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“Out back,” she sighs.
“Okay, thanks,” I say, walking to the door that reads Employees Only. Going along the corridor with glass walls, I watch as the big brushes whirl soap over a car that is being carried along the tracks of the automatic wash system. Heading out the back door, I spot Jess, who is a tall, thin guy with fair skin, his dark straight hair is windblown and messy, but it suits him. He has black-rimmed glasses that make him look like he belongs behind a computer rather than a shammy cloth. He looks up and sees me coming, a big smile spreads across his face as he stands up.
“Hey, wow, that's a pretty car,” I say, looking at the red BMW he is drying. “Yep, rich fuckers get all the good shit.” He laughs and then continues, “You parked out front?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, well, I'll walk with you back out there. I need a break anyway.”
“You look nice today,” he says as we walk back inside, heading to the front door.
“Thanks, Jess,” I respond politely.
Going back into the office, the secretary doesn't acknowledge us, she is still filing her nails and popping her gum.
“I'll be right back, Kelsey,” Jess informs as we walk past her.
“Uh huh,” she mutters, not taking her eyes off her nails. Jess shakes his head, and we head to my car.
“That has to be the dumbest bitch God ever put breath in,” he says laughing.
“You better check on her, the way she is filing those nails, she’s gonna hit skin soon...she knows to stop if she sees blood, right?” I ask, looking over my shoulder back toward the office.
“Fuck, who knows,” he answers. We get in the van, and I get out the zip of The Fonz, named that ’cause the only sound you can make after smoking it is “Aayyy.” Handing it to him he opens it and takes a whiff.
“Damn, that smells good, you got the best shit,” he sings.
“Well, thank you, Jess,” I reply, taking a little bow.
“Oh, I'm not Jess anymore.... I'm Spider-Man,” he says, puffing his chest out.
“Spider-Man, why?” I ask, confused.
“’Cause I'm in love with Mary Jane,” he replies, reaching in his pocket and handing me three hundred and fifty dollars in cash. My nose wrinkles at his horrible joke.
“Oh God, that was terrible. Any more jokes like that and you’re gonna have to find a new dealer.” I laugh.
“No way you’re getting rid of me, baby,” he playfully says, giving me a peck on the cheek before getting out of the van with a wave. I put the money in the gym bag and go to back out and glance over to see a red 1979 Grand Prix, with three guys in it. I can't really make out what they look like but when I make eye contact with them, they all look away quickly and in different directions.
“Are they watching me?” Fuck. I back out and head over to the campus. When I get to the mathematics building, I text Sam, letting him know I am here. About five minutes pass before I see him hurrying down the sidewalk. His sandy blond hair is cut short, he looks at the ground when he walks, just glances up every now and then to see everything in front of him. He spots me on one of the rare glances and his head goes right back down, heading toward me. He's wearing jeans, and a T-shirt with the periodic table imprinted on it. His backpack hangs low on his back, no doubt overstuffed with books. I love Sam, he totally screams nerd.
“Hey,” he says, getting in the van.
“Hey, Sam, how’s college going?” I ask, smiling.
“Great, when you coming back?”
“Don't know.” I shrug.
He shakes his head. “Your too damn smart to waste your life doing this, C,” he scolds.
“Well, if I wasn’t doing this then you would still be buying that ditch weed you used to smoke,” I point out before handing him a half ounce of Giggle, named that because when you smoke it, even watching a train wreck will make you laugh. He hands me one hundred and ninety dollars in cash. “You can still come back to school and sell.” His words hit home. I do miss school.
“I'll think about it, Sam,” I hesitantly reply, looking out the window at the math building. I spent a lot of time at this place back before my mom got sick. But I quit college after she did to take care of her, and then I started doing this and just never went back.
“You thought about that Vegas thing I talked to you about?” Sam asks, drawing my attention back to him.
“Yeah, I'm not ready to go to jail for counting cards, Sam.” My voice is sarcastic.
