John’s paranoia is growing. He wants to know what is going on when he isn’t around and tries to listen through the walls while hiding in the bathroom and getting high. I catch myself paranoid too, jumping at every noise or movement to lean my ear toward the bathroom, fully expecting to hear John tapping and snorting in the back.
David and Karen know he has drugs when he shows up, and they want some. So do I.
John takes turns calling us each into his porcelain shrine to sit at his feet like begging, starving puppies to do a line. Each of us is giddy when he calls us one by one.
When it is my turn, John carefully, intentionally takes his time. “Where did you go today?” His voice is stern, not showing any hint of softness. Again, he acts as if he has inside information.
Tap, tap, tap. The white nuggets crumble under the sharp razor’s edge.
I twist my hands nervously around each of my fingers, stomach tightening, eyes glued to the crystals on the mirror. “Nowhere,” I answer truthfully. I hate that he dangles the drugs like a carrot in front of my face. It makes me want them more, and I know where his questions are leading. “Here. That’s all, baby.”
Tap, tap, tap. He keeps on.
I get anxious. He’s pressuring me to falsely come clean. I know what to do. To prove I am faithful, I recite my exact steps from waking this morning to sitting now on the floor at his feet. He has to believe me if I tell him everything.
“Yeah, right.” He is not satisfied.
I don’t know what else to tell him, but I beg him to believe me.
John pulls back his cheek with his thumb to clear his sinuses, dives in, and snorts the large, fatter line. “Here.” He shoves the mirror at me with the thin, small line and dismisses me.
I hate how John is acting. I hate how I am acting. He is cold and angry and growing more and more distrustful of me. He is scaring me; my fear is covered by the high of cocaine. Why? I ask myself. I know I’m faithful. I do everything to be trustworthy. He knows that. He’s gotta know that! I rack my brain trying to figure out why John is so irrational and suspicious of me. It has to be David, I think angrily.
“We’re adding on,” John yells, surprising me by barging into the front of the shop one afternoon.
“What?” I’m shocked to see his upbeat entrance. “Hi. Hey, you’re happy for some reason.” I run over to hug him.
“You betcha! We’re gonna have two businesses. A secondhand store in the front, perfect with a locksmith shop in the back. You and me, baby! We’re gonna be in business and in charge of the front. Can you do it?”
David’s trailing behind him and heads straight for his desk in the back. They are both high as a kite.
“Yeah, I can do it. I’d love it. We can resell all our finds from garage sales.” I am hesitant about the idea but like it much better than being under the constant scrutiny of David and Karen. I resent working under David’s thumb cutting keys, and I distrust him every time he watches what I’m doing. He’s lying about me to get drugs from John, my gut tells me. I just know it.
John, Sharon, and I sit down for what is now a rare evening dinner together. It is another of John’s weak attempts to hold on to his rapidly declining personality. He hasn’t slept for at least three days, and his eyes are bloodshot, his skin pale, his mind spacey.
“What should we call the new business, John?” I ask, trying to get him to participate in a mealtime conversation.
He shrugs, barely interested, and makes a feeble nod toward Sharon. “You two think of a name.” It looks like his high is wearing off.
Sharon loves the idea: a brain challenge. She stops for a minute to mull it over. “Mmmmm, let me see. Aha! The Just Looking Emporium!” I can tell her enthusiasm is an attempt to bring John out of his sullen mood.
“Yeah! I get it,” I join in. “You mean name it so people won’t be pressured to buy, but once they come in and see something so cool, so unique, they’ll have to buy it.”
“Exactly!” Sharon is pleased with herself.
We begin the renovation with dedication. At least I do. John’s enthusiasm is fueled by the speedy effect of the drugs. When he shares with me, together we are a frenzied team. Sharon stops by after work to drop off boxes and supplies while John and I design and build brick and wood shelves for the front windows, hanging plants to dangle and absorb the full sun. Days turn into nights as we race to get the Just Looking Emporium open for business. John sparingly issues lines of coke to help me keep up with him, but I know he is sneaking more when he disappears into the back. We paint and hammer into the wee hours of the morning, stopping when the rising sun streaks through the windows and burns our tired eyes.
Gathering inventory is easy for us. Our collection of yard sale booty has been growing for years. It’s simple enough to stock the shelves with knickknacks and still-worthy pieces of dismantled treasures salvaged from the depths of John’s garage. Outside, on the redbrick north wall of the shop, John and I paint a massive arched rainbow and Just Looking Emporium in bold colors underneath. Beneath the rainbow and tucked in the back corner is a conservative black and yellow Keyways Locksmith Service logo, which seems out of place against our giant psychedelic hippie sign.
Proudly I stand admiring the shine on the glass display case John and I have arduously placed in front of my large oak desk. Where is he? I worry. He promised to be here for the opening.
“Just have to pick up a few more things for the store,” he told me on the phone earlier, but now he is nowhere to be found. He’s like a noisy ghost who has suddenly evaporated, leaving a gaping hole of nothing where it once haunted. In my heart, I know he is out scoring drugs. Still, I try to believe he is telling me the truth. I want to believe in him.
The business opens uneventfully. A few stragglers wander in to browse through the store. Perhaps there is a sale or two, but my mind is only on John. I’m hurt that he hasn’t shown up on this special day, the opening of our business.
He doesn’t return until late the next day, slipping in through the bathroom. I figure it out when David constantly disappears from his workbench for over an hour and Karen paces into the back, pretending to get supplies. My stomach begins to tighten. I want to see him too. I walk to the back to interrupt the creepy hovering of bees to the cocaine pollen.
“John?” I tap on the door and hear a muffled, hurried fumbling, then silence. “John.” I tap even harder.
“Yeah?” His reply is short, suppressed.
“What are you doing?” My mouth presses into the wooden door.
It flings open. “Come in, quick!” David is hunched in the corner, staring at the floor and smoking a cigarette. John, on the toilet, bends over his briefcase. He palms the freebase pipe.
“What is that?” I point to the pipe. I know he broke his promise for good this time, and I have been expecting it.
With an awkward laugh, he motions for me to be quiet. Then he draws a long, bubbling toke from the glass pipe, pulls me down, and blows the rancid smoke into my mouth. I hold it in as I have been taught. Falling into place as another cocaine bee, I hang on to my breath until I’m dizzy and then fall to my knees to exhale. My ears instantly ring, and in that split second it seems as if freebase has never left my memory; it is an insidious tumor in my temporal lobe. I look up at John. He grins at me, a clownlike nubby-toothed grin. He looks like the Grinch who stole Christmas, I say to myself.