A Quiet Piece of Longing – Five

I was sitting at a bar in Pennsylvania. I had driven here from Minnesota in a week. What had taken so long was the fact I had decided to drive around in circles through the Midwest. I still had a good surplus of cash. And I hid it everywhere. Under the seats, in the dashboard, in my shoes, my waistband. Ultimately, money was like food. No matter how sad that seemed.

And now I was sitting across from a stingy man who had a business opportunity for me. His name was Frankie and he was a veteran of the Iraqi war. He had got an honorable discharge after shrapnel entered his knee. Now he devoted himself to drinking and gambling whatever he had. As a poker enthusiast, I wanted to challenge him.

He made his money by selling weed and psychedelics. At his apartment complex he grew peyote. And in the dressers, cupboards, and drawers, were a multitude of psychedelics. The intent was to never be sober for at least one second. That would be too much.

“So, there’s uh somethin’ I wanna talk bout’.”

I chugged my beer and set it down. My hands were frosty. “And what is that?”

“Two motorcycles are being sold downtown by a guy I know. Lousy fuck. I wanna get back at him, you know?”

“And where do I come in?”

“Simple, Stephen. These models can be hotwired, do you copy?”

“Yes I copy.”

“So we just take em’, drive them to my boy Rodrigo, and he pays us each five grand.”
“Hoooly shit. Five thousand?”

Frankie smiled, revealing yellowed and missing teeth. “Exactly. So… you down?”

In hindsight, this was a terrible idea. But in my drug-induced state, I thought it sounded fabulous. The money was simply too much to turn down just for driving motorcycles.

“Alright.” I said, slamming my drink down. “Let’s get out of here and get it.”

We boarded a taxi and passed the bottle of beer around. It was a gallon jug of steel reserve. The driver didn’t seem to mind. “One thing.” Said Frankie. “These motorcycles are loud mothafuckas. We gotta zip in, then zip out. No funny business. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it. We just grab them then get out.” I was so drunk I slurred my words. The world was tilting before my very eyes.

“And another thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Rodrigo’s hosting a party, too. I figure we join in. But this guy’s quiet, he sticks to himself. Don’t expect too many people there.”

“So no hot chicks. Alright.”

It was a twenty minute drive but it didn’t matter. The motorcycles sat right inside a gate with a lock. But Frankie had his tools with him. He took a chug of beer and snapped the lock right off. It fell to the ground with a thud.

We slid through the small opening and walked around the lot in pitch black darkness. There was a rusted cadillac just sitting in a corner. It was overgrown with shrubs and vines. Then there were the trucks sitting all alone, waiting for an owner.

Broke down vehicles everywhere. Even in the dark I could tell this was a junkyard. And as I walked around, searching, I wondered who we were stealing from. I didn’t know what this person had done to Frankie. But it must’ve been bad to make him want to get back like this. But besides, free money! Right? Don’t be so sure.

“Over here!” Frankie called out.

I walked over and saw the motorcycles. They must’ve been well taken care of. Sparkling red, no dents, no hits, nothing. They were as beautiful as can be. Frankie helped me hotwire the first one. All it took was connecting the wires here and there. And then he did his motorcycle. We were out in a matter of ten minutes.

We sped through the gate and down the road. I kept looking over my back, expecting the police to catch up. But each time I did so, there was nothing behind me except pedestrians. Now, I know it was just way too easy. There was no friction in stealing at all. Obviously, something was gonna go down. But I was so fucked up I didn’t care. I didn’t even recognize the consequences.

Speeding down the road, we passed a cop car but he didn’t seem to notice the stolen vehicles. Frankie pulled a left down an alley and I followed. We came to an opened garage and a man was standing in front of it. He had a shaved head, brown skin, and a multitude of tattoos.

“Hey, Frankieee!” He cheered, pulling him in for a hug.

“What’s up?” Frankie said. “Me and my business partner got these for you. He’s a good guy.”

Rodrigo turned and looked at me, just stepping off the motorcycle. I waved and he walked over. “Who the hell is this?”

“Name’s Stephen.” I said. “I’m not from around here. Just met Frankie and he pulled me into this deal.”

Rodrigo smiled. “Well, you did it so I have no problem with you. Both of you!” He said. “Come inside!”

We walked in and found it to be a dingy apartment. It reeked of weed and I saw a baggy of crystal lying on the counter. Rodrigo stood by the counter and picked up the bag. “So… I’ll get both of you guys five grand for these motorcycles.” He lit the pipe and took a puff. “You want some?”
I shook my head.

“Alright then—more for me. Anyway, I’m still getting a good deal cuz’ these models can go up to twenty thousand. Any problems with them?”

“I guess I noticed the starter was weak.” Said Frankie.

“That’s an easy fix. I’ll get these refurbished and we’ll make bank. Down for poker? I got other guests waiting to play.”

I smiled. “Hey, I’m pretty good at poker.”

Rodrigo met my eyes with a smile too. “Then that’s perfect. Come on!”

We walked through the door and I saw two other people sitting at a table. One singular lightbulb was on and it dangled from a cord. The room was dusty and dim. The weed smell only got stronger.

The people here were Frankie, me, Rodrigo, Thomas, and Andrew. Now, Thomas was just a kid helping Rodrigo with slinging drugs. He had dropped out of highschool and apprenticed at a tattoo shop. On his off days, he dealt weed. And from what I gathered, he was pretty good at it too. Andrew was an expat from China. He barely spoke a word of English and I didn’t even know if Andrew was his real name. But he was good at poker.

Fast forward forty minutes and I’m deep into a round. Frankie just got out because of a false bluff. Andrew had called it and bet all in as well. Frankie got fucked. But I was sitting there with a royal flush in my hands. I had no idea how I had got so lucky. All I did was exchange a three and an eight.

“I’m all in.” I said.

Andrew folded. Rodrigo pushed all his chips in. “I call that. I think you’re bullshitting.”

“Man, what the fuck is with you people and going all in? Fuck this, I’m out.” Said Thomas.

“Show your cards, boy.” Said Rodrigo.

I did and I watched as the life drained from his eyes. I laughed and grabbed all the chips. Just like that, he was out and I was on top. Now, it was my turn to deal. I shuffled the cards and sneakily hid an ace for me to have. Then I passed them out.

“Anyway—I raise.”

Andrew waited. “I don’t think you’ve got this all together.” He said.

“Then show em’.”

He pushed the money in and showed his cards. A pair of nines. I showed my cards and had a pair of aces. I won. “Another round, anyone?”

Thomas leaned back and groaned. “I’m fuckin’ tired, man. Let’s smoke some weed.”
Rodrigo smiled and said, “Sounds like a plan. I got a rig I’ve been meaning to show everyone, too.”

He went into the backroom wheeled out this giant dab rig. It was a giant skull but shaped like a heart. The details on it were fascinating. The teeth, the nostrils, the gaping eyes. All of it was carved wonderfully. “How much did it cost?” I asked.

“Only three thousand.”

“Jesus Christ.” I said. “I’d never spend that much money. I’m fine with the cheap-ass pipes.”
He shrugged. “Well, I’m a collector.”

Andrew reached into his pockets and tossed a container onto the table. Exactly five grams of wax. “Wanna smoke?”

We were then passing the rig around. By this point we were all stoned and severely drunk. Another game of poker was played and I was out a hundred dollars. Meanwhile, Frankie counted cards, shuffled the deck to his need, and won three hundred. Though I was just too fucked up to care.

I ended up passing out on the couch after another hit. And as I slept, everything spun around me. I had to lay with my face down in the leather in order to not puke. I had got too messed up. Perhaps I should’ve taken a break. It was just too much of a good thing.

That night, I had another strange dream. I was at a bar where jazz music played. Everyone was copies of me but dressed in suits. I remained in the same clothes I fell asleep in. A lady that had my face sat at the piano in a red dress. She pressed the keys and sang backwards.

The bartender slid me a vodka martini and I chugged it. Then, a hand tapped my shoulders. It was the lady at the piano. Though, she had her own face this time. And damn, was she beautiful. I reached for a kiss and she backed away.

She reached down and wrapped her hands around my waist. She went to kiss me but backed away once more at the last second. Then it ended.

In the morning, I was woken up by a flashlight being shoved into my face. I sprung to life and saw that it was a police officer. The door had even been bashed open but somehow I slept through that.

“You’re under arrest for the theft of two motorcycles.” The officer said.

Before I even had time to think or respond, cuffs clinked around my wrist. I was hauled out of the house and into the police car. I saw Ricardo getting busted too and Frankie was nowhere to be found.

In county jail, I survived by sticking to myself and staying inside my cell. Though I had one friend. I mostly just stayed inside my cell and read the books that got passed around. And one time this guy came in reeling off of some methamphetamine and just gave me comic books. Then he ripped the covers off and stormed away.

The food sucked at first but after a while I got used to it. Most days we got “gulash” which, depending on how much the guards hated us, it would be horrible. One time it was green beans, tomato sauce, beef, and hashbrowns mixed together. Doesn’t sound too bad. But what else they put in there was wood chips.

I found myself dreaming of a subway sandwich. Or a bowl of microwaveable ramen. Sometimes they’d serve this thing that was similar to borscht, I think. It was white, doughy, and had peas and white gravy. It tasted like moldy rice.

At dinner I sat with a man named Oswald. We barely spoke but he took a liking to me. He was busy spending his time writing a memoir. He was from Mexico and wrote about the cartels, living in poverty, and moving to the United States.

After lunch we’d gather in the yard and he’d teach me exercises.
“Okay kid,” he’d say, “Put your foot out like this and then twist.”

He called it Capoeira. It was supposedly a mix of fighting and dancing. A real interesting thing and it was good to be active. The whole thing about jail was passing the time as quickly as possible. Some people had a year, some had seven. I had a hundred-twenty days.

One day I walked into his cell wanting to read some more of his writing. “Got anymore pages?” I asked.

“Hell no. My lawyer told me to stop writing.”

“What? Why?”

He let out a lengthy sigh. “Because he said there’s things in there that could damage my case.” I then watched as he grabbed a tube of paper and an envelope. He dumped out some coke onto a paper and snorted it. “Want any?”

“Sure.”

He gave me a keybump and the head rush was nice. I went back to my cell and read. I was reading an anthropology book on native americans. It was boring but better than staring at the wall.

There wasn’t a day where no fights would happen. One time, after dinner, I was reading and I heard someone screaming. I looked out of my cell and I heard, “Help! Help me!” But I couldn’t. I simply shut my door and continued reading.

I did almost get into a fight one time. It was early into my sentence. I didn’t want to shower because everyone would see me. Stupid, I know. But some fatass came up to me yelling that I stunk, trying to force me. So I yelled at him and that caught him off guard.

I went up to my cell and that’s when he appeared. He knocked on the door and yelled, “Motherfucker, when these doors open tomorrow I will be right here to beat your ass! You’re fucking dead!”

To which his friend, the meth guy, then replied, “Bitch! Beat him up and you’ll be a bitch and we’ll beat you up!” I guess the meth guy liked me.

The fatass then grabbed a bag of his ramen and gave it to me as an apology. In the morning, I made it as brunch. But it didn’t fill me up. I was always hungry and starving in there. I was convinced all of the comissary food was designed to make you starve. No matter how much ramen I had, it never hit the spot. The only thing that kind of filled me up was the chili they would serve on special days. It was the only good meal they had.

But the hundred-twenty days passed and I was good to go. The guards walked me to the holding cell where I waited to be released. I laid down on the metal bench and closed my eyes. Two hours later, the door was unlocked and the guards let me out.

I walked the six miles to the impound and got my car out. It needed a tune up and was all dusty. But it didn’t matter. It still started, and it could still get me from point A to point B. Carla, I named it. She was good.