Sugar - A Short

     Billy Buttle remembered seeing Mike Tyson.  In the haze and the fog that was that weekend, it was hard to be sure of anything.  But he was sure he had seen Mike Tyson.  Tyson had been sitting at a nickel slot machine, making the whole scene far too strange for a Saturday—even in Las Vegas.  A few guests were snapping pictures of his inexplicable physique and a few others more were asking for autographs.  Tyson smiled and waved and played his part, and Billy Buttle passed him by wordlessly.

     Billy and his friend, Jerry Saint, had been tasked with procuring more beer.  It was always an unfortunate burden when one drew the short stick after the booze ran out.  It had already been a long weekend and they had run out early (as they so often did when they found themselves in a shoddy motel room just off the Strip).  Maid service hadn’t come for three days and dozens of fallen soldiers overflowed in the garbage cans, tub, and bathroom sink.  They were running out of places to discard them.  Another thirty rack of twelve ouncers would do.  It would have to.  Buying beer in Vegas is never a welcome assignment, but the prospect of having no more booze was an even worse destiny.

After too many five a.m. stays on the casino floor they hadn’t done much for luck at the tables.  Between the four of them (them being Billy, Jerry, Troy Prim, and Adam Anderson) they were down three grand.  But who counts in Vegas, right?

     There was a camera flash from a nearby guest trying to get a long shot of Tyson, and Billy felt his eyes sparkle.  It was exceptionally bright.  Too bright for 10:00 p.m, Billy thought.  But when they got outside, he realized it was barely noon.  He didn’t have his sunglasses and was already six nips deep, so the sun was blaring its ugly blare.

     “Did we eat breakfast?” Billy asked.

     Jerry thought for a moment and said, “We haven’t eaten since Thursday.”

     “My stomach hurts.”

     “Mine too.”

     The only restaurant on the way to the liquor store was a Hooters, so they stopped and ordered eighteen dollars worth of wings to get their stomachs from eating its own acids.  They ate them down in silence and left without so much as a glance toward any of the girls.  They were in Vegas and already on stimulus overload, so a few short shorts and tight tanks didn’t provide much in the way of intrigue.

     The liquor store was just up the way; some rundown place that saw the noxious and unkempt seven days a week, pulling down bottle after bottle of forties, smelling of stale tobacco and musty disgust while the flies swarmed their vile beards and yellowing fingernails.  Some of them were tweakers, twitching at the mention of crystal while sucking down six dollar cans of Monster. 

     Billy and Jerry grabbed a case of Banquet from the back and headed to the register to pay.  There was a line of mediocrity ahead of them, all complaining about the prices or making snide, unimpressive remarks like, “Welcome to Vegas” or “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”  Each of them had the same glazed look in their eyes, the kind that 7:00 a.m. Blackjack tables only know.

     There was a man standing behind Billy.  He had a dark complexion and exceptionally thin lips.  He wore a Bridgestone Tires hat and had a small scar above his left eye.  The scar was far from intimidating, the kind that had been caused by a fall off a swing or tip off the slide.  There was an aimlessness to him, this boyish charm.  But there was also something dangerous.  He tipped his head to Billy and Billy tipped his head to him.  Billy didn’t know why, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

     In the man’s left hand was a six-pack of Lone Star tucked beneath a pack of menthols.  Billy could smell the menthol still on the man’s breath and it made him regret the Hooter’s wings. 

     “You lookin’ fer somethin’?” the man asked.

     “Huh?” Billy grunted.

     “I said, ‘you lookin’ fer somethin’?”

     “No.”

     “Looks like you are.”

     “I’m not.”

     The man was breathing heavily, and the perfume of menthol was becoming unbearable.  Billy turned back around, paid for the beer with whatever cash he had left, and was out the door without ever glancing back.

     “What was that guy saying?” Jerry asked when they were outside.

     “Nothing.”

     “Sounded like something.”

     “It wasn’t.”

     “Guy offering something?”

     “Did you want something?”

     “Maybe.”

     “Jesus, Jerry, you want to go back inside and ask?”

     “Hey, yo, hold up!” a voice came from behind them.  

     Billy was the first to turn around.  He saw the Menthol Man bounding toward them, the 6-pack of Lone Star dangling between his fingers.  His pants were far too baggy, and he was holding them up with his free hand as he made his way across the parking lot.

     The afternoon had grown hot and the asphalt was starting to sizzle beneath their feet.         Water mirages rippled in the distance.  The sky was cloudless and daunting.  Sweat dripped down Billy’s neck and jawline.  He didn’t want to waste one second longer in the Vegas heat.  

     Jerry stepped toward the Menthol Man with a cool confidence Billy had never seen in him before.  “What’dya got?” he asked.

     “What’dya need?” asked the Menthol Man.

     The exchange was happening as if the two were old friends.

     Jerry seemed unsure what to say next, but finally asked, “Blow?”

     “You want blow?”

     “Yeah.”

     “You wanna dance with the white lady tonight?” the Menthol Man snarled, then he threw back his head and laughed.

     “Come on, Jerry, let’s get outta here.”  Billy tugged at Jerry’s t-shirt, but he remained unmoving, staring at the Menthol Man, waiting for him to flinch.

     “Hold up, hold up, hold up,” said the Menthol Man.  “I got what you need, just not on me.”

     “Where is it?”
     “Chill, white boy, chill.  You got any cash?”

     “Not on us.”

     “Sounds like we at an impasse.”

     “Then what are you wasting our time for?”

     “Cause I can get what you need.  Just need ten minutes.  Hell, might even be five if yer lucky.  When can you get the cash?”

     Jerry looked at Billy and Billy shrugged.  “Five minutes,” Jerry told him.

     The Menthol Man grinned at Billy.  “Ahhh, I see how it is,” he said.  “You got yer financial backer here callin’ all the shots, don’t ya?”

     Billy said nothing.  He squirmed in his shoes and wiped the sweat from his brow, the case of Banquet weighing heavy in his hands.

     “Here’s what’s gonna happen: you two are gonna round up the cash, I’m gonna get some of that powder, and we’re gonna meet up at The Bridge.”

     “The Bridge?” Billy asked.

     “You don’t know The Bridge, motherfucker?  Jesus.  The Bridge between New York, New York and MGM.  We meet there.  You get me?”

     “We get you,” said Jerry.  “How much?”

     “Three hundy.”

     “That’s a lot.”

     “It’s good shit.”

     “Three hundred dollars worth?”

     “Satisfaction guaranteed.”  The Menthol Man smiled his horrible smile and tore one of the Lone Stars off its plastic carrier.  He cracked the can and took a sip that looked so luxurious in the desert’s heat.  “You guys think you can handle all that?”

     “We can handle it,” said Jerry.

     “Splendid.  Fifteen minutes.”

     “At The Bridge.”

     “Well done.”  The Menthol Man took down the Lone Star with one, long drag, crumpled the can with his fist, and cast it off with the rest of the parking lot’s ruins.  “Well done,” he said again, and then he headed off, disappearing down the road with his now-five-pack in tow.

     “What was that?” Billy asked when the Menthol Man was out of earshot.

     “Billy, we’re in Vegas, and Vegas demands drugs.”  And then Jerry was off, heading back toward their hotel with the peppiest of steps.  Billy followed after him, lumbering along with the case of Banquet that had already turned warm.

     By the time they got back to the hotel Billy’s arms felt like glue and Jerry was sweating from a potent combination of adrenaline and wind sprints.  Troy and Adam minded Billy and Jerry no attention as they tossed the 30-rack on the squeaky mattress and began rifling through the nightstand for whatever cash they could scrounge.  

     “How much is there?” Billy asked.

     “Three hundred.”

     “Are you sure?”

     Jerry stuffed the cash in his pocket.  “Of course I’m sure,” he insisted.  “Let’s just go.”

     “What do you need me for?”

     “So I don’t get fucking stabbed!”

     Billy paused.  “That checks out.”

     Billy and Jerry left for the MGM as the other two dunces broke into the case of Banquet.

     The casino was abuzz with drunk degenerates and obsessive gamblers.  The dealers watched them over with the same glaring disinterest, their eyes glazed from twelve hour shifts and red bull.  The pit bosses roamed the floor with an intensity only found in dobermans and crack addicts.  And the waitresses moved about them all, muttering questions like “Care for a drink?” or “What’ll ya have?”  Everything was always the same in Vegas, but the monotony had a funny way of changing.

     Billy and Jerry raced through the crowd of misfits, their eyes scanning every half second for signs to The Bridge.  They had never been to the MGM before, and directions had never been either’s keen sense.  But then Billy saw it, glimmering above the Pai Gow table like a beacon of narcotics.  They split past the penny slots and Plinko and raced up the stairs to The Bridge.

     The Bridge was bustling with tourists, decked out in short khaki shorts and pastel colored polos.  All of them seemed to have a camera clutched in their hands, and all of them seemed to be taking a picture of the same drab Statue of Liberty affixed atop New York, New York.

     “I don’t see him.”  Jerry was already looking for the Menthol Man, his head darting back and forth like a dog gathering the scent.

     “Hey, idiots,” they heard the Menthol Man’s voice from behind them.

     They turned and, standing next to a family of Asian tourists, was the Menthol Man.  He was grinning at them the way he had at the liquor store.  It was a decaying, rotten grin that made them feel queasy.

     “I see you made it,” said the Menthol Man.

     “You got the stuff?” asked Jerry.  He was trying to sound tough, but his words came out stiff and rigid.

     The Menthol Man smiled again.  “Yeah, I got it.”

     “Let’s see it.”

     The Menthol Man eyed the Asian tourists.  “It’s not safe here, man.”  He grinned again.       “We just gotta make the exchange, okay?  Just be cool.”

     “Fine.”

     “Yeah?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Cool, man, that’s cool.”

     Jerry reached into his pocket, but the Menthol Man stopped him.  “Easy, man, easy.  You know how many cameras they got around this place?  I said ‘be cool,’ and you are pretty fuckin’ far from cool, you feel me?”

     Jerry nodded and swallowed hard.

     “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he said, like the Menthol Man always said.  He pointed at Jerry.  “You’re gonna walk down to the far end of The Bridge, real far off, almost to the end.”  And then he pointed at Billy.  “And you’re gonna go down about halfway less than that.  I’m gonna stay here.  Then when we’re all in position, I’m gonna walk toward the two of you.  When I reach the first guy, I’ll hand him the stuff.”

     “The coke,” said Jerry.

     “Shhh, quiet down, motherfucker,” hissed the Menthol Man.  He went on, dropping his voice only slightly.  “I hand the first guy the stuff and then when I reach the second guy,” he pointed at Jerry again, “he hands me the money.  Then we all go on our merry way, drugs and money in hand.  You still feel me?”

     “Yeah,” they said.

     “Good.  Now off you go.”

     They headed off together.  When Billy reached The Bridge’s halfway point he realized he was sweating again.  

     Today was turning out to be a most unpleasant day, he thought.

     Jerry waited nervously at the end of The Bridge, chewing on his thumbnail and feeling the day’s heat setting in.

     When Billy saw the Menthol Man heading toward him he began to walk.  The Menthol Man took a plastic baggie from his pants pocket and crinkled the package up in his left hand.  Billy caught only a glimpse of the bag, but it appeared quite large—far too large for just three hundred dollars worth. 

     The Menthol Man neared and Billy stuck out his hand.  He felt the weight of the baggie as the Menthol Man stuffed it in his palm.  He gave Billy one last leering glare and then the Menthol Man was gone from Billy Buttle’s life forever.

     Jerry Saint would see the Menthol Man seconds later, and he would see him wearing that same leering smile that made Billy Buttle shudder.  Jerry transferred the money to his right hand and squeezed the bills so hard he heard the brittle wad crack and crinkle in his palm.  The Menthol Man held out his hand and Jerry slipped the roll of money into it.

     And then Jerry Saint began to run.

     He caught up with Billy seconds later.  “Come on!” he shouted.

     Billy still had a firm grasp on the baggie, and when Jerry yelled, he nearly popped the plastic.  “What’s going on?”

     “I just shorted him a hundred and twenty clams!” Jerry cried.  He cackled, his eyes wild with mischief, and he sprinted off without ever checking to see if Billy followed.

     But Billy did follow.  He was so close on Jerry’s heals he nearly toppled over him.  He wanted to look back for the Menthol Man, but found he was too frightened.

     The two burst through The Bridge doors, down the MGM steps, through that same crowd of mediocrity, and out the casino’s exit.  They didn’t slow down until they reached their hotel parking lot.  The heat didn’t matter anymore, nor did the sweat, or the money, or the lack of booze.  They had their drugs and were safely away from the Menthol Man.

     Maybe things were looking up, Billy thought.

     Troy and Adam were halfway through the case by the time they walked in the door.  They mumbled something incoherent as Jerry and Billy walked in, but were suddenly front and center when Billy drew the plastic baggie from his pocket.  The thing didn’t look real.  It was a massive ball of white, something they had only seen in movies.  

     We just shorted a drug dealer a hundred and twenty large for three grand worth of nose candy, Billy thought.

     Adam pulled the mirror off the bathroom wall and Billy spilled its contents on the far end.  The powder spilled across the mirror like perfect grains of sand, fragile and delicate.  Troy offered his American Express and they cut up the lines with the same methodical tendencies Vegas always seems to see.

     The lines were eight, two a piece, and they were all right with that.  But more lines would come, and that was the insatiable destiny they all craved, but would hardly admit.

“We’ll just do a bit and save the rest for later,” everybody in Vegas always said.  But there would never be a bit, for later never came in the city of sin.

     Jerry was the first to go.  He took down his line with a twenty Troy provided.  He threw back his head and his nostrils flared and contracted.  “God damn it,” he cried.

     “Is it good?” Billy asked.

     He looked at them with blinking, watery eyes.  “I don’t know.”

     “Here, give me,” Troy said.  He took his line in one fell swoop and threw back his head as Jerry had.  

     “Anything?” Billy asked.

     “I don’t know,” he said, just as Jerry had.

     “God damn it.”  Adam snatched up the twenty and took in his line.  He, too, looked puzzled.

     “What about you?” Billy asked.

     Adam shrugged.

     Billy did his line and felt nothing.

     “What the fuck is going on?” Jerry screamed.  He measured off a line, three times as big as the first.  He sucked it down and looked at Billy with unchanged eyes.  “I don’t feel anything!” he cried.  “Why don’t I feel anything?”  His words were rife with panic.  

     Billy measured off another line, this one the biggest yet.  It looked like a newborn’s leg.  He dragged down the line and felt a burning sensation rip through his nose.  His eyes began to perspire and scream.  His ears felt warm and tingly.  “Jesus Christ,” Billy screamed.  “What the fuck?”
     Jerry shoved his face in the mound of cocaine that suddenly didn’t seem like cocaine.         He sucked in a breath and raised his head like a robot.  He was dismayed, a consumer that had been had.  “I don’t feel anything!  Does anybody feel anything?  Jesus Christ, please tell me if anybody is feeling anything!”  Jerry could barely control the sound of his voice.  His words were hollow, but threatening.  “What did this guy give us?  Did he give us Ajax or somethin’?  Fuck!”

     “Oh shit!” Troy muttered.

     “Is it bleach?” Billy wailed.

     “Oh shit!” Troy kept saying.

     “Holy shit, is it bleach?”

     “Oh shit!”

     “Is it bleach, dude, is it bleach?”
     “I don’t fucking know!”  Jerry was incensed, his eyes wild and fiery.  “I don’t know what the fuck this is!”

     These knuckleheads were on the edge of insanity, shouting over each other like deranged lunatics, scratching at their loses and screaming for satisfaction.  But satisfaction was not to be had.

     “Jesus, is my heart gonna explode?”  Troy was scratching at his chest.  “Holy shit, I’m too fucking young to die.  I can’t fucking die.  Where did you get this shit?”

     “From this guy,” said Billy.

     “From this guy?”  Troy’s breathing became heavy and labored.  “What guy?”

     “I don’t know, just some guy.”

     “Holy shit!  I am gonna fucking die!  Oh shit!”

     “I wanna go home!” Billy cried.

     “Guys, what’s that?” they heard Adam ask.  He was pointing down at the bag, the same listless expression on his face.

     Inside the bag was a yellow piece of paper, its corner protruding from the ball of “drugs.”  They could make out writing on the paper; it was branded, crafted writing.  

     Billy reached inside the bag and pulled out the yellow piece of paper.  When he had it in his hand he realized it was small, no more than the size of two quarters stacked next to one another.  At first he thought he’d find some message, some witty little quip from the Menthol Man like “Got you fuckers” or “Fuck you, bitches.”  But when he opened his palm he saw the indistinguishable letters: S-P-L-E-N-D-A staring up at him.  Those blue blocks resting against the yellow backdrop nearly sent him to the floor.  The package had been ripped open, but the tag left on as a final fuck you from the universe that was Karma.  Unknowingly, No-Calorie-Sweetener had given them a half-chub on The Bridge, but now it was suddenly whittled away.  They had half an ounce of sugar running down their sinuses and they looked at each other with the same dazed, hopeless expression.

     “It can’t be,” Jerry mumbled.  “It just can’t be.”  And he took another line.