less complicated lives is their only
goal. Personally, I need to live faster,
even if it means dying younger. Don’t
ask me why. As for the guilt, it comes
and goes. Mostly, it’s gone, right along
with Mom’s jewelry and a chunk of her
money. Part of me thinks she deserves
it. Another part doesn’t know why.
I Consider That in the Shower
Scrubbing off yesterday’s sweat,
last night’s sex. All of a sudden,
the front door throbs with noise.
Knocking. Pounding. Thumping.
Whoever it is wants a reaction.
But who? The manager? Cops?
Shaking, I wrap a towel around
myself, wishing Trey was here
instead of making a delivery.
A glimpse out the peephole gives
no definitive answers. It’s a guy
in a suit. Detective? If I don’t answer,
he’ll go away, but I’m guessing
he’ll be back. At least my semi-
naked state will give me the excuse
to go into the other room, dispose
of evidence if need be. I crack
the door around the chain. “Yes?”
Kristina Georgia Snow? He slides
a sheaf of papers through the opening.
Consider yourself served. The man
turns on his heel, leaves without
threatening to come inside. Not
a detective. Only a process server.
Relieved but still shaking, I force
myself to look at what’s written on
the papers. Something about Hunter?
I read further. Despite the hefty
legalese, I understand the gist
of the six-page document. Mom
and Scott have filed for custody.
They claim I’m an unfit mother,
cite drug abuse and several instances
of observed “unstable behavior.”
They’re asking to be appointed
legal guardians. Immediately.
If I Want to Fight Them
I’ll have to pass a drug test.
Go to court.
Talk to a judge.
Tell him why I’m more
fit to raise Hunter than
Mom and Scott are.
Convince him those instances
of unstable behavior were justified.
Or aberrances.
Do I want to fight?
Am I more fit to raise him?
Am I fit to raise him at all?
Do I want to raise him?
Am I ready for full-time motherhood?
The answer to all these questions:
“How the fuck
do I know?”
When Trey Gets Back
I show him the papers.
He is kind. Reasonable.
It’s up to you. I’ll support
you, whatever you decide.
But I’ve already pretty
much made up my mind.
They’ll take good care of
him. And it’s only temporary.
That’s right. I can always
go to court for him later.
Meanwhile, we’ll find a nicer
place. Get our feet under us.
A bigger place, in a better
neighborhood. Good schools.
Please don’t cry. Come here.
I’ll make you feel better.
We get high. Make love.
Lie softly folded together.
We’re good together, aren’t we?
And this is just the beginning.
The beginning of what?
And why does it feel so much
like an ending?
We Live an Endless
Mindless cycling.
Buzzed.
Barely buzzed.
Crash.
Buzzed again.
Recycling.
Buzzed.
Barely buzzed.
Crash.
Buzzed again.
Augmented by
a different cycling.
Score.
Pay up.
Deal.
Score more.
Or, depending on
what’s due when,
Score.
Forge checks.
Pay up.
Score more.
I don’t worry about
getting caught. I don’t
worry about me at all,
although I could
worry about
Kristina and Mom.
Kristina and Hunter.
Kristina and Trey.
Kristina and the monster.
Call me stupid, but I do,
in fact, worry about
Trey and Angela.
Trey and casinos.
Trey, helping himself
to the contents of the lockbox.
On a Whim
I pick up a newspaper.
Maybe I’ll get a job.
A new direction.
A way out.
Why do I think I
need that? Doesn’t
matter. I already
spent
the fifty cents for
the paper. And hey,
since I bought it,
might
as well read it.
What’s going on
in the world?
Perhaps
a new war?
New president? Not that
either event would
affect me.
Anyway, Section B,
page three, I come
across a photo.
Definitely
[an ugly] me, cashing
a check at a local bank.
The caption reads:
Does
anyone know this
woman? Fuck me.
Someone out there
definitely does.
First Things First
Trey and I decide our abode is no longer
a safe place to stay. Not only does the greed-
fed manager know us, but a process server
has lately been by. I’m not real sure he got
a good look at me, but you never know.
That guy is no doubt always on the prowl
for an easy buck. Secret Witness is painless
pickings. The major bummer is, we just paid
the rent. But such is the not-pretty life of
a dealer/burglar/forger. What a mouthful!
An ugly mouthful of crap, defining me. But
no worries. We toss most of our belongings
into suitcases and boxes. Two suitcases.
Three boxes. Trey plus me equals: not
a whole lot more shit. We have to write off
most of the furniture. Garage-sale, oh well.
The best thing to do would be to go far, far
away. But we’re glass-heavy, cash-light.
Trey has the solution. We’ll sleep in the car
until we’re off the meth. Then we’ll score one
more time. A big one, before we take off.
I hear ice is a big commodity in the Midwest.
Good plan. One we settle on. We move into
the Mustang. Sell a shitload of crystal.
Go to Fernley for one final score. A major
one. Cesar is happy to front us a half pound.
After all, we’ve always made good on his fronts.
Always come back for more. Always…
But This Time
We have no plans to come back.
No plans to pay up. No plans
to stay in this place. The only
place I’ve ever known as home.
An ending.
But we won’t head east. We’ll
go west, to California, where
meth was f
irst invented and
remains the drug of choice. Is this
a beginning?
I wish I could feel. Or maybe
not. If I could, I would feel loss.
Hunter. Mom. Jake. Leigh. Even
Scott, who has always been there
for me.
They say meth affects the brain.
Destroys the pleasure center.
Could it smash the pain center too?
Would feeling pain be better than
feeling numb?
Homeless
Out of Nevada, we touch down
in California. Unsure of where to go
from here, we decide we need food.
McD’s okay? We should
probably eat cheap for a while.
We’re on a downswing.
Sleepy. Hungry. Empty. “Cheap
is good, as long as there’s a lot of it.”
Ronald would be proud.
Big Macs and fries, times two?
“Times two, twice.” Fuck it.
I can invest a few calories. Not
like I’ve eaten a whole lot lately.
Okay. But you know I’m not
real fond of Two-Ton-Tessies.
“Love me fat, love me skinny.
Just keep loving me. Hey,
sounds like a song. Love me—”
You might want to work on it
before you try out for American Idol.
We locate a McDonald’s off
the freeway, go inside to pee,
order our fifteen-dollar feast.
Let’s eat in the car. Looks like
they’re getting ready to close.
It is pretty late. Trey pulls
the Mustang back into a dark
corner of the parking lot.
No one will bother us here.
Oh, man, this shit tastes great.
He’s right. It does. And as
my belly fills with greasy
food, my eyes grow heavy.
We shouldn’t swing for a room.
Let’s sleep in the car, okay?
It’s not the comfiest bed. But
it is free. And we don’t dare
drive anywhere this tired.
We’ll make L.A. tomorrow.
We can bunk with a buddy then.
Cool. Whatever. Meanwhile
I’m just going to close my
eyes, slip into Dreamville.
Tap-Tap-Tap
Tapping on the glass. Glass?
Where am I? And who’s knocking?
Come on. Wake up!
Car. I’m in a car. Trey’s car.
And he’s here too, arms around
me, trying to wake up, just like I am.
I don’t want to. I want to sleep.
Hello? Open the window!
Just a minute. Just a freaking
minute. I manage to open my eyes.
The guy outside the window, the one
who’s been knocking, wears a uniform.
His flashlight parts the darkness,
seeks immediate information.
Good evening. May I see some ID?
Trey politely offers his license.
Something wrong, Officer?
Don’t you know you can’t sleep here?
Sorry. We had no idea. It’s just
that we got off the freeway…
The cop shines his light in our eyes.
Then he speaks directly to me.
How ’bout you, miss? ID?
The cop takes our licenses back
to his car. I’m getting a very bad
feeling. Trey notices. Don’t panic.
Eventually, the uniform returns.
Please step out of the vehicle.
Holy shit. There can’t be an APB
out for me already, can there?
Someone would have had to identify
me, right? Could it happen this fast?
You say you’re just passing through?
Okay, maybe it isn’t an all points
bulletin. Maybe he’s just being nosy—
doing his job. “That’s right.” I give him
my best smile. “We can just be on our way….”
Mind if I take a quick look inside?
He wants to search the Mustang.
The meth is in the lockbox, under
the front seat. It would take a warrant
to unlock that. Maybe he won’t bother.
Maybe he won’t even see it. Trey
must be thinking the same thing.
He looks over at me, gives a small
shrug. “Sure,” I say. “Why not?”
A Second Patrol Car
Joins the party as Cop
Number One leans inside
the Mustang, flashlight
at the ready. It takes
about two seconds for
him to find the lockbox,
extract it, place it on the seat.
Surprise! It isn’t locked.
And talk about surprised.
One of Sacramento’s finest
pound of 90 percent pure
crystal methamphetamine.
You should see the look
on his face. He’ll be the talk
of the locker room for days.
No surprise. We’re fucked.
Cuffed
Totally busted.
We are stuffed
into separate cars,
hauled off to city
jail. It’s a short ride,
not even long enough
to think about what
will happen next.
Poked. Prodded.
Grilled. Well done.
Through it all I stay
calm. Silent. The ball
is in—ha-ha-ha—
their court now.
I’m allowed a call.
Need to call some
one, let them know
where I am. What’s
happened. But who?
Mom? Don’t think
so—like she needs
more ammunition.
Brad? Uh-uh. He
never bothered to
check up on me.
One person might
actually care. One
person might
actually answer
his phone.
“Hello, Quade…?”
Jail Regulars Will Tell You
Not to get busted on Friday
night. Law demands arraignment
within forty-eight hours. But
weekends don’t count.
Four days
before we might
be granted bail. (Highly
doubtful. We’re not only
flight risks, but mostly broke.)
Four days
before we can get a feel
for our future. Four days to
come to grips with the thought
we might be here awhile.
Four days
without a cigarette.
Smoke-free lockup. Whose
stupid idea was that? Inmates
in deep withdrawal. Idiotic!
Four days
without the monster,
and that withdrawal doubles
me over. Makes me sweat. Shiver.
Puke, in and out of the toilet.
Four days
wishing I were dead, instead
of screaming back at the monster.
Dead, instead of running from
the demons. Demons, rampant
in this Godless place.
The Officers on Duty
Do keep an eye on things.
But they don’t exactly
come rushing to my rescue.
Don’t worry. You’ll survive,
says one, a woman about
the size of a steer.
Frigging tweakers are all
alike.
Whiners. Sweat that
shit out of your system,
you’ll be good as new, ’cept
for lacking a few brain cells.
You wanna see ugly, watch
a wino in lockup, fighting
d.t.’s. Oh, mama, now that
is some scary shit.
I’ve heard hard-core alkies
can die without booze. That
they bring ’em fixes, so they
don’t croak in custody. I call
that out-and-out prejudice.
Injustice. Maybe I should sue.
I Don’t See Trey
Until the arraignment.
We share the defendants’ table,
the public defender who stands
with us. Share a “not guilty” plea
to several charges, including
possession of and trafficking
methamphetamine, importing
it across the state line.