Free The Nirvana Blues by John Nichols

NAILED AT BUS DEPOT WITH FIVE POUNDS OF UNCUT SNOW ! STATE’S BIGGEST NARCOTICS HAUL EVER !
    Mimi McAllister, a dippy redheaded lesbian reflexologist who also worked for a woman’s construction collective, bent over—in passing—and offered her snotty two bits: “Not to be a harbinger of bad news, boys, but you better steer clear of Ray Verboten.”
    Joe said, “I think I’m gonna ralph. Why didn’t we just draw up our plans in the town hall, over the radio, during a city council meeting?”
    Scott Harrison, six foot three inches of shyster hustler in his early thirties, impeccably attired in his Universal Life Church custom-made velour jumpsuit, landed on top of them for a second. “Hey, hey, hey, ” he chortled derisively. “Look what we have here—the French Connection brothers themselves!”
    Joe shriveled, leered sickly, and attempted bravado: “What are you talking about?”
    â€œWhat am I talking about?” Theatrically—who did he think he was, Kirby J. Hensley disguised as F. Lee Bailey?—Scott placed one hand against his chest, the better to accent his cheap raillery: “Word has it you’ve become the Meyer Lansky of the Chamisaville drug scene, José. ‘That Joe Miniver,’ they’re all saying. ‘He’s gonna run Joe Bonatelli right out of town!’”
    â€œVery funny, Scott. Go back to your graveyard.”
    â€œNo, seriously, my friend. You think that by stepping on and marketing the sugar that’s arriving on the two thirty-five A.M. bus tonight you can raise enough cold cash to buy out Eloy Irribarren? I’m getting a stitch in my gut from laughing! He owes me that land—every bush, every flower, every mouse turd on the place.”
    Joe mumbled, “We’ll see.…”
    â€œWell, you better take a Gatling gun down to the depot,” Scott called back over one shoulder. “I heard Ray Verboten and his hippie asesinos are gonna ring your chimes the second that bundle lands in your hot little paws—”
    Clapping hands over his ears, Joe prayed, as did little kids, that if he couldn’t hear Scott’s poison tongue, nobody else could either.
    Tribby said, “It appears the entire forces of NATO will be on maneuvers at the depot tonight.”
    â€œLet’s change the subject.” Joe knew Tribby was correct, of course. But how could he quash his own tragedy? The die was cast: obviously, he was fated to spend the rest of his life in jail (if he somehow escaped the 2:35 rendezvous alive!). And all because he had wanted a piece of land on which to build a humble little middle-class home for his wife and darling kiddies. In China, he thought, this never could have happened. I would have had an apartment, a job, free medical care, and, most importantly, a role in my nation’s history. Instead, he was doomed to perish in incarcerated exile, fending off sado-masochistic fags and lurid rats as big as tomcats.
    â€œFor argument’s sake, let’s pretend a miracle happens and you wind up with the cash to purchase Eloy’s land.” Ralph smiled benevolently. “What kind of house are you planning to build?”
    â€œA big one,” Joe whimpered. “All my life I wanted to live in a big house. I’m gonna make an octagonal tower with glass on all sides and a polar-bear rug on the floor. I’m gonna build a game room with a Ping-Pong table you won’t have to fold up after every contest. There’ll be solar collectors, a greenhouse.…”
    Joe stopped. And for a moment he reveled in a typical fantasy. He had built the new house already and everything was Under Control. Joe’s one great dream in life was to have Everything Under Control. An enormous woodpile—enough piñon to last all winter—cast its shadow against the house. Fragrant smoke issued from the chimney, dissolving against a glittery, iron-blue