Pink Squares

Carlos sat in the brown metal chair and stared at the rusted pipe across the room.  The basement was dark and the air was cool and smelled mildly of mold. The Tdp-5 pill press hummed, clanking intermittently in the background as it took the mixture of micro-crystalline cellulose, natrosol, and magnesium stearate and pressed it into square tablets which slid down the chute into the tupperware below.

The kitchen timer counted down 5...4...3...2...1. The alarm startled Carlos’s mind back into the room.  He walked over to the Tdp-5, bent down, and flipped the switch off. The clanking slowed to a halt and he picked up one of the pink squares.  As he inspected it, it crumbled like sand between his thumb and forefinger. “Damnit” he said aloud. The Boss had told Carlos to add more magnesium stearate than normal given the conditions of the basement, so he had doubled it from 3.7% to 7.4% of the mixture.  Now he had dried out the compound and it was crumbling. The next test had to be successful or else he wouldn’t have enough of the inactive ingredients to make enough product for the girl.

“Patience is the name of the game,” the Boss had said to Carlos.  “Too many fools get into this game thinking they’re gonna make a quick buck and get out.  That’s impatient. And when you get impatient, you get sloppy. And when you get sloppy, that’s how you get nabbed or killed.  But if you’re patient,” he had said with a sly smile, “they’ll flock to you like you’re the second coming. And then you get yours.”

A flock.  That’s what Carlos wanted more than anything.  A group of people coming to him, relying on him to give them what they needed.  And he couldn’t wait to give them that feeling. The feeling of losing themselves, losing their pain.  All they needed was one little hit of what he could give them and everything bad would melt away. He had been patient, waiting for The Boss to put him into the rotation of Mixers.  The batch he was making was small. The Boss was known for starting all new Mixers out small, but if the product was good and this girl’s customers wanted more, he might eventually become The Boss’s go-to Mixer in the new year.  Secretly, he hoped for one death. It’s a sick thought to normal people, but when addicts hear that some product was so good that some poor S.O.B. died, that’s when they flock.

Carlos eyed the small hill of powder in his hand, threw it aside and sat back in the metal chair.  He did the necessary computation with paper and a calculator, and decided that 6.6% ought to work. It had to work.  

Nicole stood over her mother while she slept and marveled at the frailness of her body.  Veins shown clearly through bony hands, her cheeks concave. The doctors had said back in February that Nicole’s mother would not make it out of 2019 alive, but here she was on December 30 still in bed.  She should have been in the hospital, but money had run out so Nicole was tasked with doing everything herself. Nicole bathed her, brought her to and from the bathroom, and cooked meals that invariably went cold and spoiled due to her mother’s lack of an appetite.  Every other day Nicole would do the laundry, washing and drying bed linens that were soiled from sweat and sometimes vomit.

Death didn’t scare Nicole.  Her father had died ten years ago, back when she was 9.  He had been struck by a drunk driver. He died on contact in the middle of the street.  The driver was doing 63 miles per hour and had fallen asleep at the wheel, the car drifted onto the wrong side of the double yellow lines.  Naturally, the driver lived. They say that drunk drivers survive crashes because their bodies don’t brace for the impact. The limpness in their muscles protects them from damage.  Ironically, the instinct to preserve your life is the exact thing that kills you.  

Maybe that’s how her mother was remaining alive.  With her body so riddled with disease, her mother wasn’t even trying to preserve her life anymore, so it remained.  Perhaps the cancer only wants to finish off a victim who still has a will, like a boa constrictor tightening its grip only when the prey breathes.  Maybe her mom’s weak breaths didn’t even register to the predator ravaging her every cell, so she just remains in limbo.

Nicole dropped out of school to go take care of her mom, and now she didn’t even really want to go back.  What’s the use of studying Political Science anyway? Nicole knew she was never going to change the world, and besides, she came from a long line of hustlers.  Her father had been a big gambler, especially horse racing. She loved going to the track with him, watching the beautiful horses. She loved their powerful legs, glistening with sweat from the effort of moving forward with purpose.

“Do the horses like to run, daddy?” she had asked him once.

“They love it.  It’s why they were born.”

The last time her dad took her to watch the horses race they arrived in time for the third race of the day.  The sky was azure with fluffy clouds and bright sunshine. They were going to cheer for Peachy Keen, a two year-old filly with a chestnut coat and white brindle.  They stood right at the bottom of the final turn, directly on the rail to be in the thick of the action. When the bell rang to start the race, Peachy burst from the gate and Nicole cheered.  Despite other horses challenging, Peachy Keen kept the lead. Nicole’s whole body vibrated as the horses stampeded past them. She giggled out of pure joy. As they came down to the final 10 yards, Peachy Keen suddenly tripped, landing on the back of her neck and launching the jockey 13 feet down the track.  Medics rushed to attend to the jockey and a curtain shielded the crowd from the horse on the ground. Because of their angle, Nicole could see behind the curtain.

“Is she going to be alright, daddy?” She said to her father.

“They’ll find another horse to replace her,” He said dispassionately.

“What do you mean, replace her?”

Her father didn’t answer.  The last sight Nicole remembered from that day was a veterinarian’s hand holding a syringe, plunging it down into Peachy Keen’s neck.  

What money her father had left behind after his death had run out long before Nicole’s mom got sick and despite not having much they fell into that strange American middle-ground of having too little to survive, but too much to qualify for public assistance. That’s when she took to the internet and started selling drugs.  She started working for a man who called himself The Boss. In reality, she didn’t know if The Boss was a man or a woman, because she had never seen the person’s face, but she assumed that only a man would be so egomaniacal to call himself The Boss. It didn’t matter to Nicole anyway. All that mattered was that she got paid.  

The system was simple.  The Boss would text her on the flip phone she carried.  He would give her a time and location to pick up the product from the Mixer, invariably a science nerd who would manufacture small batches of drugs.  She would then sell to users. She always carried a .22 pistol to be safe, but found that she never had to use it. Once she had to flash it to some finance hot shots who were all boozed up and wanting to buy some coke, but that was the extent of it.  She never had problems with cops, who generally didn’t expect a cute suburban blonde to be selling hard drugs.  

It was December 30.  Nicole drove down to the race track.  She parked her car in the lot and shut it off.  She did this sometimes when she wanted to be alone.  She stared at the track for a long time. Around and around it went.  Never changing. It didn’t matter whether there were horses on it or not, either way the thing begins where it ends and then just starts again.  She thought about her mom. 2019 would be over tomorrow and what did either of them have to show for it? Every day the same, the only progress was her mom becoming sicker and Nicole becoming more depressed. At least with her dad it had been quick.  No drawn out pain. He went down like Peachy Keen, quickly. Nicole’s breath showed in the crisp night air and tears crystallized on her cheeks as she thought that her mom deserved a quick death too, and they both deserved to move on in the new year.

As his digital watch struck 9:00pm the following evening, Carlos paced. “She’s late,” he said under his breath, but with the intensity of scolding someone.  The Boss said that she would be at his house by 8:45pm. He held the orange bottle containing the 50 pink pills in his hand and nervously shook it like an infant’s rattle.  Carlos was fried. It had taken him the better part of 30 hours straight to manufacture the pills correctly. After he figured out the moisture, the crystalline structure of the Fentanyl jammed up the Tdp-5 so he had to crank them by hand.  

He jumped when the doorbell rang and quickly ripped open the door.  Nicole balked at the speed of the door and the bug-eyed creature staring at her.  

“Are you the girl?” he asked.

“If you’re the new Mixer.”

“Come in,” he said, extending his right arm into the room like a maitre d showing her to her table.

Nicole stepped inside.  “So where are they?” she asked.

“Right here,” Carlos said.  “Fifty, just like The Boss said.”

“And they’re pure?” Nicole asked, more a threat than a question.

“Yes. They are legit.  Got the Tango from a very reputable source in China.”

“Good.”

“I was told that it was for experienced users.”

“It is.”

“Just make sure newbies don’t take them.  Without the tolerance, they’ll be dead in 5 seconds flat.”

“Listen, it’s not my business who takes them. It’s only my business who I sell’em to.  The Boss told me that some hardcore junkies who know their shit wanted 50 pills and that’s whose buying them.  Plus, if someone dies, all the junkies are gonna want your product. Isn’t that what you want?”

“I...I know.”

“Well, I’m outta here.”

“I hope we can work with each other again,” he said.

Nicole slammed the door as she exited the house.

Sitting in her car, Nicole opened her flip phone.  9:47pm. She double-checked the address. 875 Howard Street.  The place looked like a stiff breeze would knock it over so it was probably the right place.  She had taken precautions to make sure she wasn’t followed. No cops had tailed her previously, but there is a first time for everything.  She stole two of the pink squares and put them in her pocket and put the pill bottle in her boot.  

Nicole knocked on the old wooden door once and it opened immediately.  A tall, thin man with track marks up and down his bare arms stood before her.  

“Who are you?” he asked in a loud voice.

“I’m the girl you’ve been waiting for,” she replied.  

“Good.  You’re The Boss’s girl.”  Nicole nodded her head.

“Come in,” said the thin man.

“I’d rather not.  I have other buyers I need to hit.”

“It wasn’t a request,” he said.

The man wrapped his long, thin fingers around the entirety of her left upper arm and led her inside the dilapidated house.  Nicole saw three other users sitting on a stained leather couch around an oval glass plated coffee table. Two were snorting powder off the table while the other, a woman, slumped over the arm of the couch, barely conscious with lips moving but making no words.

“The girl we’ve been expecting has arrived!” bellowed the thin man.

“Hey,” replied the two snorters in unison.  “We been waitin’ on that Tango,” one said.

“Alright, girlie.  Dump’em,” said the thin man.

“What?” replied Nicole.

“The pills.  Dump them on the table.  We need to count them.”

“Count them?” she said, truly incredulous.

“We’ve been getting ripped off and we need to make everything is there.”

Nicole took the pill bottle from her boot.  She moved slowly while she tried to think up a plan.  

“Come on!” yelled one of the snorters impatiently.  

She opened the pill bottle and dumped out the contents.  The thin man crouched over the table. She counted faster than their addled brains could.  48 pills. It was obviously 48 and she had no plan. The thin man counted in fives, sliding the pink squares back into the bottle until an odd lot of three remained.

“What’s this?” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘what’s this,’” said Nicole.

“You’re short.”

“I’m short?”

“Did I stutter? There are only 48 here.”

“The Mixer, he must have shorted us,” said Nicole, her voice quavering.

“Are you kidding me?  You think I’m gonna believe that a new Mixer, one of The Boss’s new Mixers at that, would have the nerve to short me?  No. This is you.” He pointed at her, his eyes bulging from his head.

“Count it again.”

“What? No.”

“Listen, I didn’t short you, so count it again.”

“Fine.”

The thin man bent over the table again, now dumping out the 45 pills that he had placed back into the bottle.  Immediately, Nicole whipped the .22 pistol out of the back of her jeans and had it pointed at his temple.  

“Woah!” shouted the thin man, his hands out in front of his body.  

“I need those pills,” Nicole whispered, tears welling up in her eyes.  

“You’re going to shoot me?” said the thin man.

“Then I’m gonna drop you before you can even blink.”

The woman slumped over the arm of the couch had come to life in the commotion and now had a glock trained on Nicole. 

“I think we need to talk, honey,” said the woman.

Again, Nicole had no plan.  “Okay,” she said. “But I’m not putting down my gun.”

“That’s alright,” said the woman pleasantly.

“So,” said the woman.  “What do you need them pills for.”

“None of your business,” said Nicole.

“Well, you ain’t gonna pop’em.”

“And why not?”

“Look at you, you ain’t never done this drug in your life.  Maybe you popped a few Xanny, but you ain’t never messed with this shit.  You’ll die.

“Maybe I want to die.”

“No, I don’t think so.  This is medical grade though.  The Boss always hires Mixers who can manage medical grade.  You don’t want to die, but you might be trying to kill someone.”

Nicole stood silently.

“Okay, so I’m onto somethin’.  And you need two, not just one.  You plannin’ a mercy killin’ there sugah?” The woman smiled.  “Two tangos, that means either you’re paranoid that they won’t die or they got a tolerance.  Terminal case.”

Nicole swallowed hard.

“Who is it, honey? Who’s hurtin’?”

“M…m...my mom,” Nicole stammered.

“Hmmm, so you were going to kill your own mother on New Year’s Eve?  What’s wrong, Christmas Day wasn’t good enough for ya?” The woman cackled at her own joke.

“She’s...she’s in pain,” said Nicole.  “And she’s not gonna get better.”

“Hmmm, well, that is sad, but honey, lemme ask ya.  If you didn’t walk outta here with them pills, would you go home with that .22, put it on your momma’s temple, and pull the trigga?  Didn’t think so. Well, then killin’ her with a couple of pills ain’t the answer neither. Listen, you don’t get to be my age without some wisdom. So trust me when I say, go home.  Take care of ya mother. Sure it’ll rip your heart out, probably already has, but at least you know that you helped. Truly helped, and didn’t just put her down like some animal.”

Nicole sobbed.  She lowered the gun from the thin man’s head, sat back into a chair, reached into her pocket, and slammed the two missing pills onto the glass coffee table.

“I’m sorry,” she whelped.

“It’s okay,” said the woman.  To the thin man she said, “Give her the money.  She’s a good kid. We won’t tell The Boss. As long as the product is good, no bad reviews.”

The thin man collected himself and led Nicole out of the house the way she came in.  On autopilot, she got into the car, started it and drove home. When she arrived, she opened the burner phone and texted The Boss that the drop was successful.  The display read 11:56pm.  

On the porch of the house, Nicole collected herself, entered the house, and began to walk up the stairs to her mother’s room.  She could hear the radio playing Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve.  

Nicole entered her mother’s room and saw the woman’s brittle body.  She stood over her for a long time and cried. She cried that 2019 was so hard and 2020 would be harder.  Nicole cried because her mom suffered and at her own helplessness to save her. Then, with a deep breath, Nicole picked up the plate of cold food that her mom was too sick to eat,  kissed her mother on the head and said, “Happy New Year, mom.”

As she walked out of the room she heard the countdown to a new day, 5...4...3...2...1