Act Normal

Act Normal

Julie Saint James

(Contains violence)

Suitcase in hand, you arrive at the station. You try to ignore the sign posted at the entrance: ALL BAGS SUBJECT TO SEARCH. Just act normal. If you act normal, you’re just another passenger. 

The inside of the station smells like soft pretzels, which gives you a serious craving for a soft pretzel. It’s a trick, obviously; the pretzel kiosk overproduces the smell so they can sell more. You remember reading something about two specific aroma compounds that come from the Maillard reaction in baking bread. Even though you can identify the nerdy scientific reason why it smells so good, and even though you’ve been trying to eat less carbs, you find yourself sneaking over to the kiosk and paying for a pretzel. Hook, line, and sinker.

You’re halfway through that salty, oily delight when your bus route comes over the loudspeaker. You grab the suitcase and get in line. It’s moving pretty quickly—the attendant isn’t even asking for IDs—until you see something that makes time slow to a crawl. Next to the attendant sits a stoic Bloodhound, its leash in the hand of a uniformed cop.

You’re reminded of a certain nail-biting scene in Reservoir Dogs. Mr. Orange, trying to fit in with career criminals, tells the story of his run-in with a sounder of cops and a German Shepherd while he happened to be carrying a brick of weed. Life imitates art. Tarantino got it right: every nerve ending is screaming at you, get out of there! 

Your blood boils with adrenaline. Images of metal bars and bunk beds flash before your eyes. Doom! Despair! Wine brewed in toilets! For some reason, amidst all the terror and panic, you get an urge to burst out laughing. But you don’t laugh, and you don’t flee. You do what Mr. Orange did: put on a poker face and act like nothing’s wrong.

A dog’s nose has 50 times as many olfactory receptors as a human’s, and the brain region devoted to smell is 40 times bigger. Dogs can detect odors measured in parts per trillion. That’s about five orders of magnitude fainter than the minimum threshold for a human nose. But can this particular Bloodhound smell through the thick plastic box inside the larger plastic box buried in your suitcase?

You get to the front of the line, and the cop utters the dreaded words: “Seek, seek!” The dog takes one sniff of your suitcase and starts barking its head off. 

He’s got the typical cop haircut, only the sides are shaved too high, leaving a too-small patch of blond fuzz atop his head. It looks like a parched front lawn. “Anything in your bag I should know about?” 

“Maybe he wants my pretzel,” you offer.

Genius. If the smell of pretzels got it going, it would bark all day long. The cop smirks and pulls you off to the side.

Another flatfoot, this one seven feet tall with a mustache, appears with a pair of latex gloves and starts going through your suitcase. You can feel the eyes of Officer Blond Fuzz drilling into you, but you pretend not to notice. Just act normal. If you act normal, you’re just another passenger. That mental mantra had seemed so airtight when you came up with it, but now it feels futile. It doesn’t stop your heart from pounding in your chest or your palms from clamming up with sweat. You are so going to jail. Cops can smell fear even better than dogs.

Amazingly, Mustache pushes aside the plastic box without opening it. He zips up the suitcase and looks you in the eye. “False alarm.”

What a miracle. Why didn’t he open the box? Whatever. Don’t question it. You’re just another passenger. 

“Thank you, sir.”

You finally meet the blond cop’s gaze. “I hope you have a nice day.” He doesn’t answer.

Even after you’ve boarded the bus and put some miles between yourself and Officer Dying Grass, your heart is still thumping like a kick drum. You’re no seasoned outlaw. This is your first-ever gig as a drug mule, and now you promise yourself it will be the last, at least until you get your driver’s license back. Getting on a bus with a Schedule I substance is way more trouble than it’s worth.

Fuck Jason for giving you this job. You’re bitter, but you understand why it has to be done. Hashish is several times cheaper in the city than out in the sticks, which makes it lucrative to transport across state lines. The only problem is that it’s a felony to do so. If a dealer is big enough that he can put down however many thousand bucks for two kilos of hash, then he’s big enough to get someone to do his dirty work. 

That’s where you come in. You’ll get paid a fraction of what Jason is making from this deal alone, and you’re the one who’s actually out here risking a prison sentence. It isn’t fair, but neither is life. At least you get to keep some of the hash.

The layover comes after less than an hour on the highway. Unlike the busy station in the city, this is a small and mostly vacant terminal. You don’t see any cops. The only staff member lounges behind the ticket counter, absorbed in her phone. 

The unguarded rear exit gives you a devilish idea, and now you can’t get it out of your head. Hypnotic energy radiates from your suitcase; the hash is moaning your name. You want a toke. You deserve a toke. That sense of impending doom still hasn’t gone away. You need to blow off some steam. 

What’s the worst that could happen? Maybe someone asks you to share a little. Big deal. You wore your plainest clothes today, covering all identifiable marks; even if you’re caught on a security tape, you’re anonymous. Just another passenger.

Through the door, out into the midmorning sun, down to a spot in the shade. You pop open that inner plastic box. The odor wafting off the bricks reminds you why you had it nested like that. Not all hash smells like weed, but this particular hash is dank as hell. No wonder the bloodhound sniffed it out.

You fish a glass pipe out of your suitcase and pinch two pea-sized lumps from one of the bricks. Spark up. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Now you remember why you took this job: your ration. At the end of all this, you get to take some home, and you’ll be set for weeks. Hash is a different high than normal weed. It’s more chill. You wouldn’t smoke hash and go dancing; you’d smoke hash and watch Adventure Time. 

Or you’d smoke hash to cope with anxiety, like right now. It’s working. The cop predicament already feels like ancient history. It’s a funny story you can tell if you want to impress some criminals. Just like Mr. Orange.

As you’re finishing the bowl, the world turns HD, and the sunlight broadens to reveal colors not usually seen with human eyes. Since when is grass so emerald? Since when are cars so shiny? You feel like a moviegoer in 1939, watching Dorothy step out into Oz, seeing Technicolor for the first time in your life.

The bus will start boarding soon. You take one last moment to appreciate the fresh air before you head inside. A slight hiccup: the door seems to have locked behind you. Hmm. Your high brain is not prepared for this. 

You pull again, extra hard. Yep. It’s locked. If you bang on the door, every pair of eyes in the terminal will jump to attention and stare as someone lets you in. That’s not an option, according to your high brain. Could you walk around to the front entrance? Maybe, but that would raise your odds of being seen by someone. You know this is drug-induced paranoia talking, but it still feels important.

You settle for standing at a window, waiting for someone inside to realize what you need. The first to notice is a severely skinny young man with heavy eyebrows. You wave and point to the door, and he rises to his feet.

The door pushes open, and the dude’s bushy brows are raised up on his forehead. “Trying to get back in?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Smells good out here.” He winks.

“Just needed some fresh air.” You wink back.

Somehow, with only a wink, this dude took away your fear that someone would figure out what you were up to. It’s the 21st century. Everybody smokes weed. It’s normal.

On the bus, you stow the suitcase above your head and take a seat. The skinny dude is a few rows behind you. You plug your earbuds into your phone and find your Being High Playlist, a mix of mainly trip hop and psychedelic indie with complex instrumentals. All music sounds better while high, but this stuff wraps around your brain and immerses it in hallucinogenic goo.

The bus comes to a stop. You’re in the zone, staring out the window, barely paying attention to the people leaving the bus, until the skinny dude from the terminal steps out onto the sidewalk. He’s holding a smallish, navy-blue suitcase.

Your stomach does a somersault. It’s just paranoia again. That could be anyone’s smallish, navy-blue suitcase. Just to make sure, you stand and check the overhead bin, and your bag is gone.

Bolting down the aisle now, stuttering “Thatguystolemybagpleasedon’tleavewithoutme” at the bus driver, leaping onto the sidewalk. Like a genius, you go, “HEY!” which makes the dude burst into a crackhead sprint. You don’t want to know what will happen to you if you lose that package. Jason has connections with some scary motherfuckers. You’d have to rake together a lot of cash or say goodbye to your kneecaps. Or flee the country. 

You race after him. He’s a fast sprinter, but there’s no way he has enough muscle tone to keep it up for long. Those thighs could belong to a ten-year-old girl. You’re in better shape, and you’re not carrying a suitcase. 

Except he keeps turning corners, and you’re afraid you’ll lose him. You spot a grapefruit-sized rock on the ground, and without thinking twice or stopping to aim, you scoop it up and chuck it at him. You expect it to miss, but it strikes the back of his head, and he drops to the ground. At first, you’re beyond relieved. Then you get close. 

It’s a scene from a horror film. You cracked his skull like an egg. There’s blood everywhere—spattered on your suitcase, pooling on the sidewalk, flowing into the street. His brain is in pieces. Killer! Murderer! Monster! Mugshot on the evening news!

You never even knew the poor dude’s name. Who have you become? Since when do you get mixed up in high-stakes drug deals? Since when would you rather kill than die? You imagine your grandmother gazing at you from heaven, and tears drain down your face.

Thank God, the street is empty. You take a deep breath, grab the rock (it could have your fingerprints or DNA), and trot off with your bloodstained suitcase. Act normal. Act like you’re not fleeing a crime scene.

The merciful bus driver waited through that whole fiasco. As you board, a few passengers clap and cheer, and for one horrible moment your high brain assumes they somehow know what you’ve done. Then you remember that you made a bit of a scene when you fled the bus. People would have chattered, and placed bets, about whether you’d get your suitcase back. Woo! Nice one! You caught him! If someone notices the brain bits on your suitcase, they don’t point it out.

Four uneventful hours go by. The bus rumbles past lakes, through forests, and over hills. You wish you had your laptop so you could re-watch Requiem for a Dream. Or Trainspotting. Anything to convince yourself that people have done more fucked-up things in the name of drugs and money.

The bus reaches a station even more packed than the one back in the city. You suppose most people out here can’t afford an airplane ticket. The crowd makes it easy to blend in. Folks probably roll through here with bloodstained luggage all the time.

Jason said it would be a black BMW, and a black BMW is indeed idling in front of the station. A window rolls down as you approach.

“Jason’s friend?” says the guy in the passenger seat.

“Yeah.” 

The doors click unlocked, and you hop into the back seat. 

The driver surprises you. She’s disarmingly gorgeous, with legs for days; you don’t know who you were expecting, but not her. How did she end up in this car instead of, like, a Versace photoshoot? You’re not so much enamored as intimidated. Maybe that’s the point.

As soon as you shut the door, she shifts into gear and starts rolling around. The guy swivels his head. “I’m Alex,” he says. “That’s my girl, Grace.”

Oh. That explains it. You tell him your name. 

“I like that name,” says Grace. “It fits you.”

“Thanks, you too.” Fuck, why did you say that? “I mean, you carry a lot of grace.” Nice save.

“Aw, thank you!” She probably gets that a lot.

“Whoa,” says Alex. “The hell happened to your bag?”

This, you realize, is the exact moment when you need to impress some criminals. You tell the tale theatrically, from Officer Blond Fuzz to the skinny dude’s brains on the sidewalk.

“And I put the rock in my bag, of course, so they can’t get my DNA.”

“Wow. Can I see it?”

You unzip the suitcase and give him the rock. He weighs it in his hand. 

“Your first murder weapon. What are you gonna do with it?”

“Chuck it in a lake. And it was manslaughter. I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“Of course, of course.”

Grace backs the BMW into a dead-end alleyway. This must be a favorite spot for illicit deals.

“So,” says Alex. “Jason said you have a package for me.”

Of course, of course. You take out both bricks and hand them to Alex, who hands them to Grace, who pulls a little scale out of the console and weighs them. She gives a thumbs-up. “Two kilograms.”

“Sweet,” says Alex.

“Hand me my purse?”

She flicks open a scary-looking knife, slices off a chunk of hash, weighs it, and gives it to you in a plastic baggie.

“Your ration,” she says.

It’s disappointingly small. “How much is this?”

“Ten grams.”

“I was promised 20,” you lie. 

Come on. After all the shit you went through to deliver this package, you deserve at least that much.

Alex lowers his handsome eyebrows. “Jason said that?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s funny, ’cause he told me ten.”

 “I wanted an ounce, but he said 20 grams, and I’m like, OK, 20 is fine.”

He and Grace exchange a doubtful look. 

“We could call him,” Grace offers.

“Sure, call him. I know exactly what he’ll say.” When you bluff, you bluff hard.

She unlocks Alex’s phone and presses the contact. It rings on speaker. Picturing Jason’s apartment, you try to reach him with your powers of Stoner Telepathy. Please say 20 grams. Please, for once, have my back.

Jason’s breathy voice comes out. “Yo, dude, what’s good, man?”

Thank God, he’s high. Before anyone else gets a chance to frame the question, you start talking. “Hey, Jason, it’s me. I’m here with Grace and Alex. I was supposed to get 20 grams, right?”

“Huh?”

“Twenty grams. Of hash. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“What? Yeah. Twenty grams. Whatever. Just make sure you get the money.”

Alex sighs in disbelief. “Alright, man. Talk to you later.”

Gunshots and explosions burst out of the speaker. He must have resumed whatever violent video game he’d been playing. Grace ends the call.

“OK, then,” says Alex. “Twenty it is.”

Grace makes the proper adjustment and hands you the now-fuller baggie. She wraps the bricks in wax paper. Then, she reaches under her seat and hands you a manila envelope. “That’s for Jason.”

It’s sealed, but you can tell it’s full of stacked bills. The envelope radiates almost as much hypnotic power as the hash. You’ve never held so much money before. With that kind of dough, you could get a car. Better yet, you could buy a bus ticket to Mexico and live off the rest.

Of course, you would have to be a total jerk to screw Jason like that. It’s just a fantasy.

Grace pulls out of the alleyway and brings you back to the bus terminal. You exchange goodbyes with The Most Photogenic Narcotic Couple (if only Vanity Fair would run that issue).

Your bus back home will leave in an hour. Alone in the crowd, staring at your return ticket, two versions of the future play out behind your eyes. In one future, you deliver the envelope to Jason, he gives you a meager sum, and life continues as normal. In another, Jason never sees that money, or your face, ever again. 

He didn’t have to kill anyone today. He didn’t even leave his apartment. The second, more daring future is the one that calls you. It’s the one that offers you a new life. It’s the one that makes you rip up your ticket and never look back.