(The
Beginning)
by Charlene Vanater (pseud.)
written for Literary
Nonfiction, ETSU, Fall 2004
I only meant to stay for one weekend. No one from home saw or heard from me for
seven days. It wasn’t so much where I
was that was important it was what I was there to do: I had to take care of my
little sister. My half-sister Cindy, who
is also 19 but half a year younger than I, called me on Wednesday in
hysterics. I had to spend some time with
her before the semester started and we were both sucked into the beat of our
universities’ drums. I knew the people
Cindy had made bed with when she first moved away from home, I knew what they
were capable of, but I never expected what I got. On Friday my car had a full tank of gas, so I
threw my backpack in the trunk and hit the road. I was headed for Bowling Greene
When I arrived everything seemed peachy, a little too
peachy. Cindy greeted me with a huge
smile, a hug and kiss, and of course some home cooking. Michael, Cindy’s abusive boyfriend, was as
usual right on her heels. As far as I
know he has never actually hit her, but abuse comes in many forms. Trying to stay on good terms with Michael is
something I do mechanically, it is what Cindy wants. We talked and ate, and we drank and partied
all weekend. By Sunday all signs of
distress were still under cloak and dagger.
I knew if I wanted to get to the bottom of Cindy’s steamy tears I had to
stay longer, but only a day, only long enough to talk to her one on one.
I knew Michael was a dealer, hell that was no secret. The boys from the crack hills of
Monday blurred into Tuesday and Tuesday into Wednesday until I wasn’t really sure what day it was, I never knew what time it was and I did not care. Somewhere along the way I had made a delivery. In my hazy state I must have been interesting company for Michael’s clientele because the requests for errands quickly became innumerous. I delivered all day and all night for most of the week. Here and there, on campus, apartment complexes, subdivisions, and even guarded condos. He sold to anyone and everyone. I mindlessly agreed to participate in these activities for several reasons that I viewed as rational at the time. The most pertinent was my immediate benefit. Errand boys get tips, and boy did I get tipped. The tips were not like the ones you might typically imagine, five dollars here, eight dollars there, and if someone is feeling mighty generous even fifteen dollars. Instead I received a portion of the delivery for my trouble and my silence. The products varied in type and potency, but my unwavering willingness to consume them all long before the previous meals had had the time to run their course and leave me was how I sustained myself for days.
Early Thursday morning Michael informed me that I was making
my last delivery for the night; he had plans for me when the sun broke and I
needed to cool down for a while. It was
about
“Get out.”
“I can’t believe you’re actually going to make me wait in here, but you’re gonna take Charlene!”
“GET OUT!”
Cindy obeyed, but not without slamming the car door and flinging him the bird first. I just giggled a little and crawled into the front seat. Without any information at all I knew deal was about to go down, but with who and for what I had no idea.
“I just don’t want her to be involved as my girl, you know . . . just in case.”
“That is between the two of you,” I replied smugly.
“Just follow me, stay close and stay quite.”
“Fine, but I could do that better if I knew what to expect before it goes down.”
“We’re about to buy a briefcase full of LSD from some suits.”
I felt my stomach tighten and my breath catch. “Well, what exactly am I here for Michael. I mean this is a little out of my league don’t you think. Some backup for yourself is what I would have had in mind, not me.”
“You are my backup; these are high rollers not fools. I can’t intimidate them so I’d rather sedate them.”
“Right, well I’m not exactly the stereo type for that role either, I forgot my mini skirt and halter top at the department store last Christmas.”
We both laughed methodically as he put the car into drive and we inched our way to the parking garage’s entrance.
“You got two dollars, all I got is hundreds.”
I eyeballed him as I dug two crumpled dollars from my pocket as if those were my last two dollars, or that it was hurting me in some way to donate to his cause. He eased them from my hand pretending to be afraid I might bite a finger clean off if he made any sudden movements. We procured our ticket and moved smoothly round and round the spiraling entrance, he knew just where to go, the very top. I started to squirm a little when I noticed there was only one other car on the roof. Michael’s stern eyes turned on me in an instant as if he could hear me thinking about freaking out.
“Don’t lose your spine right now, I need you to get out, walk and carry the briefcase when it is handed to you. Besides that don’t make a move behind me and certainly don’t step in front of me. Don’t speak either, not to me or anyone else unless you are directly addressed or they ask you something. Don’t be a smart ass just answer simply.”
“Okay, okay, it would have been nice if you would have thrown all this at me before we drove up on the goons.”
And goons they were. The Bentley was completely black, even the windows. I certainly could not see in and it was questionable if anyone could see out. We parked facing their car and Michael turned to me one last time.
“You got this, right Charlene?”
I must have been in a daze or maybe the stress was on him now as well, but I definitely did not answer fast enough. He gave me a good slap in the back of the head.
“Hey, you with me on this or what, I need you to be with me, you can’t wait in the car.”
“Don’t slap me ass.”
“I know, I’ll make it up later just play it right in front of them, now you got this?”
“Of course I got this ya ass whole, they call me Momma!”
Michael reached behind his seat and grabbed the evergreen duffle bag I had been using as a pillow on the ride down. I began to pay attention to my breathing, which was far too erratic to carry me through the encounter. I focused and retained a smooth ‘in through the nose out through the mouth’ pattern. My last deep breath came as I opened the car door and leaned out into the evening sun. It was piercing; I could feel the sting through my black tank top. My trusty blue blockers kept my face relaxed and put the perfect hue on the situation. I followed Michael to the mysterious Bentley, I kept my distance not daring to be caught peering too curiously into the interior of the vehicle. The automatic window hummed as it lowered. A balding, gray haired man wearing Armani in seemingly perfect health and condition simply turned his head towards us, his eyes hiding behind his intolerably black sunglasses, “You okay?” he said. Michael shot a glance in my direction and convincingly answered, “We’re okay, are you okay?” The juvenile greeting almost irritated me.
The driver exited the car, closed the door and leaned against the car with his hands in fists on the roof, facing us in those same blackened glasses. I almost smiled when I realized what he was wearing, a black chauffeur’s suit and the little driving hat, gloves and all; this was unbelievable, something out of a movie not real life, not my life.
I recovered when the suit in the back opened his door. Michael took two steps back so I in turn took my two. He was holding a black brief case which he sat on the trunk. He found the combination and raised the lid. There were so many sheets of LSD neatly packed in the lid’s pocket that my jaw almost dropped. I actually felt a little nauseous when I finally unlocked my eyes from the sheets and moved them to the rest of the contents of the briefcase. It was full of vials of liquid LSD. I had seen a vial of LSD and some sheets, but nothing like this. Michael stepped up beside him and placed the duffle bag on the trunk. He simple stepped back and let the suit open it. He did and nodded in approval, closed his briefcase and held it out in my direction. I almost faltered on the thought that this was some weird kind of setup, and that I was being used as a scape goat, I ignorantly swallowed it down and took the briefcase. We turned and walked to the car and the suit merely grunted.
When we picked up Cindy at Wendy’s she was content as usual, eating a frosty. I smiled and wrapped my arms around her; she laughed and hugged me back.
“It’s easier to laugh about this shit when you are here,” she said.
“I know sweetie, I understand now.”
“Why won’t you come out here to live with me, this is perfect for you . . . and me.”
“This isn’t me and I can’t always protect you from your decisions, besides, I’m on vacation, ha-ha! What’s next Michael?”
Contributor
Charlene Vanatter
is the pseudonym for a writer-in-training who has been published by the
National Poet Society. She has also been
recognized by Who’s Who Among American High School and College Students. Vanatter regularly contributes letters to the
editor for the