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February in Syracuse

Aidan King

    “Eight thirty-two,” said the tired shopkeeper, placing the pack of cigarettes on the counter and pointing to his outstretched palm.
    I rummaged through my jean pockets, closing my hand around a few crumpled bills and flattening them out next to the register. I dug around again, pulling out a quarter and two pennies and slid them towards the man. I shrugged. It wasn’t enough.
    “Eight thirty-two,” he repeated, pointing to the display on the register’s screen.
    “Look, man. That’s all I got. I’ll pay the rest later,” I pleaded, “I just gotta run to my place. I’m good for it.”
    “Eight thirty-two!” his gray bushy eyebrows furrowed, “Why even come in here if you don’t have the cash to get anything?”
    I readjusted my hat, playing with the worn brim. Who the hell did this guy think he was? My father? He’s the one working at a convenience store. Not me.
    I thumbed one of the several holes in my jeans, glancing down at the counter and then up at the man. He must’ve been fifty at least. He did sort of remind me of my dad, now that I thought about it. Those worn, exhausted eyes stared into mine. No, it wasn’t even a stare. It was weaker than that. It was a gaze. A foggy, tired gaze. I wonder if this guy drank as much as my pops too. Miserable twat.
    “Pay or leave,” he demanded.
    “Alright! Ease up, pal,” I snapped back, scooping up the bills and coins.
    As I turned to leave, I made my move, closing my fist and relaxing my wrist. It was important that my wrist was loose. The impact would be absorbed that way, and I wouldn’t end up with a fractured joint. I swung towards his face. He reacted slowly; his old age had dulled his reflexes. There was a thud from the bone against bone, a loud grunt, and a crash as he staggered backwards into a magazine rack, collapsing on the floor. My eyes darted to the door, then to the man. The store was still empty, and he wasn’t moving, so I pocketed the butts and slid open the register, grabbing all the bills I could find.
    I stopped just outside of the store and turned my back to the buffeting wind to light a smoke. Snow was thrown all over the streets, spiraling through the air. I took a few deep drags before walking south. Two squad cars sped by, their sirens blaring. The dingy brick buildings lit up in a storm of blue and red. It was February in Syracuse. The weather sucked, but all the pigs that weren’t busy avoiding the outdoors had other things to deal with: stabbings, armed robberies, rape. I was just a degenerate kid leaving a convenience store. It’s not like that old fool would report it anyway; there was barely even thirty bucks in the drawer. Fuck him. It was barely enough for a single dose.
    I took a right at the end of the block and rested on a stoop to collect myself. I counted out the money – thirty two dollars exactly. I had my pack of smokes, lighter, and cell phone. I reached around my back and felt under my jacket. Chills crept up my spine – the gun was still there, snugly tucked behind my belt. The rigid hilt pressed up against the base of my spine. I loved the feeling. Cold steel against warm flesh. It almost stuck to my skin like a tongue on a frozen lamp post. It was powerful too; gave me a sense of security. I could almost smell trouble every time I held it. Evil. But safe.
    I started walking again. My cig had gone out, and I needed to calm my nerves some more, so I flicked it down a sewer drain and lit up another. The nicotine filled my lungs and snaked through my bloodstream, making its way up to my brain. Smoke and frozen water vapor wafted out of my mouth, dissipating into the air. Was I still blowing out smoke? Or is that just my frozen breath? I was never able to tell when I was finished exhaling in the winter. The thought quickly left my mind. I passed a Walgreens with a sign in the front reading, “30% off all beer.” I really wanted to save what little amount of money I had for the smack, but it was too much to pass up. Maybe I could split a few beers with Slinky and get an extra half gram out of the deal. I stubbed out my cigarette and dashed inside, emerging shortly after with a twelve pack of Genesee and feeling several dollars poorer.
    It was getting late, and I grew more and more impatient as I walked. The job at the store had been a failure: what was left of the cash would barely get me a single dose, but I was craving a fix, so I called Slinky.
    The cell phone rang and crackled as it connected, “Yo Slink, its J.”
    “Oh wassup homie? What’s it gonna be tonight? Lookin’ to get smacked? ” He always talked in code like that. If I wanted weed, he’d ask if I wanted to get a slice of pizza. Coke was always something about the snowy weather. Heroin was smack. The guy was a nutjob, but I loved him for it.
    “Just a gram this time. My visit to the store didn’t turn out too well.” I would be at the corner of South and J in a couple minutes. It was one of our usual meeting spots.
    “Those fuckers!” he shouted, “They should start carrying half a grand at all times, just for your sake.”
    I laughed. Slink could always make me laugh. We never spent much time together. He was always busy filling the streets with drugs, but we had graduated high school together, and I saved him in a fistfight once, so he hooked me up nicely each time I called.
    “Yeah, I wish, Slink. I just need a job. I can’t keep doin’ this shit.”
    “YOU can’t keep doin’ it? I look prison in the face every day!” he laughed. He liked bragging about his success on the streets. “Ain’t never been caught, and I ain’t never will. I like makin’ money way too much to fuck it up now.”
    “Yeah, but you rake in the dough. I’m –”
    “You live at home with your moms and pops. And even if they hit the bottle every night, they still pay for all your food and put a roof over your head.”
    “Yeah, well —”
    “And you make money without some punk-ass boss tellin’ you what to do all the time. Sounds pretty nice if you ask me.”
    I made sure he was done talking this time, “Dammit, Slink. Why you always gotta be right about everything?”
    “Cause I always is right, J,” he laughed again.
    “Whatever man, I’m here. Hurry your ass up.”
    “Turn around, fool,” he whispered. The call disconnected. A red Crown Vic was idling by the curb across the street. How the hell did he creep up on me like that? He was smearing his face against the window, cackling.
    I jogged over to him, smiling, and hopped in the passenger seat. The car shifted into gear and lurched away from the sidewalk.
    “Tell me, Slink, if you’re such a big shot dealer—”
    “Kingpin...”
    “Right. Kingpin. If you’re such a big shot kingpin, why is your car such a piece of shit?”
    “Awwww. Look what you did. You hurt her feelings!” he patted the fake-mahogany dashboard with his veiny hand.
    “No. Really. Are you ever gonna, y’know, upgrade?”
    “Not even gonna say sorry to ‘uh? Well, ya see, I don’t need to. It’s just a car. I use it to get places,” he paused, “Plus the nicer the car is, the worse I’ll feel when I crash it!”
    I guess he had a point.
    His apartment was dimly lit, but surprisingly clean and didn’t even smell all that bad. Especially for a heroin addict. It bummed me out, actually. This junkie could keep a six-room pad clean and I could hardly manage to take the trash out of my one room. I cracked open a beer and collapsed into one of his bigger chairs. It was one of those chairs that you sank into. The longer you sat there, the deeper you sank. It would have swallowed me whole, along with dozens of paperclips, coins, and chip crumbs it had already consumed. If you stayed really still, then sat up quickly, there would be a large indented outline of your body in the cushions. I always liked that part.
    I counted out twenty from the wad of bills in my pocket, “Here ya go, man,” I said, handing him the cash, “Now gimme’ that dope!” He disappeared from the room and returned with a small Ziploc bag, metal spoon, surgical tubing, and syringe.
    The small black rock bubbled and melted into a murky pool in the base of the spoon as the lighter’s flame licked at the metal. It was obvious why they called it “black tar heroin.” That’s what it looked like once it was melted down. Tar. Oil. Sludge. I took the needle and stirred the liquid, mixing in some water and drawing it up into the tube after it was mixed well enough. I wrapped the tubing tightly above my elbow. The rubber tugged at my hairs. I winced. Strangely, that was always my least favorite part. The veins in my arm pushed against my skin as all the blood stayed trapped below that line. A small prick as the needle pierced the vein, and a chill as the drug seeped its way into my bloodstream. I loosened the tubing, placed the needle on the coffee table, and melted into his chair. One of those chairs that you can just sink into, forever. It was perfect. I was melting.
    An hour passed and I gathered my senses. Slink was passed out on a couch. I rolled him onto his side. Number one rule of doing heroin, never sleep on your back. That’s how Hendrix died, and that’s how most smack heads die too. I tucked the baggie into my pocket, threw on my jacket, and headed for the door. The room was still spinning slightly, and each step felt like I was walking on a cloud, or a pocket of air. I couldn’t tell when my foot left the ground, and when it landed. My legs felt weak and my knees would bend at unexpected times, but I kept walking, expertly navigating my way down the stairs and out into the frozen tundra that awaited me.
    It was well after midnight. I wanted to cut down on time so I took a right down an alley that crept behind a small bar called Dudley’s. The fresh powder hadn’t been touched yet – foot-shaped imprints followed my every move. I quickened my pace, I think. I couldn’t really tell how fast I was walking. I was thirsty though, and it was too cold to open a beer, so I pulled out a cigarette again to keep my mind occupied. A door burst open in front of me; I could hear shouting from inside the bar as a man came stumbling out. He tumbled face first in the snow, making a sort of twisted snow-angel where he landed. “Get out of here and go home, Hank, you stinkin’ drunk!” shouted the bartender, slamming the door shut behind him. He clambered to his feet. It was dark, his face was hidden and I couldn’t tell if he was looking at me or not. The alley walls closed in on me. Shadows danced along the bricks. This was my chance. Some piss-drunk jackoff. He won’t remember anything by the morning. I could mug him. Quick and easy.
    I think I called out to him, “Hey gramps. You okay?”
    His response was slurred, and everything echoed in my head, but I was able to make out “fine” and “another drink.”
    I tiptoed through the darkness and approached him from the side. He reeked of cigarette smoke and liquor. Silence hung in the air. Only the sound of his drunken, heavy breathing could be heard. “Hey, pal, come’ere,” I added, trying to sound friendly.
    He lifted his head an inch and turned towards me. His face was still covered in darkness. A large clump of snow crashed down to the roof. I whipped around, startled. He hardly noticed.
    I said something about making sure he was okay, and then lunged at him, grabbing a hold of his collar. I tried smashing his head into the wall but he was stronger than I expected, and I was still doped up. He whipped around, grabbing at my arm, but was too drunk and lost his footing. We collapsed in a tangled heap to the snowy pavement.
    He landed on top, and was much heavier than me. My arm was pinned beneath my back. I couldn’t move him. His hands scraped at my chest, then inched closer and closer to my throat. I jerked my head up at his, connecting with the brim of his nose. It dazed me, but hurt him more, and he rolled off with a grunt. I slowly clambered up to a standing position and turned, reaching beneath my jacket. He was already charging at me with his head down, in a blind, drunken frenzy.
    The gunshot bounced off the walls. A dog barked somewhere nearby. He laid face-up in the snow, not moving. I stood bolted to the spot, afraid and in shock, staring at his still body. A small pool of blood snaked through the snow next to his torso. I sprinted from the alley and down the road. I was still gripping the gun as I ran. In the distance, I heard shouting. The blare of sirens followed soon after.
    I passed dozens of blocks before I reached my street, pausing to think for the first time since leaving the alley. I just fucking killed a guy. Well, what if it grazed him? Or hit him in the shoulder, or ribs? Yeah, no way is he dead. I took a deep breath, gazing out at the sullen snow-covered street. My mind was racing. There was a shit-ton of blood though. Fuck.
    I needed to get rid of the gun and find a place to sober up. I was far away from the pub and the cops would search the areas closer to downtown anyway. I eventually found a park. It was abandoned. I brushed the snow off a bench and sat down to light another cigarette and gather my thoughts. A small river snaked through these neighborhoods and past the park I was in, connecting to Onondaga Lake towards the center of the city. I hopped a fence on the far side of the clearing, walked up to the edge of the embankment, and reared back. There were large sections in the ice where the water was moving to swiftly to freeze over. I took aim and heaved. The gray pistol arched through the air and splashed into the water. A weight was lifted off my shoulders. My spine felt warm without the cold steel pressed against it. It was a pleasant feeling. I smiled at the thought and started walking home.
    When I finally got to my house, the sun was just starting to rise. A light was on in the kitchen and I could see mom making breakfast. She probably thought I was upstairs sleeping. Dad’s car wasn’t in the driveway. ‘He must’ve left for work already, I thought. I hope he didn’t go to work drunk again, like usual.’ The house was dainty, small, and run down. Chipped paint covered the sides and the gutters creaked under the weight of the snow, each snowflake seemed to make them bend more. The letters on the mailbox read “roix,” the first half had been worn away after years of crap weather and being ignored by the family.
    I crept in the front door and slid up the stairs, tiptoeing over the creaky floorboards on the second, fifth, and ninth steps. My mom didn’t hear me. I was in the clear, and disappeared beneath my warm blankets. It was relieving to be home, inside, alive, and in my bed.
    My mom woke me up, calling to get my “lazy ass out of bed.” It was four in the afternoon, after all. I lumbered out of bed, threw on some clothes, and walked downstairs. She was in the kitchen – the smell of grilled chicken snaked through the air. I slouched onto the couch and propped my feet on the coffee table. The TV set flickered white images on the walls, and I slouched down on the couch, “Hey, Ma,” I grunted, flicking through the channels. I needed to find the news.
    “Honey, you look awful. Are you alright?” she asked affectionately.
    “Yeah, just had a long night, that’s all.”
    “Well at least you got a lot of sleep!” she teased, walking out towards the living room, “The sun will be going down soon!”
    I didn’t answer. My mind was numb. “Honey? What’s the matter with you?”
    I was frozen in front of the TV. “Syracuse man slain in alley shooting” the headline read, “Henry LaCroix found dead behind bar, alcohol suspected as cause of altercation.”
    Tears filled my eyes. My throat seized shut and I couldn’t breathe. It all came rushing back; the splintered memories from the night before, the ones distorted by the heroin-fog. I remembered the way he shuffled towards me. The rank, rattling breath that smothered my face. The way he slurred his words. Dudley’s was always his favorite bar.
    “Dad...” I gasped.
    Behind me, my mother sobbed.

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