Opening Scene: Introduces one of the two POV characters, Lily, as well as the inciting incident, tone, and themes that will be prevalent throughout the novel.
There’s a dead pigeon outside the next customer's apartment building. It lays on its side, the feathers and flesh completely picked off from just the lower half of its body, leaving his talons connected to nothing but the remains of his bloody, bare pelvis bone. It looks as if rats or maybe his own feathery friends have picked his chest clean, baring his tiny delicate ribs to the fumes and cigarette smoke New Yorkers happily pay thousands a month just to have the privilege of breathing for themselves. His head is somehow untouched, a fluffy beaked knob resting atop the remains of his gore-covered skeleton. The whole effect makes it look like he could just be missing his pants. The thought makes me giggle slightly, as I continue to stare.
The apartment door opens. A very tall and thin boy in his early twenties trots down the steps, grinning at me. I straighten, hands still clasped behind my back.
“Weed fairy, coming the fuck through,” he says, in a long slow drawl that lets me know he’s smoked in the last thirty minutes.
“Sending her blessings,” I chime back, returning his grin and jostling the strap of my backpack so it gives off a satisfactory rustle. Proof of drugs, if you will. Not that Wayne needs reassurance.
Wayne, or Wayne the Whale in my phone, is a regular’s regular. He cops twice a week when he’s “taking it easy” and his perpetual weed habit has made him a pretty regular fixture in my life as well. I have twelve customers also named Wayne, but this Wayne is so special, he’s the only Wayne of all the Waynes that has been around long enough, and ordered frequently enough, to be ordained with his very own nickname. Rather, of course, than a gradually increasing number to differentiate him from Wayne 2, Wayne 3, and all the other assholes with his namesake. The title of whale, to such a skinny pathetic kid, isn’t incredibly fitting, although I’m sure he has the THC tolerance of a very large sea creature based on the half pound we sell him monthly.
“Yo, you? You’re the mother fuckin’ OG, you know that? I’d just ran out like, five seconds ago.” He says this all with such conviction, I think I spot a speck of moisture in his eyes. It’s not like I hadn’t seen him three days prior and will, in all likelihood, see him in another two.
“Thanks, man, wouldn’t be the OG without—hey, hey easy big guy.” I step back to avoid an incoming hug, although by the time I do there’s no need. Wayne had just spotted the dead pigeon at my feet. He stumbles back to avoid stepping on it, a look of mild horror on his face.
“Yo! What the fuck? That’s messed up.”
“Pretty metal right? Why do you think they left the head on like that?”
“Fuck, Lily, I don’t know. Why you wondering about this shit, anyways? Thing’s gonna give you rabies if you keep standing so close.”
“That’s not how you get rabies, dumbass. Anyways, listen I only got ten minutes so shall we?” I start towards his building’s entrance and he holds out an arm to stop me.
“Hey, uhh… my mom’s home so can we…” He nods down the street.
I roll my eyes. He shrugs his apologies, already walking.
“Hey come on, you guys have so much of my money, some basic customer service won’t kill ya.”
I match his pace before he can get too far and manoeuvre the backpack to my front. “No, no of course. Primo customer service is all we have. Just saying, could it kill ya to move out of your mom’s place? Like seriously, how old are you?” I unzip the front and begin to dig through the first compartment, where I poorly organize all the strains of the day. “You doing your standard or premium shelf?”
“Uh… standard. I’m twenty-three, but I mean like… shit. You know how fucked up rent is around here. Can barely afford to feed myself. I don’t got the fuckin’ capital or whatever for a place. Wait actually can you switch out one of the eighths for the Larry Bird. Shit was fire last time.” He digs out a half dozen crumpled twenties from his pocket. “And aren’t you like homeless or something? Why you up my ass about this?”
I laugh because I do have a reputation that has become difficult to deny. “Uh, rude. Naw I told you. I got a whole fucking closet down in Bushwick. It’s gonna be an extra ten if you want the Larry. And can you hurry this up? People are gonna think I’m a drug dealer or some shit…” I grab the twenties from his hands and flip through the bills easily. He’s twenty over. I fold the lot into a bundle before he can catch his mistake. He’d barely registered the disappearance of the cash from his still outstretched hands by the time the money was down the small knee pocket of my cargo pants. “Listen my guy. Look at me, I’m not even eighteen and I’ve made it out here for +five years, no mommy to be found, roof or no roof.”
“Yeah I know but like—wait, what happened with your parents anyways—”
“It’s a disgrace to even half-ass freeloading in this city. Sell your nudies online, or have some fucking respect for the rest of us and find a sugar daddy to pimp out that tight twenty-something ass to. You know, like the hard worker I know you really are.”
“I mean sure but like, I’m not gay...”
Wayne is so clueless, I don’t even think he knows I’m fucking with him right now.
“Even better! Shit, they might pay more. You know what, I know a creep on the Upper East Side who would throw down a couple Benjies just to see your tatas,” I save him the pain of trying to decipher or respond to any of the bullshit that just graced his ears as I push the eighth bags into his chest.
His confused expression melts into one of bliss as his hands move up to cradle the product to himself. “Oh shit, thank you. Thank God.” I watch with a healthy mixture of bemusement and repulsion as he kisses each of the baggies and crams them into his hoodie pocket. “Why you know all this shit anyway? You have a sugar daddy or something?”
“Fuck no, that’s disgusting,” I answer breezily.
“Yeah, and I mean who’d pay to fuck Homeless Heidi, am I right?”
“Oh fuck off,” I laugh off the comment but shoot Wayne the stink eye when he’s not looking. The nickname’s a bitter-sweet reminder of my rougher years. I’d used a fake name on the streets my first few months here and would sleep on anything that didn’t move or try to fuck me. It wasn’t the most flattering of nicknames but my years of homelessness are probably the only reason I have the street cred I do, looking so young, my small mess of curly hair barely bringing me over five feet. Before he can cram the last baggie into his pocket, I brandish a thin, plastic, black tube to his chest, smiling up at him. “Oh, and before I forget, compliments of the boss. Because we love our Waynie Whale oh so much back at the office.”
He snatches at the tube with such agility you might even think he was sober.
We do actually love our Whale back at Reefer Recreational, but it’s likely got more to do with his 1,500 to 2,000 monthly contribution to the office fund. I should really tell him to quit, but it’s small whales like him that justify the fucking fizzing water budget or whatever else the packaging ladies convince Marvin to buy so they don’t hurt their pretty little heads weighing out eighths of weed. And Lord help us if we don’t keep the packaging ladies happy.
With practiced fingers, he pops open the lid and dispenses a single, perfectly molded preroll into his palm. He glides the length of the joint under his nose from its slim filtered base to the widening, green-filled body with an exaggerated inhale. He inspects it for just a moment more before inserting it between his lips. “Hey, you want a hit of this?” He asks through the side of his mouth, as he digs through his pocket for a lighter.
In a second, I have my own in hand. “Would love to, buddy. Thanks for offering.”
I leave the Whale’s place slightly buzzed and with twenty bucks I can pocket for myself—on top of my usual pay of twenty per order, obviously. This was the last of my Brooklyn orders for now. Remaining, I still have another three in Washington Heights, one in Harlem, two in midtown—one east side, one west side—another two in Chelsea, and one last, criminally inconvenient, scheduled order on 145th street at four p.m. later this afternoon. It’s a ten-minute walk from the other uptown order, but of course I can’t just get it done while I’m in the neighborhood.
Unless, perhaps, I just swing by anyways, see if the Lady isn’t home when I’m in the area. Save myself an hour round trip later.
My phone buzzes by my thigh and I lazily take it out of my pocket, propping myself up on my elbows to look at the past few missed texts.
Have you finished the Whale yet?
You need to keep me updated. Are you headed into Manhattan now?
Why is there chewed gum in Mindy’s water filter?
I set my boss’s contact to silent and sprawl myself back down onto the subway seats I’m using as a make-shift cot, my backpack as a pillow. I really need these twenty minutes of shuteye while I still have the embrace of the heavily air-conditioned N train. Beautiful thing it is, that he can’t fire me.
My business associate, Marvin, had been somewhat specific about the timing of the scheduled order. Or I’m not sure if “show up five seconds late and I’ll have Mindy blend you up and sell you as the next special to make up for all the weed you poach from this fucking company,” was really all that specific.
For one thing, he said nothing about being early. And I can’t take anything a jokester like Marvin says seriously. I mean what idiot calls an underground weed delivery service a company, anyways?
It would be such an easy detour, barely ten minutes off route. I’d lose fifteen minutes at the most. Marvin should really know better than to give me a loophole like that.
Yeah… yeah that could do it. I’ll be uptown by noon, finished by 1:30 if I don’t let the Witch on the upper east side try to read my tarot cards again, twenty-minute ride from the witch to the first Harlem order. Quick detour if I can slip over to the old Lady of 5F’s place in an easy ten, done by two, 2:10 if she turns out to be home, thirty minutes to midtown, twenty minutes per order, another fifteen to Chelsea, and I’ll be done by 3:30 easy! Just enough time to make it back for the originally scheduled time if she isn’t around during my first visit.
Shit, I might even have time to sell off that weed I stole from the office this morning if everything works out. I’ll end right near that one playground in Chelsea where all the high schoolers get stoned after class. That or I’ll get the twins to sell it…
I go over this afternoon’s itinerary in my head as I try to drift off, but sleep doesn’t come. I got a solid four hours last night, yet still, a strange sense of unease keeps my mind turning so I can’t quite fade. It’s not this afternoon I’m worried about, I’ve had far busier days in the past. Yet the discomfort remains, a faint tingling at the back of my mouth.
Something’s not right. I open my eyes and prop myself onto my elbows again. I spot him almost immediately, a man with a gaunt, blank face, staring directly at me. I raise my head quick enough to catch his eyes lingering on me for another millisecond longer, but in a blink, he’s staring at something else. The moment is over so fast, I can almost convince myself I’d imagined it.
But, I saw it. I sit up straighter and pull the backpack into my lap, my unease intensifying, the tickle in my throat turning sour with a wave of nausea. If I were a different person, with a different life, I might have the luxury to dismiss a feeling like this. But I’m not and I can’t. He’s now apparently busy reading the advertisements above the seats with a faintly bored expression. He looks normal enough, with floppy dark hair and a plain, blue, button-up shirt, poorly tucked into a pair of dark-grey jeans.
On second glance, something’s off about him. His face looks sunken and pasty, a five O’clock shadow fully formed, although it’s not even noon. His shirt doesn’t quite fit his demeanour, either. It’s a bit too big, the cuffs extending long past his wrists so I can only see the tips of his fingers. The front is buttoned all the way to his neck in a way that feels unnatural, almost masochistic, especially with the unbearable heat outside. Not an inch of skin is exposed on his body, apart from his face and a few inches of neck. Almost like he’s purposefully hiding the flesh beneath. Hiding the many identifiable tattoos that would be able to confirm this fight or flight reaction I’m having.
Part of me wants to get up and face him. Ask what the fuck he thought he was looking at. Call him a pervert while I still have a smattering of subway passengers to witness. If I just act crazy enough, give this guy enough of a show, maybe they’ll think twice about sending anyone else. If not out of fear then out of exasperation. I try to imagine what the guy would report back—if he works for who I think he works for—if I went bezerko on him. “She’s completely lost it boss. Might as well let her take herself out at this rate.”
But I remain still. He’s across the aisle and two sets of benches over, a completely deniable position to sit. If I were to start a scene now, I wonder if anyone would even be on my side. More likely than not, I would just be pegged as the crazed homeless lady. My appearance, as much improved as it is from years prior, still dances a line between acceptable and concerning. I’m well aware. I know the looks I get when I’m visiting my wealthier customers in their fancy, renovated apartment buildings. I’ve had to whine and bicker my way past many an NYC doorman, and still, after all this time, I can’t imagine dressing any other way.
My oversized tee and well-worn cargo pants have become something of a uniform. The billowing tubes of cotton encasing each of my limbs are a comfort I’m not sure I could live without at this point. For one thing, the extra yardage of fabric makes up nearly half my pseudo body-mass: a wildly inflated silhouette to match my ego.
I join his game of nonchalance, mindlessly reading an ad campaign for a new shaving cream. It’s hard to be certain, but I think he’s glanced my way at least twice more since I’d first caught him staring.
I’m considering switching cars, but as the train pulls into the 36th street station, the man stands and wanders over to the subway doors between us. I dare a glance with the few moments I have left. I’m not sure what I’m looking for until I find it. Earlier, I’d mistaken it for a strand of his long black hair, but now I see. A tattoo, extending from his collar like a squid’s tentacle. One twisting dark shape that disappears into his hair.
His head turns half a degree to the left, and I know he’s caught me looking. He nods, so faintly I may be able to write it off as an involuntary movement. Like I might be able to write off the entire interaction as a figment of my imagination.
It’s just that, when you’ve lived a life stranger than fiction, anything seems plausible.
