This Type Of Shit, It Happens Every Day
Darren Subarton

"You don’t have anything to worry about, we always pick up our stuff off this guy. He’s reliable but he’s a little weird, so be on your guard, ok," Marco said.
"What do you mean he’s a little weird? Is there something I should worry about?" I asked, trying to figure out where he was coming from. Marco was always straight with me when I did jobs for him but it seemed there was something he was trying to hide.
"Nothing to worry about, kid, I’m just sayin’ he’s a little weird. If you’re too scared to make the pick up I’ll get somebody else, but we thought we could trust you."
"Hold up, man…You’ve got nothing to worry about, I’ve got no problem doing this at all. It’s only that when you said weird, I was curious about what you meant. I thought maybe this guy had one eye in the middle of his head and was self-conscious about it or something. I never dealt with him before…I’ve never even seen this guy. No cause for alarm, Marco, I just wanna know what I’m gonna be looking at."
"Alright, kid, here’s the rundown…He’s crazy. A sick son of a bitch to be polite about it, but he’s our cheapest supplier right now. He got fucked in the head over in Vietnam from the war and that Agent Orange shit. He’s got these fucked up blisters all over his face and arms. That’s it, kid, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Capice?"
"No sweat," I responded; I couldn’t show him I was nervous.
"That’s it, D, you’ll be back here in half an hour. This’ll work out for everybody. Just don’t mess up, and everybody’ll be happy, kid…everybody’ll be happy."
After explaining what to do, he reinforced that not only was I responsible for the money, but for the drugs as well. He gave me the cash and I was on my way to make the pick up.
The Fatman lived on the fourth floor in a building above a bar with a beer garden in the front. The whole time I was walking along I had that tingly feeling in my stomach and testicles—the tingly feeling of raw nerves. I felt like the cops were setting me up but I’d worked for Marco before and knew he was on the level; I just attributed the paranoia to the pills I’d been using. When I turned the corner onto Atreus De Mycenae Boulevard, I recognized the bar.
In the bar’s garden, jazz was playing loudly, just under the chatter of all the drunken patrons. The multicolored Tiki lights that surrounded the wooden latticing were blinding my eyes. In order for me to get into the building, I had to walk through all of the confusion, and everywhere I looked, every face I saw, every movement…I saw the police waiting to arrest me. I didn’t want to go back to juvenile detention or worse yet prison, so I kept looking for the cops as the pressure in my stomach swelled.
"I have to breath…I have to relax…I’m only picking up a package," I told myself, "Just relax…everything’s going to be over with in ten minutes."
Looking up at the windows on the building, I took a deep breath and made the first step through the crowd. It felt like the cops were going to grab me right before I got to the door. I knew they were waiting, it felt as though they knew what I was thinking. As I got there, someone was leaving, so I pushed my way in and proceeded to climb the steps.
While I was walking, with the music now faintly behind me, I concentrated on the sounds of the building. Television sets and radios were playing, people were talking and laughing in some of the apartments, as creaking noises on the wooden staircase were causing my mind to stray. On the second floor, curry and sautéed onions permeated the hallway as a baby screamed from one of the rooms down the corridor. I was ready for the police, listening for one of their radios to go off at any moment.
I thought the front door opened until I heard keys jingling in a lock and some talking at the end of the hall, realizing that it was only somebody leaving their room. Paranoia is a motherfucker. When I reached the fourth floor I stopped and listened…nothing sounded out of the ordinary so I walked down the hall until I found apartment 413.
"Ten more minutes…only ten more minutes," I kept saying over and over in my head. I hesitated for a moment and knocked on the door.
"What do you want?" a hard voice responded from behind the door.
"I’m a friend of Marco’s, he asked me to come by and drop off some mail from your mom’s house," I replied.
"C’mon in, the door’s open," the voice answered.
I took a deep breath as I reached for the doorknob, turned it and stepped inside. The room smelled like warm semen, cigarettes and funk; the scent of cheap incense was slightly hanging in the air as a requiem. Across the room, sitting in front of a fan by an open window, was the Fatman. His shirt was open, exposing his jailhouse tattoos and blisters as he sat there stinking of body odor. Christ, he was an ugly son of a bitch.
Smirking, he said: "Lock the door behind you and put on all the chains.
You have to be careful, you know…you never know who might be a cop these days. Are you a cop, kid? Why do you look so nervous, is there something you wanna tell me?"
"I’m not’a cop, are you a cop?" I replied.
"No," he answered, running his eyes up and down my body, "How old are
you anyway, kid?"
"Fifteen…What’s it to you?"
"Fifteen years old," he said with an oily gaze, " I’ve never sucked the cock of a fifteen year old before…You wanna show it to me?"
"Hey, fuck you, man…I ain’t no fuckin’ faggot! Look, I’m outta here. When I tell Marco why the deal was off, faggot-ass, you can explain to him why you were acting like a sucker."
"Easy now, shorty, I was only joking around. But even if I was serious, you can’t blame a man for wanting to suck the cock of a fifteen year-old. I was only messin’ around with you, kid, you gotta lighten up a little. I’m just making sure you’re not a cop. Besides, some people like that kind’ a thing. R-e-l-a-x.
"There’s no harm in that is there, I just find you attractive. Come over here
and have a seat next to me," he said, patting the bed with his hand.
"No thanks, I’ll stand right here. Lets get this over with, somebody’s waiting for me downstairs in a car."
"Don’t you lie to me, you little shit, I watched you walk here from the window—now sit down…I don’t do business with someone who ain’t straight with me!" He lowered his voice a little but kept on staring at me. "Now sit here and let’s talk business."
The telephone rang and the Fatman picked it up. I sat down on a chair close to the bed and looked around his cluttered room, noticing three parcels wrapped in brown paper sitting on the floor under his chair. A .45 magnum was resting on a folding aluminum table next to him.
Like most rooming houses, the walls were dirty and in need of a good paint job: the off-white had turned into a tawny-brown. There was a black and white television set playing a Quincy rerun, the volume turned low, in a corner across from his chair. Stacks of empty Chinese food cartons overflowed in the garbage can, and a hot-plate with salt and peppershakers sat on another folding aluminum table with quite a few crumbs.
"No wonder this place stinks so bad," I thought to myself. I watched a roach run across the cracked ceiling; looking at the entire picture a little closer I shuttered with another realization: Fuck the police getting me…this guy’s a goddamn psycho.
I was really getting scared. This abomination of a human being was a twisted dirty-old pedophile who seemed as if he was going to unravel any moment now. Staring at me the whole time he spoke on the telephone, his sneaky, perverse stare made me nauseous just imagining what was going through his mind. Those distant eyes were making me fear for my life.
I felt like getting up and running out of that place, something just didn’t seem right. Marco said that this would be a simple in and out job…pick up the drugs and leave. What did he get me mixed up with? I have to chill out, relax…breath…breath…relax…I’ll be outta here in five minutes.
He hung up the phone and turned his full attention back to me: "Ok, kid, how much are you gonna pick up?"
"He wants three pounds," I said.
He pulled an electronic scale out from under his bed and placed one of the parcels on it. "Three pounds and two ounces…the two ounces is just packaging weight. Do you have the twenty-one hundred dollars, boy?"
"Marco gave me eighteen hundred dollars, jack, that’s how much it costs…I’ve already been instructed."
"It’s twenty-one hundred dollars, boy, and you better have it all—Don’t you try to jerk me around…I don’t have time for silly games."
"Marco gave me eighteen hundred…that’s what he pays," I said, looking sternly at him.
"Look, you little shit, if you don’t have all of it we can work something out. Maybe you can suck me off for the rest of it?" he said manipulatively.
"Bullshit, I’m not sucking anybody’s dick, faggot! Don’t even try’n scam on me…Marco pays six hundred a pound—I KNOW THIS! If you wanna try’n get over, you’re tryin’ to get over on Marco. You wanna be a big man, you tell him about your price change and we’ll see what he has to say about it…boy!" I said, hoping he wouldn’t call my machismo.
"Ok, punk, I’ll give it to you for eighteen hundred dollars, but you still owe me a favor," the Fatman said.
We exchanged packages: I checked the weed and he counted out the money. I forgot about the police…I forgot about going to jail…I forgot about Marco…I forgot about everything. I just wanted to get the hell out of here. I turned around and headed for the door.
"Where do you think you’re goin’, boy? You still got something to do with that filthy little fifteen year-old mouth, punk," he rambled. I ignored him, still trying to unlock the three other chains with haste.
"YOU BETTER GET OVER HERE, BOY…I have a gun sitting next to me, and ahh…I think you should start taking your clothes off. We’ll see who’s the faggot, you dirty little fuckin’ hole. I can shoot you dead, you little piece of shit, and nobody’ll care. Who really gives a shit about some little drug runner? You’re gonna be used-up fish in a couple'a years anyway. Now take off your goddamn clothes… I WILL KILL YOU if you try to step one foot out that door, boy!"
I felt chills running up and back down my spine like an electronic wave. All the hairs on my neck stood straight up. I unlocked the last lock and started to walk through the door without looking back. I heard him still talking and laughing to himself like a lunatic as I closed the door behind me.
Out in the hallway I took a deep breath and made a brisk walk towards the stairs with the brown paper parcel under my arm. My heart was pounding as I descended the steps and hallway passages. Pounding as I walked past the yelling and fighting in some of the rooms. Pounding as I walked past the loud television sets, pounding as I walked past the screaming baby’s room…past the second floor and the rancid smell of curry. Pounding as I reached the front door that led to the beer garden; past the music, past the laughter, past the bright Tiki lights, past the crowd and onto the boulevard.
I walked up to Desmoulins Street and made a right turn—No police…everything was normal again. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a cigarette, lit it—inhaled, and wiped the sweat off my brow.
Walking towards Marco’s apartment I became calmer, and getting there, I felt in control once again. I pushed the buzzer on the metal panel next to the front door and he responded: "Who is it?"
"It’s D," I said.
The door buzzed and I pushed it forward, walking into the hallway while he stood there watching me. Going inside, I handed him the brown paper package and he locked the door behind us. He put the bag on an electric scale sitting on a glass coffee table, letting the brown paper drop carelessly on the couch.
"Any problems? I told you that guy was a little weird, huh," Marco asked.
"No problems, none at all…but he sure was a spooky motherfucker."
Marco laughed, pulled out a wad of cash and began peeling off eighty dollars from the knot: "Here you go, kid…you wanna watch a package for me tonight?"
"How much?"
"Forty bucks."
"Yeah, cool. When’re you gonna pick it up?" I asked, expecting his singsong dance that always followed.
"Tomorrow around six thirty. You know the routine…You’ll be responsible for whatever’s inside the package and to whom it belongs to. Don’t open it, and if anything goes wrong, you don’t know nothin’ about it. Capice?"
"Capice. I’ll see you tomorrow around six-thirty," I said, stuffing the money into my pocket.
Taking a cab home, I stopped at a deli then went up to my room to squirrel the package. Lifting the carpet and plank off the closet floor, I slid the package inside and closed everything when I was done.
Turning on my stereo, I sat in my chair that was facing the southeast window and opened my bag from the deli. I looked out into the warehouse-ridden jungle as I ate my sandwich…the eighty dollars covered my rent for the month.

Darren Subarton lives in Brooklyn, NY, with his Congo African Grey parrot, Simone, slinging do-dirty noir fiction and breaking hearts internationally with his poetry. His poems and short stories have been showcased in such magazines as Hardboiled, Plots With Guns, Blue Murder Magazine, Aura Literary Arts Review, Fat Tuesday, New York Hangover, Global Tapestry Journal (UK), Futures, and 12 Gauge Review. Currently he writes an interview column for Futures Magazine, and does various freelance assignments in the Internet technology market. He can be reached for questions or comments at sirdarren@hotmail.com <mailto:sirdarren@hotmail.com>