Midnight Eclipse, a Work in Progress

Heya, I’ve been looking around in old files and found this old work from high school. It’s not up to my current grammatical standards after some polishing in college, but I wanna know what you guys think, and whether it’s worth continuing. For the upcoming plot, read below; though, be warned, I’d rather a few say what they think of the story thus far without knowing what is upcoming.

Midnight Eclipse Plot

A boy, trapped in the drug dealing of his local community has lost all he owns. He fights forward by forcibly joining the business to get by. As his shipments grow further and further, he must trade his trusty skateboard for an old junk car, eventually to a sports car that catches his eye; a Midnight Black Mitsubishi Eclipse GT trim. He uses the car to race shipments across the US until a rush delivery from an anonymous clientele causes him to rush halfway across the US in only a few hours. Impressed with his top-notch driving, he is invited to a desert drag race. The winners purse is enough to get him out of the business he so hates, and allow him to make an honest living, but he must risk all he’s earned to pay up the entry fee. He musters forth all of his skills, but to win the race is nowhere near the task of driver or machine to survive the torturous desert.

That’s the general form, though I have plenty of plot twists to come.[/details]

Anyways, onward with the first two chapters I have. I haven’t revised it since I opened it, though I think it is coherent and pleasurably readable.

Any thoughts or comments are welcome.

And without further ado…

Also, I am sorry that the indentations don’t exist. I may fix this if it is a serious problem =/

One: Humble Beginnings
The day it all began wasn't much of a day out of the ordinary. Same old hot summer skies of Georgia. Same back seat in the '82 Oldsmobile Cutlass, mostly thanks to my mom's obsession that I be 13 before I sat in the passenger's side. It wasn't a memorable day in any respect, I still had forgotten the date. 
But I would never forget the day.
I don't remember what exactly I was doing until it had happened, I remember always going shopping, banking, driving up the miles in that Oldsmobile. It wasn't that I disliked it, but thanks to a worrywart of a mother, I could never stay at home alone during the summer. Dad was never around, he'd always be out working the typical nine-to-five job, while I was trapped in the cobalt-blue prison of an Oldsmobile. 
I never knew why we had such a typical car. Dad was smoothly driving his hot-off-the-line '01 BMW E81 in a fine jet black. At the thought of that, I suddenly withdrew my thought of a lack of an atypical car.
I had only gotten into cars as a sort of social thing to start with. All of the guys around me always seemed to talk about their father's trucks, and always seemed proficient in the mechanics behind them. Though the the local accent and dialect quite bothered me.
"'Ey, Adam! I bet you done heard about my daddy's new four-wheeler!" Was always a phrase that stuck in my mind.
"Yea', Josh! I 'eard 'bout it. I 'eard it was a good one, too! Yamaha 500 cc 4x4?" said another one of my peers.
It had been my first day in school. Or, rather, the elementary school in my newfound southern home. I had to sate my curiosity.
"What's a 4x4... or a 500 cc?"
The entire class was practically ringing in harmonic laughter.
"Where have you spent your life? Stuck in a deer stand?"
"A wha...?"
Another ring of laughter.
"Ne'er been on a four-wheeler?"
"Ridden in a truck? Like a Ford, if 'dem things even exist from wherever you came from?"
"We have a Ford!"
"What model?
"What kind is it?" the kid had cut in with a tone that would be reserved for an idiot. Of course, the new kid is the one to be the idiot. I still stared blankly.
"Like a F-one-fitee?"
"Oh... I think it's call a Greh-nay-duh?"
"Gre-nah-duh?" the kid cut back.
"Yeah, that!"
"Boy... you're one sorry city slicker."
And with that the kid had turned on me talking to his friend about all things motorized. I wanted desperately to learn so I could fit it... after that incident, I think I had been isolated from everyone but the teacher. She knew I had potential. I at least paid attention, and chewed with my mouth closed at lunch. It seemed that only those two factors were necessary to consider me civilized.
I didn't really belong here, but my father had gotten a job at a local paper mill, big business for such a small town. The pay seemed to suit him, and being in management, he could work at any big business he had wanted. He just had to have chosen here of all places.
Soon after school, I asked him if he could teach me about cars.
"Dad, all the kids at school know all about cars. The teacher doesn't teach about them, and I wanna fit in... Please, can you teach me?"
"Son, unfortunately, I can't. I probably know less about them than you do, to be honest." My heart had been sunken at this point.
"However," he continued, "The Oldsmobile needs an oil change, and I've met just the mechanic who knows his trade, and he knows it well." My heart had risen again. It had risen so much so, that it was quite at the point of excitement.
"Can we go see him? Please, please, please, please, pleeeeaaase?!" I had responded in the common childish fashion.
"You're in luck, son. I was about to go leave to see him."
"Yessss!" I bellowed at the top of my lungs, hold the s in the pattern you might hear if you were being shushed in a library.
I could barely stand the ride there... excitement surged through me. Had I not been fastened by a seat belt, I think I might have broken a window or two.
Josh Galvin was the mechanic's name. I would never forget that name. I remember back when we still had the Oldsmobile and an '81 Ford Granada. The guy would always let his customers watch his work to make sure they were pleased with his work. And I always did. He was practically like a free built-in babysitter as I could spend the whole day with him and the car.
Whether it was as normal as an oil change or as complex as replacing a clutch, I'd always watch the guy, ask questions, and he'd always get me an answer. I'd even help him with the more mundane of tasks, like holding the light. Still, it was free help for him, and free knowledge for me. I thought it was a fair trade.
Once the Granada had been traded in for a nice Beemer, well, the guy turned on us a bit. I had learned most maintenance needed, changing the oil, replacing filters, refilling and checking fluids, all of it. He was pretty patriotic and when he saw an import roll into his garage, he refused kindly by claiming that he only had tools in standard measurements, not metric. I knew it was crap, since Ford used German parts in its cars. But I understood. Apparently, a local dealership claimed that domestic cars "drove" the American economy. I hated puns. And the taking advantage of people's ignorance of import taxes. 
The guy still liked me, though. And whenever that Oldsmobile rolled back, he knew he was in good company. I continued following him through all of my elementary years, even through middle school. The teacher was quite right when she saw potential in me, I was learning something quite useful. Despite my training as an apprentice mechanic, it wouldn't be able to fix the car troubles of a day I had yet to forget.
It was a summer day, a hot one, too. I had been out of school, and with my father tied at his job, Mom would take the liberty of watching me by making me run errands with her.
I was always a good shopper, my quick reading skills always let me find a coupon if we had one as I was walking alongside my mother down the countless aisles of the local grocery stores. 
The bank was always a good stop for me, too. I'd get paid a little bit of money for my chores around the house, but nothing major. My mom decided to let me start my own bank account, and I started depositing the five and one dollar bills into my own little savings account. I never had much use for them. Almost everything I had needed or wanted was already provided. 
The post office was a good place to entertain myself in places most people would find extraordinarily boring. Prompted by my mom for things to do while she was busy with the stamp machine or another task, I joined a stamp collector's club. They'd mail me newsletters and magazines of the latest stamps in stock. I had my own little notebook full of little pieces of art.
It seemed that we had always been doing errands. It was as if the tasks were never finished, and there was always something to pick up, something to do, somewhere to go. I had grown used to it, along with my back seat Mom had kept me stuck in. However, I was thankful that fateful day.
It was a day not any different from the normal. Only until I had looked up at the intersection had I already noticed a problem.
We had just been caught by the yellow light, and Mom would never speed up to beat the light. I simply watched as the cars zoomed by from the perpendicular directions of traffic. The light remained at its halting red. The traffic on our left and right was subsiding, yet the light held us at our position.
Suddenly, I saw a car in the distance, a junker, but still a car. It was headed in the left lane towards us. It was traveling at a breakneck pace, especially when nearing a a red light. It quickly closed the gap between it and the stationary light.
Despite the clear light, perhaps the lack of traffic headed oppositely that was stopped in front of the mad-dashing car. In either case, even if a 12-year-old knew one of the most basic rules of the road, surely anyone who could even own a car, no matter how dinged and rusty it was would, right?
But I had been mistaken, a lack of traffic on our right and left until the one critical point had prevented the junker from hell from stopping. It was our Coupe against what appeared to be a force of nature. We were alone.
That is, until the worst possible second. One lone small sedan raced from our left side. The junker was hell-bent on crossing a red light, but the speeding sedan slowed the junker down. I began to see a much worse history of it... Dents, paint scrapes, rust, and other various defects covered the faded grey exterior of the car.
I had no time to examine it as it came into focus. The sedan had also caused the junker to pull towards the sedan. Now it was headed straight at us. The junker was coming closer to us. My heart was racing, yet my eyes closed at I heard the spine-tignling crunch that only metal-on-metal could provide.
The force of impact surged us backwards into the low-riding subcompact behind us. It didn't absorb any impact, it actually was a useful ramp for the junker from hell.
I felt gravity's distortion. I was in air, eyes shut with the force equal to what the junker had hit us with. I heard my mother's shrieks only momentarily, until a second crunch had silenced her.
I was frozen... but unharmed, I thought. Nearly an eternity after the sounds had ceased, I opened my eyes. I wished I hadn't.
In front of me was a collapsed front portion of a chassis, the car had nose-dived into the pavement at an angle. However, the front top portion had practically caved in, and judging from gravity, I was hanging upside-down, only being held in place by a seat belt.
In front of me, an arm was draped from the wreckage. It was stained at points in a common crimson, blood. I shook the arm.
"Mommy? Are you okay?" I instinctively asked as I shook the limp arm vigorously. However, despite my attempts, it fell back limp.
"Mommy! Wake up!" I commanded the limp arm, adding more fervor to my sakes. Yet it would not move on it's own will.
"M-m-m-mommy?" I asked in horrified childish fashion. When she wouldn't wake up, I looked at my blood-stained hand.
Shocked, I did the only thing a kid could do. Cry. I whimpered silently as tears clouded my vision, rolling out of my eyes upwards, and dripping off of my forehead.
"You gotta be okay, Mommy! Who will take care of me and Daddy...?" The childish fashion was practically textbook. At the time, I was going to pieces. 
The door finally was wrenched from it original position, as a fresh air filled the car that didn't seem quiet as still or as stale as the car's air. As the rescue crew cut me free from my seat belt with ease, it had been a harder task to free my shocked grip from my mother's limp hand. Eventually, though, the men's physical strength had surpassed my will to hang on. I remembered being carried out, I remember being placed in a stretcher, but for a day so seemingly unforgettable, I still struggled to remember the rest.

That had been me six years ago. Now that I had lost any innocence provided by childhood, I was in the real world now. I was sadly jobless and in my senior high school year. Of course college was on its way down, but I tended not to think of things, much like a typical teenager.
I had learned a lot. Like for one thing, my mother had been taken by a cocaine-fueled driver who had been on a binge for three days straight. He even tried to somehow pull a not guilty off despite the testimony of myself and the thankful subcompact driver with a new car thanks to insurance. He had taken a life. Even the judge saw his lack of remorse and gave the guy a life sentence. 
I had learned to drive, too. A sitck, even. My dad's faithful E81 had become mine when he switched his faithful european provider to Mercedes. And a fine '07 CLS 550 is always a good bargaining chip to get anyone to switch.
I couldn't believe that anybody would have trouble with the simple clutching and shifting that accompanied a stick shift. Regardless, I was driving a BMW to my school, and feeling pretty high on life about it.
Though the scars of my mother's untimely death haunted both my father and I, we each possessed different coping techniques. I dealt with it as best as I could. Dad took up marijuana to take away the pain of his lost wife. I knew it hit us both equally hard, but whatever friends I could say I had were now zombie slaves to the stuff. Though he had offered the potent plant to me, I kindly had refused.
Though I had a BMW and definitely enough money in the family to pay for a mechanic, I still did my own maintenance. Our old mechanic, Josh, was the only guy I'd ever trust with the precious import. However, it had been an import, and he still frowned on my father's choice. I had just been the lucky son to inherit it. And despite enough to pay for gas to send me to California and back, I really liked to travel by skates. It was a workout, and after learning a couple tricks on the half-pipe at the local skate park, I commanded attention from many even with some moves as simple as fakies or ollies. The park usually held its Friday local talent concerts while I had still been skating after school. When the early crowd or roadies had come in, I was usually commanding attention either by the most basic of tricks or by showing off too much and hurting myself. Either way, it still got me some recognition.
School was a breeze for me. I seldom studied, yet could make straight As in any given class. Whether as logical as math or as creative as visual arts, I was still making As. Most people thought I was some sort of genius, but I shrugged most of their thoughts. I really only had good memory, I thought.
Despite people's preoccupation with my intellect and cunning, I wasn't very well-known on a deeper level. And I preferred it that way. 
With time, people had changed, but not their groupings. I still remember that time long ago when I was criticized on common knowledge of anything automotive. But I knew now. I wasn't much of a grease monkey, nor did I ever really fit in with the group of southerners priding themselves in ATVs, trucks, hunting, drinking, and improper syntax. Especially the improper double, triple, and the rare quadruple negatives. My favorite example was "I ain't not never done nothing."
Though a classmate for several years now, I didn't fit in with most of my graduating class. Most thought they were some sort of friend, but I knew they were all just plain acquaintances, with maybe a fair-weather friend or two mixed in. However, there was never much fair weather in my mind. It's not like much of it mattered, though. I was set to graduate from that accursed high school, and I wouldn't talk to most of, if any, of my graduating class after we would be finished soon.
I considered college, but one drug bust on my house screwed me out of any financial aid. We could afford some of it, but I knew how it would be. Dad would be stoning out of his mind because I wouldn't be around to physically remind him that I have more needs than just pot. And at that point, I'd be left to take out loans for college.
The military wasn't much of an option for me, either. I knew that it wouldn't be worth whatever money it would pay. Sure, I had the discipline tenfold of some of my classmates who had already enlisted. I remember a constant class cutter who refused to wake up any time before the sun. I at least had the decency to arise by 6 in the morning. But I wasn't the one who set him up for that kind of hell. He did it on his own accord. I don't wish him well or ill. It would be by the strength of his own will that he would succeed or fail.
So, here I was, genius, stuck at a high school education thanks to drugs. People used to wonder why I refused any medication while suffering from fevers, allergies, or any of the normal riff-raff of life. Sure, they were medicine, but still drugs. People would rather take a pill than take a nap, which was a sombering thought.
I didn't know where I was going after high school. I was going to have to just get a job, live paycheck to paycheck, and not go anywhere without any sort of higher education. However, I didn't expect anything to get worse. But it did.

Mere days away from graduation, I thought my fill of life changes would consist of graduating, getting a job, maybe moving out, just typical stuff. Yet, after one of my Friday-night skate-and-concert nights, I came home to see quite a surprise, Dad inhaling a fresh lung of marijuana and something I had to take a double take on. A tear?
Dad really stopped crying a few weeks after Mom’s death after he tried marijuana. He attributed it to the drug. I did, too, but in a different fashion. He thought it was just like taking a couple of antidepressants, another one of my least-favorite drugs, but I knew he was just a zombie with almost no emotion left in his core. To see tears in his eyes was quite a shock. I hesitantly approached the smoky room.
“What’s wrong Dad?” I called just outside of his bedroom door. I didn’t want to go in.
“Come here, Son,” he replied in a melancholy tone. I hesitantly obliged. He still was my father, after all.
As I slowly took my last few breaths of fresh air, I walked into the smoke-filled room in the distinctive scent of marijuana that I had hated. I knew that there wasn’t any possible way to remotely be put under its influence for the short time I’d be in the room, but I still didn’t like even being in its presence.
“Okay, I’m here,” I said in the most compassionate tone I could muster, “now what’s wrong?”
“You might want to take a hit before you hear the news. It’ll calm you down.” Dad extended an open hand with his half-smoked joint.
“Dad, you know how I feel about that stuff. I really don’t want anything to do with it.” My voice was trailing.
“You 'ought to. I mean, you seem so down on yourself all of the time. You seem to care so little?”
“Dad! What do you call this?! Hate? Depression? I’m here because you’re looking down on yourself right now, and don’t tell me, otherwise, either. I could spot a tear on your face from a mile away! And if I cared so little, how do you explain my grades?!”
“Yeah, yeah, okay… you got me. Anyways, which news would you like to hear?” he took a long pause as he inhaled and held in another lung full of smoke before finishing “?the bad or the worse?”
“Whichever doesn’t require me to smoke.”
“Well, I’ll tell you straight up, Son. We had a drug test at work. Results just came back. I’m fired from that job now.”
“What?! Now do you see why pot is so bad for you and that you should just quit and go back and get a negative test and?” he silenced me with a waving motion as he was already taking another hit.
“I already know what I’m doing. Selling my assets, our cars, the house, and moving out to live with one of my buddies and finding a job somewhere.”
“Our cars?! How am I supposed to get a job without having a way to get there?! And why do you have to sell mine, too!”
“Prolly just gonna buy a junker and drive the both of us to work. And that Beemer is a fine piece of work. It’ll fetch a pretty penny and a junker won’t cost as much to insure.” Oh, now he wants to have something legal.
“Ugh, I cannot believe this! Wait, yes I can, Mr. Pot-smoker-of-six-years!”
“I’m sorry, son.”
"You should be!"
And with that, I stormed out of the smoke-filled room, and skated off to cool off. He just had to go out and get fired. I checked my wallet. I wondered if I had enough to stay at a hotel until graduation. And I didn’t, but enough for one night. I stayed out that one night and skated around my neighborhood until his Mercedes wasn’t to be seen in the driveway. When it had left, I went back inside and grabbed my faithful backpack and quickly stuffed it with my favorite clothes, and a few other necessities. I grabbed whatever money I could get out of my room, and also stormed my Dad’s room and took the twenties he had laid aside for more pot. In its place, I left my BMW’s key with a note which simply said "This should make up for it."
With money in hand, I rented out my room for two weeks, and estimated I had enough to eat over that period of time. If I didn’t, I still had my debit card, and could take out from my savings I had always been leery of withdrawing from.
The atmosphere of the hotel relaxed me. I could just watch cable, go out and eat, sleep, do whatever. And I had been thankful for the small packages of soap, toothpaste, and shampoo that had been left for me. I still hadn’t been thinking straight when I had been packing.
Though I usually woke up at six, I had to compensate by bumping it down to five-thrirty since I was skating to school. I wish I hadn’t been so enraged to have been as stupid as to let Dad have my key. It was too late, though. I skated to school every morning, and had finished my A streak.
I, however, had to cave in and come back home for the graduation ceremony. I had left my cap and gown at home, and also any nice clothes that would be considered acceptable. Of course, by the time I had returned, my car had been gone. Dad still kept Mercedes as his make of choice, however, it was now a '76 300D in an ugly, pale, faded blue, complete with scratches and bumps.
When I had returned, it was as if nothing had happened, Dad was back in his room still smoking, and I almost felt resentment at my next statement, but I knew I was the one who had acted a bit irrationally.
“I’m sorry.” It almost stung to say it, but I couldn’t not apologize for taking Dad’s money and running off.
“It’s okay,” he stated in his monotone voice induced by drugs. “I’m just glad to see you back.” His tone remained near-emotionless.
I pressed my lips in. The awkward silence filled the house. It was somewhat broken by the sounds of the flick of a lighter and a deep inhalation.
“I see you’ve been selling a lot,” I finally said.
“Yeah, I may already have someone to rent out the house, and then I’ll be ready to move out to TJs?”
“Wait, your dealer?!”
“Yeah, good place, and close to the gas station I’m going to be working at.” Despite being a zombie turned by smoking, I had to admit, the man was efficient. However, I reevaluated his statement.
“A gas station?! Dad, you’ll get shot!”
"Don’t worry about it, I won’t be working late nights."
Right. Because daytime makes you bulletproof. I thought loudly in my head. I didn’t say that, though. I just sighed and submitted.
“So, what about me?”
"Yeah, he’s got a room for you. Small, but it’ll be away from the rest of us."
By “the rest of us,” he obviously meant away from him and a bunch of other potheads that would be smoking whenever they weren’t working.
“Well, I can’t complain. I’ve got nowhere right now. When will we be moving?”
"Right after you graduate. I’ll see if I can find you a job working with me."
Oh, great.
“Yeah, please tell me you have some nice clothes for me to wear for graduation.”
“Yup, saved a nice suit for my interview and graduation.”
“Neat. That’ll be this Friday, so?”
“Yeah, I’ll stay sober.”
And with that, I waked out. The remainder of that week went rather slowly. I did have to attend graduation practices twice, in which we were treated as complete idiots as if we needed to learn how to walk after we had been in school for thirteen years. But I gritted my teeth and got through it, as with most other things.
Friday finally came, and Dad even kept good on his promise. He was completely clean for all of twenty hours the day I graduated. I didn’t particularly care for the ceremonies or people talking about all of their graduation money. I wasn’t at home to send out any of the moneymaking invitations for so long, thus leaving me without the gifts. But I was okay with that. Dad probably spent any money he would have given me on pot, but if I had asked for several hundred dollars worth of pot instead of “just whatever money you can come up with,” I probably would have gotten it instead of nothing.
The ceremony was quite boring to me. I just wanted my diploma and to get out of that wretched school. It wasn’t that I didn’t like education, just the school itself. Once it had finished, I was among the first out, I probably would have been the first had I not had so much trouble finding my dad on the way out.
We sat in the car on the ride home in silence. I wanted to get out of this cheap cap and gown get up that had been definitely overpriced by the school and required cash payments only for the cap and gown. I just played with my tassel as we drove back to a familiar home.
Once home, but soon just to be a rented house. I stuffed my cap and gown into a probably would-be forgotten suitcase as we packed the last of our things as we got ready to move.
We moved quickly. Dad left me at our new home with my things as he went to go meet the renter one last time and tie up any loose ends. I dumped my suitcases in one of the corners of the small room I had been alloted. I placed my skateboard on top, I knew it’d be the first thing I’d use I laid in my small bed, and stared at the midday sun just outside of my window.
Deciding the weather was fair enough, I took my board I hadn’t even bothered to pack for this very reason, I took to my board outside and skated. I didn’t care where I was going, or even if I got lost, as impossible as it was, I had been basically in the same neighborhood, just a different section. I even past by my now old house.
As the sun set, I returned to my new house. Though the whole family approved of pot, I was the only white sheep in a house of black. I was, however, accepted regardlessly. TJ and his wife treated me as a son, as if I had been one of the two brothers I was eating at the dinner table with. I had graduated with one, and the other was only two years behind, and would begin his junior year.
However, most of the rooms would be designated smoking rooms. My room was one of the few that was not, along with the kitchen. Those were the only two places I would stay. Mostly, I just skated, or tried to convince my dad to let me get a job.
Dad either was misinformed about his hours or lied to me about his hours. He was always working nights, would be sleeping most of the day, and when he had a free moment, he’d usually spend it smoking. When I asked him if he could take me out to get a job application, he replied “I’m too high to be driving.” I offered to take it, he said “No, if you wreck it, we’re both screwed.” I offered that he come with me while I drive, in that case, then, he said “No, Son, I really need to relax. Work is stressing me out.” Either way, it was just an excuse for him to stay around and smoke more pot. I knew he drove to work high practically every day, and I never even got a scratch on the BMW when I still had it. I didn’t know what his problem was.
All that it left me to doing was skating. Anger management, stress relief, and something to do, all in one package. I started getting the nickname “Skater Boy” around the house.
I didn’t get to go to many more concerts, or the skate park much at all. Dad had a very tightly closed fist on money for me. I missed doing any tricks on the half-pipe, but I just had to deal with it.
Weeks of summer passed, and finally TJ approached me.
“Hey, I’ve been watching you skate. You’re pretty fast on that board, and you keep a pretty low profile. I think I may have an offer for you. Would you like to hear it?”
“Uhm, sure,” I replied with a bit of discomfort in my voice.
“Excellent. Step with me here into my office.”

Two: Deliver and Transit
I hesitantly followed TJ into his “office,” as he called it. Looked like a plain den, to me. But whatever, I suppose it could be considered an illegitimate “business.” I stepped into the surprisingly roomy den when compared to my small room. The two rooms didn’t seemed to be comparable, and hard to believe to be even in the same house. My small, ratty room compared to this room, which was covered in fine woods. An ebony desk, a teak bookshelf, and a rosewood bookcase. I learned the woods from the old days when I could afford to look at a few guitars in fine woods. We never got one, though, and it looks that we’d never have a chance to in this dump.
“Sit down,” TJ called from behind his luxurious desk in his deep, hearty tone. He gestured towards his set of fine leather chairs resting on the opposite end of his desk. I took to the one on the right and followed his orders.
He bent down for a moment. I could hear the movement of a drawer from behind his desk. He straightened his posture again, and produced a small glass pipe on his desk. Looking closer at the desk now, the dark ebony had cloaked the large amount of small ashes I could now see clearly with a focused glance.
“Wanna hit, kid?” My blood began to pulsate more quickly.
“Uhm, no thanks. I’m fine.” I said hesitantly.
Unexpectedly, a smile creaked from his face. My heart began to slow as I let out a quick sigh of relief.
"Good, kid. I can actually get a sober guy around here that won’t smoke all of the product."
I tilted my head in confusion, much like an inquisitive dog.
“I want you to be my new delivery guy.”
“But I don’t have a car…” My voice trailed.
"But you’ve got wheels."
I angled my head a few more degrees sideways.
“Your skateboard.”
“Oh, right. That thing.”
“Yeah, I’ve been seeing you going out a lot, kid. I’m thinking you know the area pretty well.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve lived here all of my life. Well, pretty much most of it, I mean-” He cut me off.
“Yeah, yeah yeah, I get it. You can get to an address and back, right?”
“Okay, well, I’ve got a job for you.”
“And that is…”
“Delivering my product. You hear? I can’t cut you in much, but it’s money. I gotta put you through some tests, first. Just delivering dimes around the blocks. Not my best way of getting money, but business is business, you hear?”
“Yeah, I hear. And money is money.”
"Good, kid."
TJ stooped again. He rolled open a drawer again. In a few seconds, he was sitting erect again, and produced five small baggies of a green substance I was familiar with, marijuana. Alongside the contraband, there was a short list.
“Here’s all you need to get started. A list of addresses, and five dimes. You get the rest.”
“Yeah,” I took a quick peek at the list. “TJ, the first address is here.”
"Good, you’ll do fine."
TJ stooped once again, and produced a ten-dollar bill and placed it on the table.
“Here’s a ten. give it to anyone that gives you a twenty.” He then bent over the full length of the desk, making sure to be directly in my face. “And don’t screw this up. You can’t get far with fifty bucks from this run-down town. I’ll have to hunt you down.” My heart was racing. “I’ll put a bullet in you, and you might not wake up from it, you hear me?!”
“Y-y-y-yes s-s-sir,” I replied feebly, with much fear and intimidation in my voice.
“Good, kid,” he said in a lighter tone as he backed up from my side of the desk. My heart eased up on its adrenaline-filled pulses.
“Now, here’s how you’re gonna make sure ain’t no-one gonna screw you over, okay?”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“I already gave the clients your description. Skater, messy black hair, skinny boy.”
“All you gotta do is cruise by a buyer, if he half-nods you like this-” TJ swopped his head quickly upward, but didn’t give it a full thrust up. He stopped his upward motion before he looked ridiculous. Or like a bird-watcher. Or a ridiculous bird-watcher. “-you’re gonna show him this little move right here-” He rubbed his forefingers against his thumb, much like in a “show me the money” type gesture. Actually, it looked to be the same one. “-the buyer will give you a full nod from there. Make sure he can see your hand, you hear? That’s your end of the bargain.”
“Got it. What next?”
"They’re gonna pull put a ten for you, and give you another nod. That’s when you ride up, and here’s the handshake you’re gonna give them. Take one of those dimes there, I’ll show you how.“
I did as such. TJ took his ten, and untidily folded it up in his hand. Much like any stoner on the street looking for their next hit.
I reached for his hand with the ten, much as if I was giving him a handshake, but when our hands locked, there was no motion.
“I’ll do it for you this time, kid, aight?”
“Yeah… Aight.” That sounded so foreign coming from my own mouth.
Suddenly, I felt a wriggling sensation in my hand. TJ worked his fingers swiftly to hook the small bag of marijuana with his fingers. At the same time, he swapped it with his ten. It was a hard process to describe by word, but I had mastered it by feeling it one time, I had thought. “Got it?”
“Yeah, I think so…”
“Okay, show me.” I laid the ten down and picked up one of the various baggies of contraband. TJ picked up the ten.
I attempted the maneuver. I just remembered the way it had felt, and before I had known it, there it was, a ten in my hand, and a baggie in his.
“Yeah, I think you got it.”
“Alright. So you want me to get started now?”
“One last thing, anyone screws you over, call me.”
“Like, how?”
“Here-” TJ withdrew another item from his vast collection inside of his desk “-take this phone. It’s prepaid and got about 10 minutes of talk time on it. I’m speed dial number 1. Just hold 1 down, and you’ll call me. You wanna talk any longer than ten to your girlfriend, you buy minutes and do it on your own time.” TJ slid the obviously cheap phone across the desk.
“You just tell me the address of whoever screws you over. Taking the weed and running, giving you a five, whatever. We’ll get 'em blacklisted.” TJ took a more serious tone. “And don’t try accusing anyone who are clean, you hear? They might just end up killed all because you wanted to make 10 bucks. Can you live with that?” The booming bass of his voice commanded the attention of the roomy den, and perhaps a few rooms adjacent.
“N-no, sir,” I whimpered feebly in reply.
“Can you live with that?!”
“No, I can’t!” I boomed back, strength in my voice masked whatever fear I was holding due to his lecture.
Aight, okay. You get the idea. Doubt anyone would rip you off over 10 bucks of weed, but still, gotta get it in your head early, you hear? First it might be five bucks from a quarter, but then you’re ripping me off 20 bucks an ounce, and I don’t stand for that. I pay 10%, and that’s not something you should screw a brother over for, you know?”
“Yeah, I get it… Am I ready?”
"Yeah, you’re a smart kid, you’re fine. Just get going to the addresses. Don’t forget your four bags of dope and cell phone."
I stuffed the stated goods in my pockets.
The first, rather, second, address was pretty distant. I glanced over the entire list. Using my years of residence in the area, I made mental notes of the most efficient order.
As I rolled close to the nearest drop spot, I saw a tall figure in loose-fitting clothing. Too loose. The clothing was probably two sizes too large made by a brand that made clothes four sizes larger than what could be considered standard.
Whilst pondering the ridiculousness of clothing sizes, I saw the figure’s bright red hat bob upwards, much as the recent gesture I had been informed of.
I nodded back, and completed the rest of the routine. As I approached the man, he knew the routine. I tremblingly reached in my pocket, pulled out the product, and continued through. At some point, I mostly let the man take over, while I was cruising on auto pilot to get through with it. He also overtook the silent conversation.
“Hey, dawg, you aight in there?”
“Yeah, yeah… I’m just nervous. I haven’t…” My voice trailed as I nearly voluntarily told him I was a newbie.

“It’s cool, it’s cool. I was like this when I started buying, so you’re good, dawg.”
"Okay… Thanks."
The transaction completed, I stuffed the crumpled ten spot into my pocket. I wondered why I was being called a canine. Not that I wasn’t unfamiliar with slang, years of public school had eventually taught me the heavily improper course inadvertently, it was just that I had wondered where things had originated or changed from. Such as why a colloquially stated Nigga made the once awful ****** into an acceptable word.
In any case, abstinence from slang wouldn’t help the elimination of slang, nor would it hurt me for at least minimally speaking in informal terms. Maybe that’s why everyone thought I was smart. I never quite figured out that one. Not that this new life would ever help me into psychology or sociology in college. I was back to basics. I needed some money as my bank statements slowly became dwindling due to my streak of withdrawals, without a deposit to be seen.
I approached the next rendezvous point. Not much different from the first, other than the different figure wearing more fitting clothing, and my nerves slowly began to recede. I made the sale with relative ease in comparison to my last.
The third stop was also nearby. Only this time the figure was obviously female. And the notorious founder and president of the coined Biweekly Boy Body, a “club” of herself and probably half of the male student body. I never got the deal with that, but I supposed it beat being dateless. Like me.
The girl, Sheryl, didn’t follow according to plans. She flailed her arms painstakingly obviously. She also shouted loudly, despite the fifteen meters which were separating us were closing quickly. Too quickly.
As she excitedly decided to run towards me, open-armed, I attempted to push the rear of my board to the ground in hopes of slowing down. It would have worked had there not been only 5 meters separating us by that time. Or that she was still running out into the middle of the street.
I slowed slightly, but the girl ran right into me. We abruptly collided, and as I was knocked backwards into the pavement, and concurrently into a surge of pain, as the girl toppled on top of me. I groaned off the sharp pain in my back, while she cackled hysterically atop me, and wrenched me into a hug. I caught a strong whiff of the familiar scent of marijuana laced in her clothing.
As the painful ordeal ended, I arose, and brushed myself off. No scrapes or scars, so I was pretty pleased, though the concentration of pain was stiff and unrelenting in my spine. A shrill voice removed some of the spinal pain by placing some of the burden on my ears.
“Heyyy, you! I knew when that guy said tall, skinny, black-haired dude, I knew it’d be you! How are you?!”
“Uhm, a little stiff, if you must know,” I replied in a somewhat nonchalant tone.
Another cackle.
“You must be one of the funniest guys I know! Wow, that was a good one!”
“Yeah, uhm, joking aside, I’ve got some more deliveries to make, so, do you mind if we can get this done?”
“Yeah, sure, silly! Here!” She pulled a crumpled twenty out of her pocket. What was with all of the crumpled bills in this underground world?
Completely contrary to my training, I just took the twenty, swapped a ten, and gave her what she had ordered.
“There you go. I’ll see you around.”
“Well, wait! I’ve been getting kinda lonely-” I never thought I’d hear her say that “-and I’m thinking of maybe having a few people over. You seem pretty cool. You wanna stay here for a while?”
“Can’t. Got deliveries to make, remember?”
“Oh, right… Well, I might need some more, think I can just call you, and you can bring some more?”
“Call TJ. I’m just the delivery boy. You don’t order pizza from a pizza delivery guy, right?”
“Ohhh… Yeahhhh… Okay.” The long tones in her voice obviously expressed her disappointment in two tones. A guy actually saying no to her, and a lack of the intoxicant she craved. I skated off to make my last delivery.
I picked up some speed, along with some sweat as that girl had wasted a copious amount of my time. I picked up speed as I felt the poorly paved roads giving their lashes to my poor skateboard. I could only stand atop it and feel the vibrations pulsate through my body. I rounded a curve somewhat quickly, I leaned hard, but my momentum kept me balanced as I was only a few feet from scraping asphalt. I peered at my list one last time, and I was sure that my next stop was ahead of me. I saw a tall figure of a young man waiting on the curbside.
I rushed in, fueled cloaked in sweat.
“Hey, sorry this delivery may be a bit late,” I stated through my exasperated gasps for vital oxygen.
“It’s cool, man, you got it?”
I fished in my pocket and withdrew the final baggie of literally hot goods. He immediately snatched it, and before I could get a word in, whiffed the contraband.
“Yeah, that’s TJ’s stuff,” he said as he snatched yet another crumpled twenty from his pocket.
Not wanting to hesitate, I quickly grabbed another ten from my stash of equally crumpled bills. I think he would have been satisfied with it. I did it with a swiftness such that my bill had shot out of my pocket before he had even had a chance to fully give it to me.
“Thanks man.”
"No Problem."
And with that, I skated to what I now had to call home and work.

Thus concludes Chapter 2. I hope you guys have enjoyed it, and I thank you for sticking in thus far. =D