Sleeping At The Scene Of The Crime

Randall pushed the dirty bottom floor window up and slowly slid through landing on his back. He knew he was trespassing but since his crack habit kept him broke, he was forced to stay where he could. Serving in Special Forces, he discharged from the Army spending twenty-three years in the way of danger as a sniper. He started drinking heavily and smoking crack cocaine because of the nightmares from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Four years later, he left his wife after coming back home from work to find her in the arms of her lover. He thought about killing them and himself, but decided it wasn’t worth it.

The old fire station sat right behind the Marion police department. It was Randall’s favorite spot because it gave him a perfect view of the police department. The fire station also had a few old canvas cots he slept on. On the nights he stayed in the fire station; he could see everyone they brought into the police department.

Tonight, while sitting in the brick building looking out the window into the dark night at the rain, he put the last small ivory colored rock on the end of the glass pipe. The dim room momentarily brightened as the match ignited. Quickly, he brought the red flame to the end of the crack pipe. The crack popped and hissed as it melted onto the screen, rapidly changing from a solid, then a liquid and lastly smoke. The air became saturated by the pungent smell, something like sweaty feet and burnt baby power. Drawing the thick smoke into his lungs, he held his breathe. Slowly, he released a semitransparent cloud of smoke and felt the effects of the cocaine come over him. Suddenly, a kaleidoscope of bright blue lights from a police car flashed in the window.

‘Shit, where they come from?’

Randall quickly slid down so he wouldn’t be noticed. The bright lights danced along illuminating the blackness of the room threatening to expose him. He thought of slipping out of the building, but the appeal to watch kept him in place. Unseen, he watch the action outside the window as four Ford Crown Victoria cruisers pulled to the back of the red brick police building. They were followed by a large U-Haul truck. Because this small town police department didn’t have an evidence room large enough to hold a shipment this big, the chief decided to use the old fire station next door as temporary storage. He figured since no one in town knew of the drug bust, it would be safe until morning.

Unseen, Randall looked out the damp window as the deputies pulled the U-Haul truck up to the fire station bay door. The wheels screeched to a halt. Randall watched as the heavy, obviously arrogant officer and his partner a thin younger selfless man unloaded some bales. He could see the strain in the younger officer’s arms as he labored to show it to his bigger and stronger counterpart.

‘Man, that’s a lot of weed, even for these parts; especially for these parts.’

‘Yeah, a lot of weed heads gonna be mad when we burn this stuff up.’

The dim light from the rear door swung open and then closed. One of the officers pulled it into the bay of the fire station.

Because he was up on the second floor, Randall couldn’t see what they were doing so he carefully pushed the window up to hear what they were saying. As they pulled the truck into the bay, Randall overheard the officers loudly discussing the drug bust and how excited the chief was about making a huge dent in the drug traffic. Randall could not believe it as he continued to listen.

That’s a lot of weed they just put inside here.

He slowly sat back against the wall by the window. The euphoric high from the hit of crack rapidly vanished and his high crashed down. Looking at the pipe and laying it in the palm of his hand, he used a piece of wire to push the brillo screen further up the pipe; then from the other end to push it back down.

Man, I wish they would hurry up and leave so I can take another hit.

Using the light coming through the window, he carefully scraped the last crumbs from the old business card into the open pipe and impatiently waited. Finally, the large bay doors of the fire station slammed shut and the police cruisers sped away. He struck the match and savored the last hit.

Moments later, his body craved another hit. Randall eased out of the first floor window of the fire station around ten thirty that night. He knew Marion and knew where the crack addicts hung out. On his bicycle, he traveled to the dark lonely alley behind the C-Store off Thurman and Vine but no one was there. Randall traveled all over the quiet small town; nevertheless, he couldn’t find anyone willing to share a hit.

Reluctantly, he used his last two dollars and eighty-five cents, bought him a beer and returned to the fire station. Finishing the beer, Randall decided to try to find a hit again. This time instead of climbing out the window, he chose to go downstairs and out the backdoor. As he slowly inched down the cold chrome fire pole, he wondered if they left someone inside the building to watch the truck. Moving as quiet as a mouse, Randall walked through the building toward the backdoor. As he entered the fire truck bay, the strong aroma of the high-grade marijuana drifted into his nostrils. It reminded him of the smell of pine trees.

Man that’s some strong smelling weed. I wonder if it’s as good as it smells.

Slowly walking toward the long U-Haul, Randall looked around the dimly lit room to see if any police was there. There was no one; he was alone. Walking toward the rear of the truck, he took the chrome handle and pulled up. Surprisingly, the rear hatch came open immediately revealing the precious illegal cargo. Placing his hands over his mouth in excitement, he momentarily held his breath as he slowly took in his discovery.

So this is what bales of weed look like.

He rubbed his hands over one of the oblong shaped bales. Wrapped in the gray cellophane, they looked just like the little small pillows of explosives he used to work with in the service.

I wonder if it is any good.

Taking one of the bales of weed off the truck, Randall closed the door and retreated to his hiding spot. Fighting to open the tightly wrapped package, he took a few buds out to smoke. He carefully broke the weed down and stuffed some in his pipe. However, because he was using a crack pipe, the weed would not smoke right.

He needed a high; Randall resourcefully retrieved an empty coke can out of the trash and used it to smoke the weed. He indented the center of the can and poked a few tightly grouped holes in it. After placing some of the weed inside the dent of the can, he lit the weed and sucked the smoke out of the open end. Within a few puffs, he was high.

Only moments after smoking just a little of the high-grade weed, he became almost comatose from the effects. Nevertheless, this was not fulfilling the need that his crack addicted body screamed for; but he had an ideal.

Man, I bet I can sell most of this weed before the night is over and make me a bunch of money. There’s a lot of weed in that truck. If I take a few of them, old Chief will never know.

He quickly returned downstairs and retrieved twenty more bales of marijuana. Retrieving his backpack, he took his few clothes out and put them inside an old paper bag. After stuffing the empty backpack with the marijuana, Randall slowly walked with his bicycle to the Hill carrying the two hundred pound back pack.

Pickens Hill, one of the popular meeting spots in the small town, sat on top of the highest elevation in Perry County, a few miles southwest of the police station. In Marion, if you wanted something to drink after the only liquor store closed or something to smoke, like weed or crack, you went to the Hill. Fifteen minutes later, Randall walked inside Bobbie Evans’ trailer behind the BBQ Shack Restaurant. She knew who the weed smokers were in the neighborhood. Most of them hung out under the tree across the street from Shorty’s Corner Store.

Bobbie Hogan and Randall graduated from Marion Westside High school in 1976 and remained close friends over the years. She married Robert Evans after high school but after fifteen years, they divorced. Both of the children from the marriage were grown and on their own, so she lived by herself.

Carefully, he opened the barely used bale and emptied the contents on the table.

‘Damn, Randall that is a lot of weed. Where you get that much weed from?’

‘I can’t tell you that right now. I just need your help to get rid of it.’

The middle aged woman excitedly continued to comment about the mounds of potential cash Randall poured on the table. As he picked through, cut then weighed the marijuana buds, she laid the plastic sandwich bags and placed the kitchen scale on the glass table. Randall asked her where she thought the best place was to sell the weed.

‘I know the perfect spot for you to sit up and sell from tonight. We can go to Snake Creek and sell outside the club.’

‘That sounds good, Bobbie but how are we going to get way out in the country to Snake Creek. It’s not like I can ride my bike twenty six miles out there with you sitting on the handle bars.’

Randall laughed and continued to package the weed. He decided that it would be easier to sell small amounts, so he made a lot of twenty dollar and ten dollar bags.

‘May I have something to drink?’

When he finished using up all the sandwich bags, he counted and separated his stash.

‘I wish you had more bags than this. Well, at least I got …’

He stopped to count the bags.

‘Twenty-five dime bags and forty double dime bags; if I sell out that’ll be over a thousand dollars.’

He sat back and imagined the money in his hands.

‘So, how’re we getting there, Bobbie?’

He asked again to be sarcastic because he knew that she was just saying something, trying to give him some ideas. Bobbie returned with two ice-cold twelve ounce Milwaukee Best beers from the refrigerator; place one on the glass table in front of Randall.

‘Let’s walk over to the fire pit and see who comes by.’

Grabbing her cell phone and her purse, she continued to talk.

‘I can make some calls and see who wants to buy. I know with the weekend coming everybody’s gonna be looking.’

Randall stuffed the bags inside a gym bag he borrowed from Bobbie; then stored his belongings and the backpack in the bedroom closet where he sometimes crashed when he was on that side of town.

By this time, it stopped raining and a bright white half moon peeked from behind the few remaining dark storm clouds in the night sky. Part of the traditions of this small rural town was the almost nightly meeting or gathering around the fire pit by the big oak tree.

The pit was an old cinder block four foot by four foot trash pit. Years ago, someone had taken the time to block it in with fire bricks. Later someone added the chimney and the heavy cast iron cooking grates. In the summer, people from all parts of town would gather to barbecue, drink and talk. In the winter, they did the same except the fire from the pit heated the people as well as cooked the meats.

Five minutes after leaving Bobbie’s trailer, Randall arrived at the fire pit. However, it was still early, so no one was there. Finding some old milk crates under the tree, Randall took a seat and waited patiently for the neighborhood to come to life.

Impatiently, Bobbie decided to walk across the street to the store to see if any potential customer were around. As usual on every game night, the store was crowded with people watching the basketball game on the television set. She slowly walked around the stuffed store searching for someone she knew that smoked weed. After a while, she spotted Richard leaning against the upright drink cooler. After talking with him and some other people in the store, she came back to the fire pit with three sales.

‘So what you go?’

Standing six feet ten inches, Richard Moore towered over the rest of the men.

‘Bobbie said you got some fire ass weed.’

The rest of the people that was with him in the store followed him across the street and gathered around the pit. After smoking only a third of a fat Swisher blunt with them, Randall made three twenty dollar sales.

Happy because he had made some money from the weed, Randall decided to try to find some crack to buy. However, the word was quickly spreading in the small town that Randall had some fire weed. Before he could leave, he made four more sales. Ten minutes later, he made twelve. Later that night, Jackson Walker, one of the local crack dealers parked his lime green 1963 Ford LTD under the tree and blasted his music.

Randall smoked the rest of the blunt with him and sold fifty dollars worth on the spot. After some of his friends and family noticed Jackson’s car parked under the tree, a large crowd gathered around the Ford and a full fledge party broke out. By three o’clock, the next morning, Randall sold all sixty-five baggies.

Losing the house he and his wife bought because of his divorce and bad habits, Randall, soon, started neglecting his personal hygiene and health. He slowly opened his tired eyes and rubbed his hands through his hair. Last night was a long night; he sold all he had bagged and made a lot of money. He and Bobbie spent some of the money on beer, alcohol and food but he still had most of it left. That night, Randall forgot about buying any crack because he was making so much money.

Slowly, he dragged his tired body across the carpeted floor of the old doublewide trailer. Seconds later, he entered the opened door of the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror greeted him as he flicked the light switch on the wall. Still hazy from the lack of sleep, he didn’t recognize himself and thought someone else was there. Surprised, he let out a loud scream and a tiny stream of urine down his leg.
Randall bolted out the bathroom into the hallway.

‘Ahhhhhh,’

The loud ear piercing noise woke Bobbie from her sleep. Startled, she jumped out of her bed, grabbed her robe off the chair by the bed and rushed barefooted into the hallway. In the hall, Randall stood with his back pressed against the wall and his head buried in the palm of his hands.

‘What’s wrong with you?’

She tied the belt around the front of the flowery satin robe as he tried to steady his nerves.

‘Randall, you got the Jones bad.’

She knew about his crack habit and thought he was just in need a hit. Speaking gently, she leaned toward him.

‘You want me to call Jackson and get you a hit?’

She reached out and stroked his hair with her fingers.

‘Nah, that’s not it.’

He wiped his bloodshot eyes, and stood up to go back into the bathroom. He was embarrassed that he looked so bad. What was worse, no one told him. They just watched as he wasted away to only a shadow of his former self.

‘I saw my reflection in the mirror and scared myself. Why didn’t you tell me that I looked so bad?’

‘I tried to tell you everyday, Randall. Why do you think I would come and get you from the firehouse? You just wouldn’t listen. But you’ll be alright. With the money you can make from the weed, you can go and get yourself clean. I know you can; I have faith in you.’

She rubbed her hands across his face again. He looked at her, remembering all the times he would spend the night at her house because he had gotten drunk or to high from a night out with the guys. When his wife left, she stood by him. Then he found crack or it found him. He thought the first time he took a hit of crack the high was better than sex; now he was stuck trying to find that same high. Then when he lost the house, she offered to let him move in with her for a while. He refused because his pride wouldn’t let him.

‘Yeah, and stop shocking myself when I look into the mirror.’

They laughed together for a moment. Walking back into the bathroom, he stepped on the scale to check his weight. The dial stopped on one hundred and thirty pounds.

‘Shit, I lost seventy pounds. Damn, I’m skinny and a fucking crack head.’

He stepped off the scale and washed his face in the sink. Leaving the bathroom, he walked to the back bedroom and took twenty dollars from inside the gym bag.

‘Hey, I’m walking up to Shorty’s; do you want anything?’

Bobbie, now in the bathroom inside her bedroom and getting undressed for a shower, answered him.

‘Yeah, bring me two of those breakfast sausage and biscuits and an orange juice.’

Randall stepped out of the trailer into the bright sunlight and strolled down Pickens to the corner store. It was still early in the day, but the heat was stifling. Tiny semi transparent slivers of heat rose from the hot asphalt. A few minutes later, stepping on the small concrete step of the store, he peered at his reflection as he slowly opened the mirrored glass door. His pants looked baggy and the shirt he wore draped over his torso like a sheet.

Damn, I’ve fucked myself up. I look like shit. You got to stop drinking and everything and get back in shape, Randall.

He entered the almost empty store and questioned Jessie Mitchell, the store clerk.

‘Hey, where you keep the sandwich bags,’

Without saying a word, the graying old man pointed to the rear of the store and continued to help the customer at the register. Returning to the counter, Randall laid the sandwich bags and the other stuff he came for on the counter.

‘That’s all you need. You’re moving around early today.’

‘I stayed at Bobbie’s last night. Ahh, give me a pack of ‘Ports and a pack of rolling papers.’

‘She’s a good woman; always trying to help people. I don’t know what she sees in a crack head like you though.’

Jessie turned and retrieved the items and placed them on the counter as Randall put down a bag of chips. Those words stung Randall, but they were true. She was a good woman and he was a crack addict.

‘Man, just give me a lighter. Nobody asked for your opinion anyway.’

‘Don’t get mad at the truth, man. Look at you, you hooked on crack and stuck standing on Stupid Street sucking on a glass dick like a hoe. You let Jackson and those dope pushers take all your money. Shit, you lost your house, wife and your fucking pride chasing behind that shit. Now, I hear last night, they put you to work selling weed for them. Whatever you’ve done got yourself into, son; it’s time to wake the fuck up before you get messed the fuck up.’

Jessie handed Randall the blue plastic lighter. Every time Randall came into the store, he heard the same thing from old man Jessie. He always preached about Randall changing his ways and going to church. This time it hit, home.

Man, I want to quit but really, I don’t know if I can. Shit, it’s like fighting a demon. I’m possessed sometime with the need to get high and it just takes control of me.’

‘That’s easy, man, ain’t nothing to it but to do it. When I lived in Chi Town in the seventies, I used to be hooked like you but I was on smack. Took me almost three years and moving back here to this small town, in spite of the pains from my withdrawal from that junk, I hung in until I was though with it. Been always twenty-five years son, I’m still fighting but I took a control of myself.’

There you go talking crazy again, Jessie. What you mean you took back control?’

I mean just take back control. Remember, you are the captain of your own fate and the master of your soul. Just take control and refuse to use anymore. Get in touch with the maker of your soul, ask for help and take back control of your life. Right now, son, you’re spending out of control and headed towards self-destruction.’

A few minutes before Randall ended his talk with Jessie and left the corner store; Jackson Walker departed from a friend’s house on Bridgeport Drive and ventured west toward the corner of Jackson and Pickens. He needed to get rid of some of the crack he had just cooked and was looking for a sell. Turning onto Pickens, he spotted Randall coming out of the store. Seconds later, Jackson slowed the classic Ford LTD down to a crawl and rolled down the passenger side window and turned down his stereo. ‘

Hey man, you looking,’ he asked.

‘Nah, man, I am alright.’

Randall lied; his body screamed for a hit. He could almost hear it calling to him. Nevertheless, after seeing himself as a crack head and really hearing what Jessie said, he was determined not to use anymore. He continued to walk down Pickens.

‘Well, you got my cell number. When you need, call me first. Say, do you have any of that Purple Kush you had last night.’

Jackson stopped the car in the middle of the street.

Randall stopped and looked at the ground, making lines in the dirt as he slid his foot side to side. It was time for him to make a decision. Will he continue to be a pawn in their game or stand up and be a man? Jackson feed off his habit for years and had his ways of making sure Randall stayed hooked. Every time he got paid Jackson came around with dope or he would send a crack addict to look for him. Because Randall received a retirement check when he was broke Jackson would gladly credit him some until his check arrived. He would spend at least seven hundred dollars every month on the stuff. If he did not have the money, he swapped his pain pill prescription for some crack.

Why am I lying to this punk? I just have to get control of myself again and I can break this habit. I just have to focus and be a man.

Walking to the car, he leaned on the door and peered at the drug dealer.

‘Look, Jackson, I’m going to be straight with you! I’ve decided to quit because I’ve started looking bad, doing bad and I’m just plan tired of it. I mean look at me. I lost everything behind that rock and I look like shit on top of it. That shit’s bad news and I’m through.’

Randall threw his hands up in the air and stepped back from the car. Jackson briefly believed Randall was serious; but he could not afford to lose him.

‘Yeah, you do look bad. I will admit that.’

He laughed because Randall looked just how Jackson wants him to look; like a needy addict-- a dollar sign to a dope dealer.

‘I know you won’t quit though because you need this stuff like a fish needs water.’

Reaching under his seat, he retrieved a clear plastic freezer bag full of tiny plastic packets of crack.

‘Tell you what, since it’s a money thing, trade me a fifty for this.’

Taking three nice size rocks out the large freezer bag, he offered them to Randall.

Badly wanting to accept the offer, Randall instead lied.

‘I sold out last night; I might have some more later on today. I will see if my boy will front me some more first. I can’t trade, though. It got to be cash.’

The two men finished talking and Randall walked to Bobbie’s trailer.

‘I am back.’

He announce after stepping inside and strolling toward the kitchen.

‘Okay, I’m still in the tub.’

Bobbie hollered through the closed bathroom door.

‘Put my sandwiches in the microwave and put the drink in the refrigerator. I’ll be out in a minute.’

Randall put everything up and placed the sandwich bags he bought on the table. Walking to his bedroom, he retrieved the rest of the open bundle, returned to the kitchen and dumped it on the table. When he was packaging the remaining weed, Bobbie came from the bathroom into the kitchen. He lit a cigarette. Randall was not a weed smoker, but Bobbie smoked almost everyday with her girlfriends

‘Hey, what’s Purple Kush?’

‘Oh, that’s some good weed and it cost. I mean it cost like one hundred and sixty dollars an ounce for that stuff. I had a blunt of it when I went to New Orleans last year to visit my daughter. Why?’

Smiling, he looked at her.

‘Oh, nothing; it’s just that’s what I’ve been selling. You know how much money I gave away last night. My dime bags should’ve been twenty and the twenties should’ve been forty or fifty. I won’t make that mistake again.’

This was the first time anyone in Marion had ever smoked Purple Kush; so the marijuana sold like crazy. It took Randall and Bobbie less than three days to sell the rest of the weed from the first ten pound bale.