Fingerless Gloves (9 page)

The LCD clock in the still-motionless car read 1:20am. The colon in between the numbers blinked again and again like a heartbeat. It felt like my first ten years on the earth were being played back in some sick frame-by-frame fast forward. I hadn’t figured on being up that late. Truth be told, it had been awhile since I’d seen that hour of the night. In high school, when your biological clock seemingly runs like a trite time-lapse shot in a romantic comedy, you can sleep until mid-afternoon, then wake up and stay up through the night. In college, this is exaggerated by booze, pot, midterms, “platonic” sleepovers, and newfound nicotine habits. Then, in the working world, Friday night becomes an extension of Friday’s workday. Saturday is a day to realize how much you haven’t accomplished, only to be burned out by Sunday. Nowhere, during this time, is it acceptable to sleep past 10am. That night, it seemed, was an anomaly. Smoking pot, in my old age, had become a few hits in my apartment, then an on-demand movie. I had, in large part, failed the cannabis culture by becoming as stereotypical as one of those casual city smokers who carry joints in cigarette boxes and who brings white wine to parties. That long, weird night kept creeping on without any notion of organization or planning. There was no hope for sleep during any of it. If sleep came, it would come at so unreasonable an hour, it’d be best to not sleep at all. These types of hours are what Streets Anderson was built for. He was fully functional, aware, stoned, hungry and philosophical. I had almost forgot that the only reason he bothered to text me in the first place was so that I could get him drugs.

I told Streets, “Look, Weedman Tim doesn’t like when other people come up to his apartment. When we get there, just wait outside and play it cool…I’ll go upstairs.”

The Escape was still not in gear but, fortunately, Weedman Tim didn’t live far from the hospital…his old, looming apartment complex was about ten minutes away if I took the back roads.

Not many people have a Weedman Tim-type friend in their standard repertoire of people they interact with on any type of regular basis. Weedman Tim was actually Tim Shanklooper. He had spent the better years of his middle school career being called Stankypooper, eventually graduating to the nickname Skanky Tim in high school. This progression, with all respect to logic, didn’t do much for Tim’s self-esteem. There was no actual founded reason for any of this except the uncommon nature of his last name. Tim was not dirty. He always seemed to have above-average hygiene. That last name prevented him from having a high school prom date. It also caused him to drop out of a 2-year community college. He’d never held a real job…I can say with all confidence that a last name cost this kid any shot at a normal life. The natural thing for Tim to do, in the grand scheme of things, was to start dealing pot. It started small in high school hallways, and graduated to a business that paid his rent. It was a funny arrangement…anyone who had ever resorted to calling him names or making his life in any way harder than it needed to be was refused drugs, no matter how hard they implored. It was widely known in town that Tim had the best stuff, but he was also one of the most difficult people to buy from. He was a walking grudge…some old scar from scratching chicken pox. He never healed.

I met Tim when everyone else met him: when he moved to our town as a freshman in high school. Even back then, he was this rail-skinny, red-haired, sore thumb sticking out of our class. When he was a freshman, that first year, he tried to blend in by sitting in the back of classes and eating at neutral lunch tables. I felt bad because, as we all know, certain people, no matter how hard they try, will always be targets. To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t ever friends with Tim; I just never treated him bad. He walked the halls and, the way I figured it, was given a hard enough time. I didn’t defend him when I saw him getting picked on or beat up, but I made sure to never do the picking. James had taken the same approach. We both ignored Tim as much as we could…save for an occasional greeting. We never saw Tim out anywhere around town, from the arcade or the mall to the eventual house parties. Even though James was usually the first to talk reason into people, there was something ruthless about the way they picked on Tim, the insults and the put-downs…it was something you couldn’t defend against and didn’t want to be around.

Somewhere around our senior year in high school, around when most kids open their minds, Tim Shanklooper discovered marijuana. The story he told me was that his cousin gave him his first joint at a family party in July before we started school that fall. To this day, his cousin, some older, mysterious drifter no one has ever actually met, is Tim’s supplier. No one is quite sure where he lives or where his supply comes from, but no one has ever thought to ask. I don’t question a thing and I never have. Weedman Tim is many things; chief among these things is reliable to the people he does deal to - mostly out-of-towners and shady local college kids. When I text him while we were still idling in the car, he responded within five minutes. He said he had stuff and would sell to me, but as I’d suspected, to not bring Streets up into his apartment. When you’re talking about the drug trade, I guess that agreement could only be called fair.

Tim Shanklooper was no longer Skanky Tim…in fact, he was nothing close to ever being called that again. The kids from our graduating class didn’t bother with him anymore, that is, unless they were trying to get pot from him. Most of these attempts resulted in abysmal and humiliating failure. Tim’s mind was like a journal…he remembered every taunting remark, every embarrassing moment and every unkind word down to the date. He never sought out malicious retaliation; instead, he just made a habit out of remembering. When those kids, the same ones who had made him so miserable, inevitably, after getting Tim’s name from a friend of a friend, called asking for drugs…Tim wouldn’t exactly politely decline them.

I remember, one day towards the end of ninth grade, rumors were that some kids had been particularly ruthless to Tim. The teasing and bullying was standard: they dumped out the lunch he brought, the lunch that his mom most likely packed…then they poured Gatorade in his backpack, and (again, these were rumors) put real human shit all around the lock on his locker. I believed the bit about the lunch, but human shit on someone’s locker would mean someone would had to have wielded a shit log like a Sharpie…there was no way I believed it. I saw Tim after school, waiting for someone to pick him up. I had stayed late because I had to meet with my teacher over an English paper that I had haphazardly turned in without actually ever reading the original assignment or corresponding text. I didn’t ask Tim about the Gatorade or the excrement or about what he was doing staying so late at school. I didn’t tell him something like, “Don’t let it get the best of you. Those kids are just dumb.” High school, despite what the movies have you think, doesn’t work like that. I simply went up to him and said, “Hey Tim. Gym class is a bitch and I think I got a D on my
Scarlett Letter
paper…I’ll see you tomorrow man.”

There are moments of kindness balanced out only by moments of civility. Such is the ebb and flow of getting older. I wasn’t sure whether or not I felt bad for Tim…I mean, I didn’t really know him…truth is, no one did. We were all so wrapped up in ourselves that to let some new kid into any circle of friends, by the time we were 18 years old, seemed impossible. The day of the fecal locker, after looking up and seeing me descending the concrete steps from the school into the parking lot, Tim responded, “I can’t do chin-ups for shit and my 40-yard-dash time is almost half a minute…see you later.”

Back in the hospital parking lot, I had reached a self-reflective type of high. Considering I needed to be driving to buy drugs for Streets and myself, this probably wasn’t the best state to be in. Driving high never bothered me. I understand why, when the movie first came out, so many people went to see
2001: A Space Odyssey
stoned in the theater. Driving, I felt like I was moving through hyper speed. I always stayed at least 10 miles-per-hour under the speed limit, even though, if I had anyone in the passenger’s seat, they always insisted I was driving “way, way, way too fast.” I think my high driving was extremely obvious…even though I thought I was a pro. I had the confidence and this, among many other reasons, is why I am the designated stoned driver. Not even James could handle being behind the wheel with a chest full of contraband. For me, there was a certain comfort in operating a piece of machinery that, by nature and design, should not be operated while under the influence of drugs. Operating a four-tire monster while praying my brain stayed attached to its stem was a weird rush. As far as co-pilots go, Streets was rather subdued. He had smoked his fill, neglected his phone even though I saw it light up at least four times, and was idly popping the glove compartment open, then closing it gingerly. It was time to go see Tim.

I turned the Escape on and pulled out of the high school parking lot for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. Looking inside the school one last time, I saw some lit up emergency lights…red exit signs…just some fragments of the hallways. Since I’d graduated, the school had gone through major construction. I’m sorry to say that I barely recognize it anymore. I heard some leftover sticks crunch under the tires. As headlights cast their gaze from our faithful institution of learning to the woods surrounding our suburbia, Streets asked me,

“Anton, tonight you know they hired me at the Pancake House…nothing major, just washing dishes. I thought to myself that this is where it starts…dishes, then tables, then what? What the fuck am I supposed to wash after that?”

I understood the sentiment and, although they were assembled with little fluidity, his words made some type of sense. The Pancake House, while not the worst place of employment and undoubtedly close to Streets’ residence, seemed like a less-than-desirable product of Francis Anderson’s 25 years on this planet. There were facts stacked against realities: Streets had never gone to college, nor had he held a real job (save for one summer he told me he spent working on a construction crew). I never cared to learn much about him…his aspirations or hopes…the passions he had or things he wanted to accomplish. He was always a parking lot apparition - some kid on the hood of a car that barely gets noticed in the tracking shot that’s meant to sweep across all of us. Not all stories resolve themselves in the end. There are set-ups for sequels that never happen and opened-ended, frustrating questions posed when there’s no more running time for them to be answered.

I told Streets, about two minutes before we were parked in front of Tim’s apartment building, “You’ll be alright at the Pancake House. They’re only dishes.”

I’ve never been one to pacify the insecurities of others. It’s probably why I’ve been single for so long…longer than reasonably acceptable. Moving on is something other people expect you to do, but it’s damn hard. When Beth used to tell me the things that were bothering her, I always wanted to come up with some piece of movie dialogue…a quick response that would make everything feel better and set everything right. The only problem seemed to be that the words, even when I thought of them and concentrated on saying the right thing; they came out all backwards and chaotic. After a considerable amount of chances, Beth stopped those types of conversations with me entirely. I always knew when something was on her mind; she just never talked to me about it. To be honest, I can’t say I blame her.

The street outside of Tim’s apartment building was sparsely littered with cars. Parking meters, keeping track of empty parking spaces, were showing raised “expired” tags. Some of the assorted vehicles on the street no doubt belonged to building residents, while others had to belong to the night’s leftovers - some couch-dwelling freeloaders or shady sexual conquests. I pulled up to the tattered front awning of the building and put my truck in park. Streets stuffed a few folded bills into my hand. Without bothering to count them, I got out of the car and started towards Tim’s door. His apartment was on the third floor, closer to the staircase than the elevator. While ascending the stairs, I began counting. The bills equaled out to twenty dollars in two fives and ten singles. The money was soft, like it had never been in anyone’s wallet. It was soft because I’m almost certain Streets Anderson didn’t own a wallet.

Apartment number 307 was almost directly on the other side of the staircase. The whole building smelled like leftover mothballs and wet carpet. The walls were stained yellow and peeling. The loose carpet exhaled underneath my feet. Tim’s door was splintering and the outside housing of the peephole was beginning to come dislodged. I knocked twice before I heard footsteps crunching towards the inside of the door.

Tim had decided to grow some type of soul patch that looked like an airport landing strip paved onto his face. It extended from just below his lower lip right down the front of his chin and ended somewhere between the end of his chin and the underside of his neck. He had on his black, rimmed glasses, a hoodie with some brand name stitched across the chest, and carpenter jeans with holes in both knees. The harsh hallway light crept into his doorway. The rest of the apartment behind him was lit up blacklight purple. Tim snorted, “Anton at 1:45am, doing favors, no doubt, for some ungrateful ghost of a douche bag. I hope you’re charging him on top of what I’m charging you.”

I responded, “Good to see you too Big Tim…still all business; what a shame.” With a smile and a hybrid high five/chest bump, I was in the apartment. The overwhelming blacklights revealed, after much squinting and examination, open video game cases on fried rice-impacted end tables. Cigarette smoke was rolling out of an ashtray on the floor. There were white specks, visible under the purple glow, littering the couches and pillows. Posters of pot leaves and various psychedelic animals hung crooked on the walls, their colors exploding forth as the lone pieces of art in this otherwise dilapidated hellhole. The smell was not unlike a car full of wet towels, parked inside of a casino. There was a girl, not saying a word, sitting on one of the loveseats. She had a bit of a lower bunt stomach that was slung over her straight-legged jeans. She held a second ashtray in her lap, taking long drags off of what I could only assume was a cigarette or a joint. She watched me as I followed Tim past her. The whites of her eyes were more pronounced. There are disturbing images in movies, then there are moments when you’re watching the worst parts of the movie that is your life. You can’t cover your eyes.

Tim, who had been walking in front of me, leading me over the various pieces of debris on the floor…from crushed cans to sneakers without pair partners, opened a door as standard, orange, overhead light spilled out of the frame. I covered my eyes and stepped through into the kitchen. He closed the door behind me.

Tim turned to me and stated, “Out there, that was Denise and, in case you were wondering, I’m not sleeping with her. She’s just here.”

The truth was, I hadn’t been wondering anything of the sort. Tim, feeling some strange need to justify the female on the couch, appealed to none of my curiosities. I looked down and noticed an outlet cover, with the paint all chipped off, hanging by its last screws digging into the plaster wall.

The kitchen, while well lit, was not less dingy than the rest of the house. The counters were littered with various open boxes of snacks, including but not limited to, Cheez-Its, Pecan Sandies, Tostitos Hint of Lime chips, and pretzel Goldfish. The sink was impacted white, left over calcium and rust choking out what used to be a respectable faucet. There were various foods collecting in the drain - mainly pasta and cereal. The dishes were stacked five-high, spilling out of the sink and onto the counter, almost completely obscuring the plastic drying rack. The floor had a certain glaze over it, like spilled iced tea…the kind of iced tea that starts as gigantic scoops of sugary powder. Weedman Tim opened up one of the top cabinets, reachable only by standing on the tips of his toes, and removed an electronic scale. On the counter, in a chipped, ceramic cookie jar, he took out what appeared to be about an ounce of marijuana.

Tim turned to me, after reclosing the lid on the jar, “Kids don’t know about getting shorted. They can’t tell when too little is passed off…and even if they could, they wouldn’t say shit about it. When I’m down by the arcade, Friday nights, you wouldn’t believe how light the bags are. I might not spread this wealth evenly, but I’ll be goddamned if I don’t spread it fairly. It’s only right.”

I guess, all things mathematically considered, Tim had a point. Although I had never known such slighting at the hands of a drug dealer, I imagine that most kids wouldn’t even know if they were being had. They started called him Weedman Tim because Shanklooper was not a respectable last name for a drug dealer, and because our town isn’t the most creative place on the planet. In considering nicknames, his didn’t seem original, but appropriate for his chosen profession. Tim never went to college. I’m not sure where or if he worked any kind of day job. His parents, for all I knew, forgot he existed. He dealt drugs so selectively, he told me once, that he had to start running his errands in other towns, so as to avoid being approached at the supermarket or laundromat. At that very moment, Tim, still faintly looking like the kid I met in 9th grade, seemingly forever ago, began mathematically removing weed from the zip-locked haystack and started transferring it onto the scale. I heard the TV come on in the living room. The volume had to have been on maximum.

I thought of Streets sitting, waiting in the car. I hadn’t left it running, so he was on his own in terms of figuring out how to even the temperature. Beth, probably in boxer shorts and a long-sleeved t-shirt, was sleeping in that room of hers…the room that always smelled like pine trees and was never anywhere near messy. Her clothes would be folded and her bookshelf alphabetized. Her carpet always fluffed out and vacuumed. I thought about my parents, my mom probably asleep with an open booked next to her and my dad laughing out loud at some late-night, stand-up comedy special. Finally, as Tim put what was on the scale into a smaller, clear blue plastic baggie, I thought of James. Maybe they had taken the IV out of his arm. I wondered which of his parents had stayed the night with him. I figured that maybe tomorrow morning, he’d be let out of the hospital by the time I woke up. My thoughts wandered to hospital food. The orange juice in the little plastic containers reminded me of the sugary lemon ices my mom used to get from the supermarket. There was the hospital apple sauce and the weird, watery soups. When I had my tonsils out, it was all ice cream and Jell-O. I remember I got an infection and had to stay overnight so they could monitor what was happening in the back of my 11-year-old throat. The next day, I came home to a brand new Lego space station play set and some new video games. My parents let me play Sega as much as I wanted that week.

“This should be it. Next time you come here, can you buy more? I’m not exactly in the business of introducing kids to marijuana…you know, hand holding. Start owing favors to people with a little bit of money once in awhile, Duchamp.” Tim was in full dealer-mode.

I responded, “Thanks Tim. I appreciate it on such short notice. Let me go because I left my car running…I’ll talk to you soon, you know, about increasing the volume of my purchases.”

Tim laughed and nodded as he screwed the heavy top of the ceramic jar closed. I waited until he had put the scale back in the cabinet before following him out of the kitchen. He opened the door and I stepped back into the glowing purple and black of his living room. Heavy smoke hung in the air and, judging by the scent and density of such smoke, it couldn’t have come from any normal, pedestrian cigarette. As I took my first few steps towards the door to the hallway, I noticed the girl sitting exactly as I’d left her, only now she was flicking something into the ashtray in her lap. Her eyes never looked up at me. Music provided the background to my exit. It was something ambient and full of strange synthesizer sounds. There was a faint chanting over the track, but to comprehend the lyrics would require drug-induced focus. I was sobering up. The girl’s hair, a color unrecognizable in that light, was pulled back into a bun-hive. It hung sloppily off to the side as she kept looking at her lap…as if she expected whatever was in her hand to speak to her and politely ask for the violent flicking to cease. Tim moved quickly, but I took my time getting through the room. He was by the door and I was still navigating the lumpy carpet, scattered wires and open DVD boxes. I gingerly made it to the front door of the apartment.

Tim said as he pushed the uneven door open from the inside,

“You’d better stop leaving your car running with drug fiends waiting inside of it. One day, Duchamp, you’ll learn a little bit about a lot of things…dealing with our type is a necessary skill.”

As I stepped back into the pale, florescent light of the hallway, I looked back at “Weedman” Tim Shanklooper. He was standing in front of purple lights, haze, and muffled music… leaning with one shoulder against the doorframe. I gave him my standard outro: “Later on Tim. Be good.”