Nut Was His Name

They came about once a year in New England, a freakishly (The weather people used “unseasonably.) warm day in mid-late February or early March. After days of gray skies and snow that never really seemed to melt, a 70-degree day would show up out of nowhere, briefly lifting your mood so you felt like you were living, not just existing. It was as if nature patted you softly on the cheek with one hand before backhanding you the next day with sleet or even a blizzard.

Today, I had awakened from my afternoon nap to the most pleasant sensation of a gentle spring breeze tickling the back of my neck. It felt angelic. I couldn’t justify the cost of buying blinds or curtains for my rented apartment, so there was nothing between the breeze and my skin. I often took afternoon naps on days like today when I worked a split shift. I had been in the newsroom in the morning, filed my story on deadline, then cut out around noon. Tonight, I would cover a zoning and planning commission meeting where approximately four of the town’s 11,000 residents would show up to argue whether a new restaurant in town would increase alcohol consumption. When I wrote about it the next day, I’d use words like “sparks flew,” “heated,” and “controversial,” making the fact that the discussion had taken place in a nearly empty room irrelevant.

My plan for the next half hour was to lie there and enjoy the breeze. That changed when I heard the knock, followed 30 seconds later by the doorbell.

I barely knew anyone in this town outside of my co-workers. I got up, walked by the table making a quick mental reminder to pay the two bills lying there, and opened the door. It was Nut.

I had met Nut a couple of days earlier by the mailboxes. When we parted ways, I commented that I could always hear the sounds of Madden 2000 coming from his apartment. It was constant. John Madden’s voice and the other commentator, the crowd cheering, the play calling, all signals that this man was happily wasting his life away in this condo complex. I told him I played Madden sometimes, too. I figured that would be the extent of our relationship.

While it may have been unkind of me to judge Nut’s level of ambition based on his looks and his apparent favorite pastime of playing Madden approximately 22 hours a day, my guess that he was perfectly happy with his station in life seemed on point. Today, he wore pajama bottoms, slippers and a Green Bay Packers jersey over a white t-shirt. He held up two Madden PlayStation discs. We greeted each other before I broke the bad news: I had a Nintendo 64, not a PlayStation.

“Oh, you have N64? Aw, man. I thought you might want to have a little competition.”

“No, sorry. I’ve mainly been playing ‘Resident Evil, ‘ anyway. And I’m trying ‘Shadowland.’”

“Huh.” He didn’t seem interested. “Okay, man.”

“See you later.” He turned, then paused. More to say, apparently.

“Hey, I know we don’t know each other on this level,” he said, gesturing to me then back to him. I don’t know if he was just trying to sound casual or if he really was saying this casually. “But do you… smoke?” He pinched his fingers and put them to his mouth. I understood he wasn’t talking about cigarettes.

“No, that’s not my thing.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, never.”

“Oh, no problem.” Nut smiled and hesitated. “I just thought you might want to make a little money.”

“No, not that way. I’m at the police station for work all the time.”

“Oh,” he laughed, but not nervously. “You work for the police?”

“No, I’m a newspaper reporter.”

“Cool! You should write a story about me sometime. All right, man, I’ll catch you later.”

I closed the door and within a minute could hear John Madden’s voice again.

Walking back to my bedroom meant I had to pass by those bills again. I glanced down. My Discover bill had somehow climbed to $1,400. The minimum payment was $5. The car payment was $247. Rent $625. Electric this time of year was about $90 because the place was heated by electric baseboard units. I turned it down to 50 at night. I remember when $500 a week for my first job sounded like a lot.

It was around 3, and I had to head to town for the meeting at 5:30. I wanted to swing by for an oil change first, something I had to do every six weeks since I drove so much for work. That would be another $30.

***

The next morning, I rolled into work at my usual time, 7:30, a half hour late as usual, drawing the usual snarky comments from my co-workers. The meeting the night before had stretched until 10:30. My enthusiasm to get home had drawn a $96 speeding ticket.

Today was just a typical shift, so I got out at three. I stopped at my mailbox on the way in. I heard someone coming down the stairs. There was Nut. “Hey! You just getting home?”

“Yeah, I’m going to play a few rounds of Resident Evil. You playing Madden?”

“Of course.”

“You don’t smoke, right?”

Hadn’t we had this conversation already?

“No.”

“Okay, cool. I’ll see you later, man.”

My only mail was an American Online free trial disc and an envelope from the state of Connecticut. This was how I learned about the state’s “car tax.” It added up to an extra car payment.

My job didn’t offer overtime, and the schedule was so erratic that I didn’t think I could get a second job. I couldn’t date because I had no money. No more nights at the bar. No more once-a-week takeout. I was broke. All of this ran through my head in 30 seconds it took me to walk down the hallway and knock on Nut’s door.

“What’s up man? This near stranger seemed happy to see me. He always seemed happy. His apartment was messier than mine and smelled vaguely of fried fish.

“I thought you might want to have that competition now.”

We sat side-by-side, he an approximately 250-pound Black man with no apparent means of support and me, a 23-year-old recent college grad struggling to pay the bills. I was still in my shirt and tie from work.

Nut walked me through the PlayStation controls. I selected the Pittsburgh Steelers, and he chose San Francisco. He was up 21-0 when I asked.

“So, you said something about making money.”

“But you said you don’t smoke.”

“I don’t. But I’m looking for…How should I put it? A second job.”

Nut looked at me. There was that smile again.

“So how much do you want?”

“How much what?”

“You want to sell it, right?”

“Nut, we’ve had like five conversations. And now you’re going to hire me as a dealer?”

“Man, it ain’t like that. You seem like a smart dude. I just thought you would want to make some money, get you some more N64 games. You got a lady?”

“No, nothing.”

“Get you a lady, then! You need money for that, right?”

I did a quick inventory of the events that led me to this old plaid couch, next to this stranger who still wore his pajamas at 4 p.m., about to receive an illegal substance and completely obliterate my own code of honor. This was something I wouldn’t mention during my weekly call to my parents.  

Nut shut off Madden, possibly for the first time all day.

“So here’s how it’s going to work. You said you don’t got money. That’s cool. I know where you live, so I can find you. I’m going to give you a little bit to sell, just to see how you do. You sell all of this, it gets me $200 profit. I’ll give you $100.”

“That’s not much money, though, considering I’m risking arrest.”

“Man, you do it right, you’ll sell it all in a couple of days. Then I’ll give you more. You can make three hundred in a few weeks. It will go fast.”

Every fiber of my brain screamed at me to walk away.

I did the next best thing.

“Okay, give it to me.”

Nut nodded. There was that smile again. “Hang on, I’ll get it.”

He came back with a crumpled brown lunch bag that looked like it had been pulled from under his bed and handed it to me. I was surprised by how light it was. “Take this and get to work, man. We’ll save the game and finish when you sell it. Don’t smoke it. But I know you don’t smoke, so it’s cool!”

At least I had weekend plans now.

***

As I carried my first-ever bag of marijuana down to my apartment, I realized I had another problem, besides the illegal substance in my hand. I had no idea how to sell anything. Up to this point, my sales experience had been limited to lemonade stands, selling candy and magazines door-to-door in elementary school, collecting donations for the Walk for Hunger and working a retail job where my first performance review had noted my “chronic attitude problem.”

So, where to start? Should I set up a coffee table and write “marijuana” on a scrap of cardboard to attract business? Or maybe knock on a few doors and pretend it’s a school fundraiser? Make up business cards, with my name above the words “drug dealer?”

I had nothing for dinner, so I headed to Shaw’s. Frozen pizza wasn’t great, but some brands were pretty cheap. A box of Elio’s would get me three dinners if I kept it to two slices at a time. That was about $1.50 a meal.

And I bumped right into my former neighbor, Chris. I asked him where he had moved.

“Over on East Middle Turnpike. I’m sharing it with two guys.”

“Cool. Hey, what was up with that cop knocking on your door last month?” It had happened while I was watching “Monday Nigh RAW.” I mistakenly opened the door, thinking they were knocking on mine.

“They weren’t cops. That was the bail bonds company. I bailed my friend out of jail, and he missed a court date. The guy is doing all sorts of drugs. I tried to help him. I’m done with him.”

“Aw, that sucks. Where is he now?”

“I think he is living with his cousin, but I’m not sure.”

“Ah. Can you give me his number?”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, his number. I have some weed to sell.”

“Are you serious?” Chris squinted. Then he smiled. “Ha, that’s pretty good! I thought you were serious for a second.” I was. He thought I wasn’t.

“Yeah, sorry. I hope he gets it together.”

I paid and left. $5.50 for a box of Elio’s.

***

I began the search for my customer base at the University of Hartford. I was less than a year out of college but still felt old on campus. So where were my customers? I sat down on a bench next to a rack holding a bundle of the student newspaper. Two girls walked down the path, talking about how much they were going to drink that night. I had $300 worth of weed to sell. But how should I open the conversation? They were getting close. Quickly, I thought back to things the potheads used to say in school. It came to me.

“Hi ladies!” I forced a smile. “Um, I need, you got?”

I heard a confused giggle. “Wait, what?”

I tried again. “I need, you got?”

“Got what?”

“You know. Weed.” I made a gesture like I was smoking.

“What, you want to buy weed from us? We aren’t dealers!” They laughed and started to walk away.

“No, no, don’t leave!” I stood up from the bench. “I mean…” I tried to rearrange the words in my head. “You need? I got!” I flashed them what I thought was a knowing smile.

One spoke up. “So, you’re just sitting on a bench, trying to sell weed to random strangers? How do I know you’re not an undercover cop?”

“Seriously?” I said. “Wouldn’t a cop be better at this than I am? Look, I have $300 worth of weed I need to sell this weekend. Can you introduce me to anyone who might want to buy it?”

She snorted and pointed to a building about 200 feet away. “Try the music department. Good luck!” I turned and could hear them laughing. They had a story that wouldn’t take long to spread across campus, so I figured I should get out of there soon. But I had a lead to pursue.

There was a staircase in the middle of the music building’s lobby. I headed up, not sure where I was going. I decided to move toward the sound of a piano and ended up near a private rehearsal room. The door was slightly open. I played it cool.

“Oh, hi. I hope I’m not interrupting you. I was just listening. You play beautifully,” I said.

“Oh, thank you!” The college-aged girl wore an ankle-length skirt and white turtleneck. Not the rebellious type.

“That was Beethoven, right? ‘Moonlight Sonata.”

She smiled again. “It was! You know your stuff!”

I kept it up. “The first movement is simple, but haunting. The second and third movements get quite complex.” This was the only classical piece I knew.

I had her hooked. She seemed happy to be noticed. “Oh, so are you a student here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“No, but I’m checking out the campus, looking at graduate schools. I used to listen to Beethoven a lot in college. Me and my friends, you know, we’d get pretty lit listening to that!” I smiled and shook my head like I was ashamed of my past behavior. “I mean, we’d get baked, you know, from all of the smoking.”

“You got high listening to Beethoven! That’s so random and weird.”

“Yeah, I mean, you should try it sometime.”

Awkward pause.

“Do you want to try it?”

Her expression told me my time was up. “No,” she said. “I don’t drink or smoke. Usually, I’m just practicing. It was nice meeting you, though!” She closed the door to the rehearsal room, all the way this time.

***

As I drove away from campus, two thoughts occurred to me. First, I was terrible at this job. Second, I wasn’t at all comfortable driving around with $300 worth of drugs in my car. I needed to get rid of this stuff quickly.

I figured people who smoked also drank, so I headed to The Tiger Claw, the dive bar down the street. It was the only bar within walking distance of my apartment, and I was fast becoming a regular. Of course, this time I was going with enough weed in my car to get me arrested.

The crowd was a cross-section of Connecticut’s working class. Women outnumbered men. I heard a squealing voice say, “There’s a boy here!” and two women about my age came to sit next to me.

One beer in, I tried Nut’s tactic.

.

“Hey, I know we don’t know each other on this level, but do you smoke?”

They looked on the brink of hysterics. “Yes! But we’re in a wedding tomorrow! We can’t smoke tonight.”

“I understand. More for me, I guess. But do you know anyone who wants to buy some?”

One of them leaned in. “You know, you’re talking really loud.” I tended to do that after a few beers.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to a professional-looking woman who looked to be in her mid-30s. “Buy what?”

“Ummm….”

“Are you selling weed?” It was simultaneously an accusation and an inquiry.

“Uh…. yes?”

“You are. How much?”

“Well, all of it, hopefully.”

She was obviously struggling to keep her patience.

“No, I mean how much does it cost?”

“Um, I have to make $300.”

“So how much will that get me?”

“All of it.”

Her expression changed to something more like pity.

“Okay, let’s see it.” We walked outside to my car and I showed her the bag. She could have been a cop. I didn’t care at this point.”

She looked inside. “You know what? I’ll take all of it. My mother is sick and needs it for pain control.” She handed me a stack of $50 bills. I didn’t bother to count them.”

I exhaled. “Thank you so much!”

She smirked. “Well, you obviously have no idea what you are doing, so I’m happy to help. You might want to keep your day job.”

I headed home with the cash, deciding I’d visit Nut in the morning. Around 11 a.m. I heard John Madden’s voice from down the hall. I headed to his door.

“Here you go.” I handed him the stack of bills.

“Man, you sold it? I’ll get you more, then!”

“No, I don’t think this is for me. It’s harder than I thought it was. I think I’ll stick with my regular job.”

Nut nodded. “Understand, man. Hey, this is $50 short, so I can only pay you $50.” That seemed fair.

“All right, I’m going to head back.”

After about a month, I realized I wasn’t hearing John Madden’s voice anymore. Then I saw a younger couple with a baby moving into Nut’s apartment. He had left without saying goodbye. I never found out if that was his real name. It didn’t feel right to ask.