I’m in Maurice's room, just watching TV and hanging out. I haven't seen him in a long time. Let's say he's not good at staying in touch with his friends. The sun is hot and Maurice didn’t rent a window unit from the landlord this summer, so his window is all the way open and letting in a little breeze, but mostly it’s letting in the smell from the dumpster in the alley. He’s on his bed with his legs up to his chest and I’m sitting in the orange chair by the table, the one they give you with the room when you move in. We’re smoking too. We just finished off the last bit of ganja.
“That's good stuff,” I say, “Where'd it come from?”
“What do you care where it came from?” Maurice says.
“Where'd it come from, for real?”
“Sammy, man, you don't even need to know that.”
“Come on. What if I wanted to get some myself?”
Maurice starts laughing his head off.
“What?” I say.
When he can finally catch his breath, he says, “Yeah. Okay. Let me just get you the guy's card. It's right over here by the phone.”
He starts laughing all over again.
“Shut up, Maurice,” I say.
He pretends to dial a phone and, in this really goofy voice, he says, “Hello, sir. May I please purchase some of your marijuana? How much is your marijuana, sir? The good stuff, if you please. If you would be so kind.”
“Shut up. Just shut the hell up,” I say.
“Okay, man. Okay. I'm just playing with you,” Maurice says, but he keeps laughing for a minute or two.
We sit for a little and then I guess we figured we didn’t want to be done smoking yet, so we switch to Top Tobacco, the only thing left to smoke in the room. Maurice keeps this emergency stash of Top in the cupboards above the sink, but he’s had it for God knows how long, so it’s stale. When we smoke it, it tastes like old raisins, kind of fleshy and kind of like cardboard, so we suck in the stale smoke and exhale all at once in giant puffs, which makes the room fill up with a sort of nonchalant haze.
For a long time, we sit and smoke and watch Montel reprimand some kid who ran away from home and then the kid’s parents for not being good parents, and then some psychologist talks for a little about why kids run away. After a while, Maurice says, “So, when do you start this job of yours?”
“Next Monday.”
I just got hired by UPS to work on one of their loading docks in the Loop and I'm not thrilled about it, but a job is a job, so when they offered it, I took it.
“Too bad they aren’t still hiring,” Maurice says.
“They might be,” I say, “You want me to find out?”
“No, not really. I’m not working for UPS,” he says.
“Who are you gonna work for, then?” I say.
“McDonald’s. I’m really holding out for McDonald’s,” he says, with a real serious face, and for a second I think he's actually serious, that he actually thinks a McDonald’s job is better than UPS, but then he starts cracking up again, and then I start cracking up, and our laughing is dry and harsh, but we’re laughing anyway.
Suddenly there’s this heavy knock on the door. Four thumps, real loud, like whoever it is is pounding on the door with their fist. Maurice and I look at each other. Nobody we know knocks like that.
“Who is it?” Maurice yells.
“Milkman,” says the voice on the other side of the door.
We look at each other again and Maurice’s brow is wrinkled up in confusion. He whispers, “Who the fuck is Milkman?”
“I don’t know. Never heard of him before,” I whisper back.
“Well, we don’t need no milk today!” Maurice shouts.
Whoever it is pounds on the door and yells, “Open up. It’s Milkman.”
Now we’re really confused, and Maurice slowly gets off his bed and tiptoes over to the peephole. He looks through it, and jumps back like the door stung him. He looks at me and his jaw is hanging open.
I can't usually tell what Maurice is thinking. He keeps his emotions in check for the most part, but now the wide eyes, the way his glance flits around his own room, the way the expression seems to flake off his cheeks, I can tell something’s really wrong.
“Oh, shit,” he says.
“What?” I stand up.
“Milkman! Open up!” shouts Milkman.
“Hey, we gotta go,” says Maurice after a second.
“What the hell is going on, Maurice? Who is that guy?”
Maurice is at the window, trying to take the screen out, and the whole time he’s working at it, Milkman keeps banging on the door. Banging and banging and banging.
“Help me with this,” Maurice spits through his teeth, and I go to help him with the screen, and suddenly, there’s a huge thud and crack and another thud and another louder crack and we freeze and the door flies open and there’s Milkman, this guy about six and a half feet tall, built like a brick wall and he’s got a silver gun in his hand.
“Who’s Maurice?” he says.
We don’t say anything.
“Which one of you motherfuckers is Maurice!” he shouts, and little flecks of foamy saliva shoot from his lips, but Milkman knows which one of us is Maurice right away. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he has Maurice by the neck, he has him down off the window, he has him against the wall. Maurice is twisting like an earthworm on a fishhook.
“You know what I’m here for?” says Milkman.
Maurice nods and squints and his lips puff up, but no words come out. He can’t breathe and I shout, “Let him go!” and Milkman puts the gun on me and says, “Who’s this?”
I say, “Sammy,” since Maurice can't say anything.
“Sammy, your friend Maurice here is in a whole lotta trouble,” says Milkman, looking back at Maurice who still can’t breathe.
“What the fuck is this? What kind of trouble?” I say.
“He’s in some shit up to his neck, let’s say,” says Milkman.
“Let him go and we’ll get you whatever you need. Maurice owes you something, we’ll get it. Just put him down,” I say.
“It ain't me he owes it to. I'm just here for the dirty work. Too late for who owes who what anyway,” says Milkman and then he says, “Sammy, you better get out of here.”
“What are you gonna do to Maurice?” I say.
“I’m giving you the chance,” says Milkman.
“Don’t hurt him,” I say.
“Get out of here, Sammy!” Milkman shouts.
“Maurice,” I say.
Milkman eases up on Maurice’s neck just for a second, and Maurice says quietly, “Go on, get out of here, Sammy.”
I turn and bolt through the crushed door. I just run. There’s a lady across the hall who has come out into the hallway in her PJ’s and she’s carrying her cat and I nearly shove her out of my way as I tear toward the red exit sign above the stairwell, then through the door and down the steps taking them a few at a time and I’m out on the sidewalk and by the time I stop running I’m nearly to the beach.
2007