Free Some Are Sicker Than Others by Andrew Seaward

didn’t; if he really wanted, he could quit tomorrow; no detox, no rehab, no counseling, no therapists; he could drop this shit right now on sheer willpower. Then, who’d be laughing? Who’d be smiling? Who’d be paying this kid’s rent and buying his groceries? Not Dave. That was for damn sure.
    Dave smiled right back as he handed the kid the money, who inspected it and stuffed it inside his pocket. The kid disappeared from the view of the window, but returned a few seconds later holding a small, red plastic pill bottle. He unscrewed the cap and turned it over, counting off the rocks as they slid into his palm.
    “Alright, that’s ten,” he said, as he funneled the rocks back in the bottle then handed it to Dave through the car window. “Ten fat ones.”
    At the sight of the rocks, Dave’s heart began to flutter. He felt like a kid on Prom night who was about to get lucky. He snatched up the bottle and took a swift inspection of the product, then pulled open the center console and placed it under the cover of a couple McDonald’s hamburgers wrappers. Alright. Now, he was set. Now, he was ready. He was ready to cook this shit and get on with his Monday.
    He shifted from park and buckled his seat belt then looked back up at Juarez through the passenger side window. “We good?” he said, as he tapped the dashboard, his fingers twitching like he was playing an imaginary piano.
    “Yeah, we good,” Juarez said. “We good.”
    “Alright. I’ll see you later then.”
    “I know you will.” The kid smiled then turned away from the window and trotted back through the gate of his trashy, little prison yard.
     
    A few minutes later, Dave was back on Colfax heading east towards the Capitol Hill neighborhood. He decided to stop off at the park for a couple quick ones. He was gonna need something in his system to keep him moving. That coffee and bagel he had for breakfast wasn’t nearly enough energy for him.
    He took a left onto York towards Cheesman, driving past a four-story brick house that someone had once told him was an AA meeting hall. As he came to the light, he glanced out the window and saw a bunch of people standing around on a porch smoking cigarettes. Jesus, look at them all…the sick bastards…standing around in the cold looking miserable. Thank god he wasn’t an addict. It had to suck being sober.
    He shook his head and put on his turn signal then took a right off of York onto Thirteenth Street. When he got to the park, he drove around a few times to make sure there were no cops lurking in the shadows. The pigs were notorious for hiding out in this neighborhood. Once he was satisfied that the place was empty, he drove to a small, secluded parking lot next to some big, blue Porta-Potties. The things were nasty looking, but they were well hidden, underneath the shade of some monstrous, snow-glazed evergreens.
    He pulled to a stop then opened the center console and removed the red plastic bottle from underneath the McDonald’s hamburger wrappers. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cheap, plastic, Bic lighter along with his trusty glass pipe that he unwrapped from some toilet paper. He twisted his body and looked out the back window then took a deep breath and reached into the pill bottle. He dumped out a rock and held it up between his fingers, studying it in the light as if he was appraising a diamond. The rock wasn’t as fat as the kid made it out to be. It was small, about the size of a kid’s molar, Larry’s molar. He brought it to his nose and took a deep whiff inward then touched it with the tip of his tongue—it tasted bitter and metallic, almost inky.
    He grabbed his pipe and held it eye line then carefully placed the rock on the end near the filter. His hands shook, his lips quivered, and tiny beads of sweat were dripping onto his crotch from his forehead. He took a deep breath then sparked up the lighter. The flame was like a torch glowing inside the little Volkswagen. He