| |
Roscoe, NY—May 10, 2011
It was just past ten on a Tuesday night, and Stewart Street was deserted and dark. A light drizzle filled the air. It had been raining continually for the last three weeks, and Wayne Sabolewski cursed the dampness that seemed to envelop him like a shroud. Dressed in tattered jeans, a long-sleeved insulated undershirt, and a suede vest stained with beer, food, and God knew what else, the nineteen-year-old moved silently in the shadows toward his target, the Grime Be Gone Laundromat. He was tall for his age, but rather skinny in contrast; his blue eyes that once sparkled with youthful energy were now dull from his constant drug usage. He had long, unkempt blond hair. In his rear pocket, he carried a small pry bar, just perfect for jimmying open back doors and coin boxes; it certainly had seen its share of both.
Wayne’s hands, encased in a cheap pair of leather work gloves, had started to shake, and his mouth grew dryer by the minute; a sure sign that he couldn’t wait much longer to fix. Wayne was a Meth addict. He hurried toward the laundromat, situated just south of the newly renovated credit union building—the only three-story structure in Roscoe. The financial institution certainly held more money than the laundromat, but with the remote camera guarding its ATM window and its steel doors, breaking into it wasn’t something Wayne was prepared to tackle. By contrast, the laundromat occupied one of the oldest buildings in town, and featured a simple hasp and padlock on its dilapidated, wooden back door. Thirty seconds of work with the pry bar, thought Wayne, and he’d be in “Fat City.”
Over the last five years, Methamphetamine use has hit epidemic proportions throughout the country, and Roscoe has not been spared, despite its idyllic setting in the mountains. When the average person thinks about drug use, it is usually associated with big cities, tenement buildings, and minorities. But, the statistics belie the common misconceptions. The use of crystal Meth or “Ice” (as it is often called by those in its grasp) is most prevalent among poverty-stricken, white teenagers in rural areas, where its relatively low cost makes it hard to resist. Once hooked, addicts will do almost anything to secure a fix. Since the drug is cheap, more often than not “anything” turns out to be petty larceny or, especially in the case of female Meth addicts, casual prostitution.
Everyone in town knew Wayne as an abuser of the drug, as evidenced by his rotten teeth, sallow complexion, and pencil thin body. Wayne could just feel the euphoria that would sweep over him in less than half an hour when he scored. As with most drugs, the effects of the Meth were short-lived, but for the six to twelve hours that the dopamine “rush” lasted, it always seemed worth it. Once the drug wore off, however, there was always the inevitable profound depression that all “Meth” addicts dreaded, followed by the unrelenting pressure to, once again, get high.
Wayne crept down the alleyway between the two buildings, rounded the corner, and quickly made his way to the battered back door of the laundromat. Without hesitating, he pulled the pry bar from his pocket and went to work. Twice, the uncontrollable shaking of his hands caused him to drop the tool, and each time he cursed to himself as he retrieved it from the ground. Finally, with a loud grunt, he managed to pry the hasp and its half-inch brass screws loose from the wood frame surrounding the entrance. Using his shoulder, he forced the door open, and silently moved inside. He moved quickly, prying open the covers of one coin box after another, and dumped the collection of quarters into a cotton sack he had brought with him. It took less than ten minutes for Wayne to fill it. He estimated the “take” at close to fifty dollars, more than enough to keep him in “Ice” for the remainder of the week. With a triumphant, “Yes!” he exited the door and made his way outside. Billy Stillwater, the drug dealer who kept Wayne and most of the other “users” supplied with Meth, hated taking the coins, and charged extra for the inconvenience; nevertheless, he always accepted them. “What the hell,” he’d say, “money’s money, ain’t it?”
Clinging close to the numerous storefronts for protective cover, Wayne hurried down the several blocks toward the spot where his supplier’s pickup truck was usually parked. He prayed that Billy would be there, and prayed, too, that the fucking rain would stop. As he rounded the corner, he looked up the road and much to his relief saw that, indeed, at least one of his prayers had been answered. The truck was there. At the same instant, he noticed that it had stopped raining. Silently, and with a feeling of shame, he thanked God for the two small favors and hurried to the truck.
Stillwater sat alone in his battered, brown Chevy pickup. He was carefully positioned about a half-mile from the center of town, just outside the city limits. It was there that the name of the street and its twenty-five miles-per-hour speed limit (conceived by an earlier city council as a means of increasing the town’s meager flow of revenue) changed from the Rockland Road to Route 206 (the Walton Road as it was known to the locals) and a more appropriate limit of fifty-five.
Stillwater was an ex-serviceman, who, lacking any real talent for making money legitimately, just naturally fell into the drug “profession.” His Special Forces training—along with an ego that matched his six-foot-three-inch frame—gave him all the “equipment” he felt was necessary to conduct business effectively. The reality, however, was that he had forgotten most of what the service had taught him, and his physique, once rock solid, had turned to mostly fat. His brown eyes, once clear and engaging, were often heavy-lidded and unfocused.
Anyone looking to score Meth knew right where to find Billy, and so did the police. But of course he never carried the drugs on his person—he was way too smart for that—so, it was unlikely that local law enforcement would ever catch him red-handed, especially with its lack of personnel. Billy kept his stash stored in a collection of Mason jars, the locations of which changed several times a week. His “lab,” where he brewed his deadly concoction, was buried deep in the woods somewhere between Roscoe and Walton, and its location was a well-guarded secret.
“What ya got for me, Wayne?” said Stillwater. He had a cheap cigar clenched between his rotten, yellow-stained teeth (what few he still possessed) that gave off a rancid odor that nearly caused the youth to retch. Bits of a beef burrito that he consumed earlier in the evening clung to the ragged surface of his unkempt beard. The front of his pale-blue denim shirt was stained with coffee and whatever he’d spilled on it since it was last laundered. Ever vigilant, he moved his dark brown eyes nervously from side to side, scanning the landscape for any evidence of law enforcement.
“Here,” said Wayne, shoving the bag through the open window of the vehicle. “Gotta be fifty bucks—at least!”
“Lemme see,” said Stillwater. “I’ll be the judge of that.” The drug dealer ran his fingers through the bag’s contents, estimating its worth. “More like forty, I’d say.”
Wayne shuffled his feet and licked his parched lips. “Yeah. Whatever. Just let me have the stuff, okay?” He was in no condition to bargain.
“Relax,” cautioned Billy, with a menacing tone to his voice. “Get in. I ain’t doin’ no business here on the street. You oughta know better than that.”
Wayne scurried around to the passenger side of the Chevy, opened the door, and got in. Stillwater put the vehicle in gear and accelerated down the road, heading toward a well-hidden parking area used by fishermen to access the nearby Upper Beaverkill River. He admonished Wayne to “stay put, or I’ll kick the livin’ shit out of you,” turned on a small flashlight, and started down the narrow dirt path that led to the river. Several times, he thought he heard someone behind him, and each time he stopped and glanced over his shoulder to be certain his client wasn’t following. At last, convinced it was just his imagination playing tricks on him, he continued down the path until he came to the river. He marched downstream a ways until he located the distinctive pyramid shaped rock jutting out from the middle of the water that he used as a marker for his stash. Opposite the rock, located on the near shoreline, was a solitary rhododendron bush. Billy knelt down and retrieved a Mason jar, filled with small packets of crystal Meth, from its hiding place at the base of the shrub where it was concealed beneath a cairn of small rocks. For an instant, he thought of carrying the jar back with him and finding another hiding spot for it, but since it had only been there for a short time, he decided he could wait a few more days. He extracted the requisite number of packets, and then placed the jar back beneath the rhododendron, carefully covering it with the stones.
When he returned to the vehicle, he and Wayne conducted their business, and then Stillwater got back in his truck, quickly made a three-point turn, and left the boy standing alone in the parking area, minus his bag of quarters, but possessing, instead, a three-day supply of Meth. By the time the Chevy exited the dirt road onto the asphalt of the highway, Wayne Sabolewski was already high as a kite, and it was beginning to rain—again. Stillwater flipped on the truck’s wipers and headed out into the night.
With a couple of hours to kill before he was to meet someone else at half-past midnight, Billy decided to drive over to the town of East Branch and grab a cup of coffee at a fast food restaurant. He could have gone to the Roscoe Diner, but since that was where all the state troopers hung out, he opted for the Quickway instead. Besides, if things went right at the meeting, he’d soon be on easy street. He whistled the melody from “Daydream Believer” as the rain began to intensify—along with his expectations. He had no idea what the night held in store for him.