Cigarettes & Mirrors - Chapter Two

The stairwell in this building is almost as worn out as the stairwell in my building, with what’s probably the same carpet adorning it. Grey and lifeless like a corpse’s asshole. I walk past an incredibly filthy man sitting on the stairs, his head against the wall, moving to a rhythm only his ears can hear, eyes jammed shut. Probably a heroin addict nodding out. I adjust my jacket and rap on the pale red wooden door of Carla’s apartment, my white skin contrasting hard against the faded paint. The door flies open without any warning, her pale face appearing suddenly, hazel eyes gleaming.

Carla is my age, but looks like she looks like a perpetually undead vampire. A gaunt, milk white face, sunken eyes, raven black flyaway hair, in a ripoff Victorian-esque black dress and combat boots, eyes rimmed in black makeup, and a cigarette hanging loosely from her blood red lips. She half smiles and beckons with her head for me to come in. I slam the door behind me and collapse onto her couch. “Hi Carla.” I say, looking at her. Walking around the corner, she grunts and says, “What do you want?” “What makes you think I want something?” I say, grinning only to myself. “You never come over here just to chat, boy. Come on, don’t bullshit me.” She says, laughing. I think about what I want. That’s a good question. I want to die, and she could certainly help me out with that, but not today. I’ve had the taste for stimulants lately. That Rockstar didn't do much for me. “Got anything to perk me up?” I say, as I stare out the open window. I can smell the pungent engine exhaust and burnt oil smell of the streets wafting in, like a heavy fog on the harbor. Disgusting. “Yeah, I got a few things. Know what you want, or do you want a surprise?” she says from the room she calls her office. I have no idea what she keeps in there. She keeps it locked, and keeps everyone out. “Just give me an ounce of whatever you might think I'd like.” I say, as I rip off the cellophane from the pack of cigarettes I bought from the Arab store and shove one in my mouth.

She comes back into the room a moment later, handing me a small black mylar bag. “Here ya are sweets.” She says, as she sits next to me on the couch kissing my cheek. I grin and light my cigarette, drawing hard. Girl loves me. I take my keys out of my pocket, popping open the baggie and dipping a key inside. I put it up to my nostril and snort the bump, feeling it surge into my head. My eyes widen and I shudder involuntarily as I can feel the endorphins surging through my brain in sharp jolts. “Mother FUCKER. What is it?” I ask her, rubbing my nose and shuddering again. She smiles, “Methylphenidate analogue. But better than that ethyl garbage, twice as potent as the real shit, if not more.” I pull out my wallet and slide a $100 bill out, handing it over to her. “Nice doing business with ya.” She says, sliding the money into her bra and grinning. The baggie goes into the inner breast pocket of my jacket as I stand up, stretching and rubbing my nose again. “I’m out of here. I’ll see you later babe.” I say as I head out the door. She doesn’t say anything, but then again she usually doesn’t. She used to, but she doesn’t anymore. Not immediately at least. I’m sure I’ll get a passive-aggressive text message about it later. No big deal.

I step onto the sidewalk and look around, eyes wide, my sense of smell and my vision enhanced by the synthetic drugs coursing through my system. Methylphenidate was supposedly originally discovered by the Nazis in 1944, but that’s just a rumor. Since 2005, analogues of it have been coming out every year or so from black market labs in The Hague. Every year it gets better. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, opening them again. Everything is sharper. It’s like I am seeing the world in 8K Ultra High Definition. Higher definition than life itself. I love this shit. I decide to hail a cab for my trip back to the apartment. I don’t need to get lost on Parkhurst again and have to deal with Antonio and his bullshit. A taxi rolls by going the opposite direction just as the thought enters my head. I whistle and gesture to the driver, who immediately pulls a U-turn and approaches the curb. "Mulberry Street." I say, before the driver can ask. I’m not unduly worried about Antonio, but I’m sure he’ll be able to figure out where I live before the day is out. His wannabe friends may be incredibly stupid, but they’re stupid, violent crackheads in groups aren't a great combo. The taxi suddenly halts outside my building, jerking my thoughts back into the present. “$4.37 my friend.” The taxi driver says to me, looking into the mirror. I hand him a crumpled five through the grate. “All yours mate.” I say, jumping out of the car and through the doorway of the building. It still stinks like cabbage and farts.

I nod at the scrawny Asian boy spraying graffiti across the walls and hand him a cigarette as I step into my apartment. It’s best to just nod at them, give them a few bucks as tribute or something, and go about your business anymore. It isn’t generally worth the trouble of having a pissed off 11-year-old spraying you in the face with fluorescent paint if you say anything to them. Or worse, an 11 year old with a Glock jammed into your nut sack. I step into the apartment, throwing my keys and jacket onto the coffee table. My mouth is incredibly dry. God damn stimulants. I need a drink. I open my fridge and pull out the last bottle of cider, snapping the top off with the end of the counter and walking back into the room that doubles as my bedroom and office. I chug the cider like it was the waters of life and toss the bottle into the steel trash bin. I see a shadow on the wall in my peripheral vision, but it’s gone when I turn my head to look at it. Fucking drugs. I need to focus on how I want to deal with Antonio. This isn't a misguided sense of justice for the good of the city. It's the want of erasing a little fuckstain that annoys me. I sit at my desk, endorphins still burning through my brain like bolts of lightning, coursing through nerves and ricocheting off the inside of my skull, synapses frying like high voltage power lines. I suddenly realize, I know where the prick lives. A grin slowly comes across my face as I know what I want to do. As that old song goes, “Burn motherfucker burn!”

However, as brazen as I feel, electrified by the synthetic methylphenidate analogue, I’m not going to burn his house down in the middle of the day. Not only is that unbelievably ballsy, it’s also stupid and dangerous. Normally I like stupid and dangerous things, but I don’t need Antonio or one of his hoodrat goons “putting a cap in my honky ass” as they like to so eloquently say. Or a cop cruising by and spotting me and shooting me 34 times while his body camera is mysteriously turned off. That happens way too god damn much in this hellhole of a city.

I stand up and grab my phone off the bed, and walk into the living room, grabbing my keys and jacket as I walk out the door. I glance at the door and make sure the deadbolts are securely locked. The Asian punk isn’t anywhere to be seen, his urban art project apparently complete. I look at his mural as I pull my jacket on. Amateur. Withholding the familiar urge to throw myself down the stairs again, I descend them normally and walk into the wall of sound permeating the city once more.