can’t help but jump a little. Then I correct myself and move to sit next to the dog. I try to tell the dog to save me with my brain. But Santiago seems to merely be having fun with me. He lets out a brief chuckle and picks up an ashtray that is sitting on the table next to us. Then he returns to his previous seat on the couch and pretends like I’m not even there.

Petting that dog like it’s my only lifeline, my anger returns with a vengeance. I keep the cigarette in my hand and smoke it slowly in case I will need to use it as a weapon. It’s gone quiet and still in the living room, and this isn’t a good sign. Any moment they are going to start looking for Tristan, and any moment they will find him somewhere he shouldn’t be. And in the midst of all these contradicting emotions and worries I somehow find a moment of clarity: that my life has gone completely off the rails. That I need to get away from everything that is keeping it off the rails; Milwaukee, Riverwest, and most of all: Tristan. Of course, this is the moment Tristan chooses to make his reappearance. He materializes, as if out of nowhere, and sits beside me on the couch. He puts an arm around my shoulder and squeezes. I have no idea if he found the money and if so, where he is hiding it.

“Sorry, man,” he says. “Something wasn’t sitting right.”

“We’ve heard,” Santiago says pointedly.

So quickly I wonder if I imagined it, I feel Tristan’s arm move down from my shoulder and deposit something into my backpack. Then he stands up like a bottle rocket, and pulls me up by the arm too. “Well, thanks for the hospitality, man. Appreciate it.”

“Anytime, amigo,” Santiago says. “I was just getting to know your girl. One more before you hit the road?”

“Sure, man,” Tristan says without hesitation. To my total surprise, Tristan and the man do another long line of coke. As if we are only here as party guests. This one, unlike the first, seems completely unmotivated by pressure. He wants to snort more coke. He isn’t being forced. My anger turns to outrage. Has he been coming here and doing drugs for the last few weeks, and I just didn’t know about it? How else are these two so friendly he knows where the money might be? I decide I’ve had enough. I came as a decoy. There is no way I am sticking around here and watching him get high.

“I’m going to go unlock the bikes,” I tell Tristan as he remains hovered over the table. “Okay?”

“See you in a sec,” he says without looking up. I’m pretty sure he does a second line of coke but I don’t stay long enough to find out. I walk straight for the front door and open it.

I am half expecting someone to follow me and chase me out the door, but when I turn around, no one is looking my way at all. Someone has even started a joint. Could he really be getting away with such an abysmal endeavor? Is he going to stay and smoke with them? I know in that moment that Tristan was right: Drug addiction is a prison with no room for visitors. There’s no space for others. And that includes me.

Whatever. At least I made it out of that house in one piece. I practically run across the street, past the barking dogs and the caved-in porch and whoever is left out there smoking, if there’s anyone at all. The cold winter air has never felt so good on my skin, after what I experienced inside. That level of illegality is a step way too far for me to take. Skirting the rules a little is one thing; but now we are flirting with actual felonies and prison time. Even if I didn’t do the drug dealing or the stealing, I could easily be considered an accessory. What if the guy took my picture when I wasn’t looking? What if there are cameras? Had Tristan even considered that? How did I let myself get so sucked into this bubble? I need to be as far away from this place as possible. Even if it means leaving Tristan in there alone, and abandoning his bike without a lock. If a stolen bike is the worst thing that happens to him today, he should count himself lucky.