Gulliver Takes Five (25 page)

“There we go! And we’re back online, folks. Thank you for riding with the MTA.”

Like we have a choice?

Whoa, Servy. Why are you standing up? This isn’t our stop.

...

Why are you looking at me like that?

...

Because I told you to shut up?

...

Ugh. Fine. UN–shut up. And sit down. We’re not even close yet.

I’m getting off
.

What?

You heard me. I’m getting off. Have fun at the fucking zoo
.

Servy, stop fucking around. I’m really not in the mood.

No. Fuck. You. I’M not in the mood. I never WAS in the mood! I’m going home. You go get stoned, since that’s your number one priority. You’ve made it perfectly clear that I am number two
.

Can we just talk about this later?

Nope. And don’t bother texting or calling me, either. I’ll see you when I see you
.

What! Are you serious?

The doors swish open, the subway speakers chime, and suddenly, I’m alone.

I don’t follow. I can’t. Because I’ve never seen him this pissed before, so I have no idea what he would do—or what I would do—if I went after him. And I’m too fucking proud or stubborn or whatever to scream an apology. Because he WAS being a whiny bitch!

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. He’s already left the station and I’m speeding away, farther north, to the zoo. Now I REALLY need to get stoned.

I’ve been standing next to this giant wooden cutout of a caterpillar for at least forty-five minutes.

I’ve read through the Bronx Zoo’s list of special events five times, thanks to the paper program I picked up by the ticket booths. Turns out the Dora ride is closed for repairs, so I dodged a bullet there, at least. A special insects exhibit opened up next to the butterfly house (hence the giant caterpillar). The food court is proud to announce that their chicken nuggets are now shaped like elephants and monkeys.

I am in a wide, cobblestoned plaza that stands between a dead-end street and the entrance to the zoo. Families pass every few minutes, taking pictures with the caterpillar before approaching the ticket booth to buy day passes. The parents have cameras dangling around their necks and fanny packs full of snacks and money around their waists. The kids are sometimes wearing animal masks, sometimes shoving candy in their mouths, sometimes begging for the All-Day Pass Plus that lets you ride the Sky Tram in addition to eight hours of gawking at all of the caged animals. Seeing the little ones run wild and scream like hyenas, I can only think,
What a zoo
.

Jack Smack is nowhere to be found, of course. I know this because I’ve tried calling five fucking times, and each one ended with his
damn voice mail: “Yo. It’s Smack. Not here. Be smart about what you leave as a message. Peace.”

I hang up for the sixth time and return to the bench that’s quickly become my second home. This is the worst thing EVER. I can’t see the animals, as they’re all hidden behind tall walls. That hasn’t stopped the pungent aroma of animal shit from reaching me, though. It’s getting cloudy and cold, and I’m regretting not bringing a hoodie. But how could I have possibly known? It’s fucking August! How did it go from sweaty-balls hot to ball-shrinking cold this quickly?

Normally, when I’m this bored, I’d text back and forth with Servy. Or check Grindr, then see if Servy’s interested in inviting someone back to our place for some sexytime.

Not today, obviously, since Servy has declared that I’m a piece of shit who is not to contact him until he deems me worthy of forgiveness.

No Servy for Rowan.

Funny how that one sentence has left me with nothing.

Fuck, man—I blew it back there, didn’t I?

Well...blew what?

When people ask why me and Servy do what we do, I shrug. His answer is much longer-winded and more logical. He’s got a whole speech prepared. (Have you heard it yet?)

I, on the other hand, am amongst the majority who doesn’t really “get” us. (Don’t tell Servando.) I don’t know why we’re not boyfriends. Is “Because” a good enough answer? How about “Because Servy said so”? People think I’m badass when I shrug, like I’ve got it all figured out and just can’t be bothered to explain it. That couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m afraid if I tried to put it into words, I would only realize that I actually don’t have a reason and have to come to terms with the fact that we are actually boyfriends. Open boyfriends, sure, but boyfriends nonetheless. Just two label-phobe guys. What a zoo, indeed.

Explaining the hows and whys is Servy’s job. He’s our PR person, and he’s damn good at it. No one ever asks us more than once—unless they want to watch Servy foam at the mouth just for kicks.

But why the fuck does everyone care? So many of our friends are lonely or jaded, and yet somehow we’re the low-hanging fruit (no pun intended)—easy targets for their comments and questions. Bug off, bitches!

Funny shit is, I’m just as upset right now as I would be if we WERE boyfriends. My head is a ping-pong game between
Dude Where’s My Weed
and
The War of the Roses
. Trying to think of anything else fails. I guess it’s silly that we aren’t official, but popping the question now would be awfully moronic.

I get up from the bench and plod back to the caterpillar. It’s about six feet tall, which would be pretty fucking scary if it were alive. It’s green, with big, buggy eyes and round, fat circles making up its body. A huge clown smile. I’m pretty sure that’s not scientifically
correct. Judging by its faded color, no one’s ever thought to bring him in when it started raining.

Speaking of, the sky stopped being sunny twenty minutes ago. A hopeful umbrella vendor has already dragged a squeaky-wheeled cart to the plaza entrance, where he now leans against the gate, smoking a cigarette and looking hopefully skyward.

It’s at least a ten-minute walk back to the aboveground subway station. If it starts raining, I’ll be drenched by the time I get there, cheap crappy umbrella or not.

Fuck!

I pull a Clif Bar out of my pocket. Carrot cake flavored, my favorite. I was going to save it for after I smoked; as delicious as it is on its own, it tastes a billion times better when I’m flying high. But that’s shot to shit. I’m starving and every growl of my stomach only pisses me off more.

Three bites and it’s gone. I abandon my new best friend Mr. Caterpillar for a garbage can across the entry plaza so I can chuck the wrapper. Hopefully that snack will stop the tummy grumbling.

I’ve been staring at my phone by the garbage can for five minutes when a hand grabs my shoulder.

“Yo, Row.”

“Oh my fuck, you actually came.” I laugh, turning around and putting Smack in a bear hug. He smells like BO and his clothing
probably hasn’t been washed in days, but I could kiss him regardless.

“Yeah, sorry. My last guy didn’t have enough money for the goods, and I had to wait around while he ran to the damn bank.”

Jack is a heavy straight guy who dresses at all times in black Gap jeans, solid-black T-shirts, and a black leather jacket. His hair is just as black as the rest of his outfit, greasy and slicked back. He looks more like some goth kid you’d find sitting by himself at the high school cafeteria than one of the best dealers in New York City. It’s even more ridiculous when he stops by one of Todd’s parties to take advantage of the bar tab Todd gave him as a favor to me.

“It’s fine, Smack. It is SO totally fine. You should probably ignore the crazy-person voice mails I left you. I just thought you flaked on me.” I stop babbling to reach into my wallet. “One fifty?”

Jack usually takes orders, but he knows mine by heart. I take an ounce of what he calls Government Green. Apparently it’s grown legally in California and then airmailed directly to him. Whether that’s true or just a salesman story to boost profits is not important. It brings a great high with minimal paranoia, exactly what I need in life. It costs a few bucks more than his Schwag Weed, but it’s a premium I’m willing to pay.

“Two hundred, actually,” Jack says, stepping back. “Rush fee plus delivery.”

My hand stops as it goes through the wallet. “What?”

“Yeah. Two hundred. Just this one time. When we’re back on the schedule, we’ll go back to your normal price.”

I laugh, almost dropping my wallet on the ground. “You’re hilarious, Smack! Take the money so we can get high and move on with our lives.”

“I’m not kidding, bud,” Jack says, his face not moving an inch more than it has to to get the words out. “Two hundred.”

“Wait, what? Why didn’t you tell me while we were on the phone?”

Smack looks at me. Or I think he is. It’s hard to tell through his gigantic sunglasses. “I didn’t say that on the phone?”

“No, I don’t think you did, brother. Otherwise, I would have brought that much! When’s the last time I’ve shown up for a deal short? Come on, where is it? Do I have to search your pockets? You know I will!”

“I’m pretty sure I told you, Rowan,” Smack says. “I only give you free delivery downtown.”

“Smack, I don’t HAVE two hundred. And you TOLD me to come up here and meet you. I would have met you at your place if you asked me to.”

“Like hell I’d let you near my place. There isn’t an ATM in the zoo?” he asks, gesturing past me and in the direction of the caterpillar.

“It’ll cost me thirty bucks just to go inside and get to it.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, rubbing a hand through his greasy hair. “Yeah, I dig it.”

“Are we done here yet? Can I get my stuff?” I say, handing him my money.

“No. No. Sorry,” Jack says, stepping backward again. “Two hundred, or I’m going home.”

“Smack!” I whisper, looking around to make sure this shit show isn’t getting any attention. In hindsight, doing a deal in a space as open as this was probably pretty dumb. Then again, I can’t think until I get high. “Dude, you know I’m good for it. If you don’t take one fifty, then you just leave with nothing. Does that make any sense?”

“It’s the principle of the thing, my friend. I can go sell this to someone else without the friendly discount I always give you and make more on the transaction.”

Fuck me. He isn’t kidding.

The end of my shakes and a blissful blaze is being held hostage by this pudgy, greasy breeder. Is it pitiful to admit that I’m about to cry? I have to take a deep breath to keep from sobbing. I’m at the end of my fucking rope for today, and Smack is standing there, smiling like a dick and patting the pocket where he’s probably holding the stuff. MY stuff. I would do ANYTHING for this right now.

“Smack, please. I’m, like, your biggest customer.”

He laughs and lifts his glasses, revealing cracked and red eyes. Of course HE’S stoned. I’m so jealous I could scream. “Rowan, you aren’t anywhere near my biggest customer. I’ve got a guy downtown who buys five times as much every other day. And even he’s not my biggest customer.”

Okay, now I’m crying. Fuck, talk about feeling like an addict! I tell Smack about the rat, the fight with Servando. I beg him to understand. I call him shady for throwing this extra fee on top of the normal amount. I beg him to look deep within his heart to understand and to give it to me for one fifty.

Smack considers this, picking his nose and inspecting what comes out before he says, “Yeah. No. I got some other stuff on me if you want to try something new to take the edge off your day. Otherwise—”

I shake my head. “I just want my shit. My usual shit.”

“Then get the rest of the cash and I can hook you up next week. Usual shit, usual day, usual price. Usual everything. But add another fifty to pay me back for coming all the way out here. Who shows up to a deal with the exact amount? That’s amateur shit, bud.”

I nod and say, “See you next week.”

“Two hundred,” he says as he turns around. “Don’t forget.”

I want to jump Smack and take the weed by force. Not only because I desperately need to get high, but also because he’s being such a douche about it. He did NOT tell me two hundred. He did NOT. And now he’s acting like I inconvenienced HIM. What the fuck? He probably brought me to the Bronx just to punish me for not sticking to my regular delivery. Or who knows what the fuck a drug dealer is thinking? With the element of surprise on my side, I could get him to the ground, grab the weed, and be well on my way at the speed of light before he knew what hit him.

But I’m too smart for that. He’s probably carrying, for one—and if he didn’t shoot me in the face here in the plaza, he’d at least never sell to me again, then see to it that all his dealer friends knew I was not to be trusted. I’d never be high in this city again. And while I’m ready to lose my mind right here, I’d lose it a lot more if I couldn’t buy weed anymore.

I watch Smack waddle back to the dead-end street. He jams himself into a beaten-up Peugeot, keys the stuttering ignition, and putters away.

I stand in the plaza as a family walks by, kids skipping and laughing. We all just came here to have a good fucking time. So why am I the only one going home empty-handed?

Then I feel something. Cold. Wet.

I feel it again.

Raindrops. And the umbrella guy’s gone!