Lunadestrine (Part 1)

Brendan hunched deeper inside the puffer jacket as the wind serrated his body like dessiccated parsley. He looked up at the waning day. The sky was a murky grey, blanketed by cloud cover. That was a plus, might buy him some time. He pressed the doorbell again, still heard nothing, blew on his frozen digits and stuffed them back into their pockets.

His panicked mind was yelling at him to flee, to run somewhere else, to find another disreputable source while he still had the time. How could he have been so arrogant to leave it this late? He was stupid. He was just a stupid kid like Monica said and now he was paying for it. He turned indecisively, still not sure of his will to cut and run but tipping that way further by the second.

From within the bowels of the apartment he heard a muffled acknowledgement and the slow tramp of footfalls down a corridor.

The door opened and Jez appeared from the half-gloom, eyes red and deep-set against his flat, sallow face. “Bro, I heard you the first time. You’re gonna wake my mum. Fuck.” He turned, and Brendan followed him into the dark narrow hallway.

They walked into the living room. The only light was the glow of a flatscreen TV with the word “PAUSE” emblazoned on it in garish neon green. Without further acknowledgement, Jez climbed into a recliner, picked up the PS5 controller and leaned back. The screen burst into life, as a muscled hand reloaded and cocked a large black rifle. Brendan picked his way across the detritus on the floor: Cheetos packets, the occasional drained McDonald’s cup and a series of raunchy teen slasher DVD cases, many open and missing their eponymous disk. He eventually found his way and sat on the gritty chenille loveseat.

They both said nothing for twenty-four seconds.

Then Jez said, “So? Fuck you calling at 6 pm for?”

Brendan was tempted to say, “You know why,” because Jez did but he needed to keep the guy onside.

“I need some more lunadestrin,” he mumbled .

“For real?” Jez asked, his face twisting into a poor duplication of a smile. His eyes did not leave the TV upon which the military cypher on the screen was dispatching gas-masked terrorist, “You think I have ‘em this time of month? Good luck, dude.”

“No, but you do,” Brendan said calmly. He hated this game. “I know you have them. You told me you had them two days ago.”

“Yeah, nah, but that was two days ago, bruh.” The eyes flicked across the screen as his fingers danced over the controls. Reload, shoot, pistol whip, reload, shoot. “I didn’t say I still had them. Lot can happen in two days. Connects dry up. People get thirsty. You know…” he trailed off.

“C’mon Jez,” Brendan said involuntarily letting a note of irritation into his voice. “You know I need them. You told me you’d have them. I can’t get out of the city in time and I can’t afford for my place to get wrecked. My landlord would boot me like that.” Brendan looked down and realised his fists were clenched so hard they were white. He eyed the long brown strands on his forearms and forced himself to relax.

The cavalcade of violence on the screen ceased as the “PAUSE” returned. Jez leaned back in the recliner and turned his head towards his guest. “You still didn’t pay me from last time. I can’t go giving out free samples, man, even to a friend.”

The last word was a fiction on the same level as Jez being an actual counterterrorist operative.

“Please, Jeremy. I told you I’d pay you on Friday when my paycheck comes in. I said I would and I will. I’ve never not paid before. It’s just that I’ve let it run a little too late this time and I didn’t … think.” He let out a long sigh that he hope conveyed the right ratio of tiredness and humility. “Just … help me out man, please. Just help me out. Literally begging you.”

The dealer blew a contemplative raspberry that Brendan assumed – hoped – represented acquiescence.

“Mmm,” he said finally, “Ok, bro,” he said. “Ok, I’ll give you your shit. Buuuut you gotta do something for me, yeah?”

Relief flooded Brendan’s body like a burst dam. “Absolutely, mate. You name it.”

As though it was a magnet, Jez’s eyes returned to the game.

“Uhhh, ok, so old mate, round the corner in 2B Jameson St. He’s, uh, gotta pretty long tab, eh? Like long and gettin’ longer. Similar situation to you but, like, three months down the road, right? I’ve been asking him for the cash for fucking ages but he’s, like, always busy or he’s out or he just has to pop out and get the cash or some shit. You know how it is. ‘S one of those things, it’s just…” the eyes swiveled to him again, the brilliant green of Jez’s irises clashing with the overtaxed capillaries, “the way it is, huh?”

Another moment of silence.

“You want me to collect on a debt.”

“Aw, see bro, you got such a good a good way with words. Real, like, concise, eh?”

To be continued in part 2…