Meth for Dummies

“Ask me anything, man. I know it all. I am the fucking Guru of meth, man. I am the Gu-fucking-RU. Do you have a smoke, man? I need a smoke. Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here isn’t it? Do you think this place is cool? I mean safe cool, not like cool cool. I mean, shit, look at you, you wouldn’t know the first thing about cool cool, but you look like someone who’d know if five-oh hangs out here.” Jim’s knee was bobbing up and down quickly and he was looking around as if he were nervous.

“I’m sorry?” was Bill’s only reply. He wasn’t sure of half of what this guy was saying, but there was a lull in his streaming conversation that at least allowed Bill to tell his breakfast companion that he was currently at a loss.

“Five-OH, man. The police. I mean, I’ve checked the law and I know that I can talk about any damn thing I want. Free speech,” Jim said, looking around, again. “But I got a record, you know?”

“Um. OK.” Bill wasn’t sure that this meeting was a good idea in any case, but Sasha had insisted and Bill was learning that Sasha got what he wanted. Bill wasn’t quite certain what Jim’s role in the organization was, or even if he had a role at all. But Sasha had said it would be helpful for Bill to learn the process from Jim, so here he was, back at the Two Sisters with a plate of pancakes in front of him and a freak across from him.

“Are you alright?” asked Bill.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a little nervous, that’s all. I’m . . . I need a smoke. That’ll calm me down. Then I’ll be OK, man. I’ll be right back.” Jim slid out of the booth and headed out the parking lot. Bill watched him through the glass.

Amazing, Bill thought now, how many different thoughts could run through one’s mind in a split second. He wondered if Jim was “tripping,” or whatever they called it, on some drug, maybe meth. He wondered if it was OK to take notes. He wondered if he could get in trouble for taking notes. He wondered if Jim had a gun or if one of Sasha’s henchmen was watching them from the parking lot. He wondered if like him, Jim had been persuaded to do this. He wondered if he could make a pact with Jim to go to the police with him.

He watched Jim through the window, pacing up and down the parking lot, smoking his cigarette. With each drag, Bill watched him grow calmer, walk slower. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Like Jekyll and Hyde. Through the glass at least, the man who was talking at warp speed now looked more rational, less hyped up. Perhaps this Jim could be his ally and thwart Sasha’s efforts to turn Bill into a criminal.

At this point, all of his break-free fantasies were moot. Thus far, he’d seen nothing that was actually illegal, only talk. And he’d look like an asshole going to the police and telling them that a business man who owned a chain of Subway restaurants, a paper business, and some stock had asked him to make meth and that his evidence was an empty house in a desolate area. Still, Bill’s mind was consumed with the thought of getting out of his predicament and he was talking mental notes. It would all add up to something at some point.

He was not a violent man, but he wanted to line Sasha and Bobby C and even Dick Grund up and – and hit them with rocks or something. He wanted more than anything he’d every wanted in his life to get out of this mess, even though he’d barely gotten his feet wet. He was scared all the time. Not only because he felt at any time he could get arrested (and he would spill, he sure knew that, which made him fear for his family’s life), but also there was the fear factor involved in doing anything to cross Sasha. Bill didn’t care much for himself, but his daughters and his wife, they were his life. He resented them for a brief moment, rationalizing that if he didn’t love them so much, he would not be in this position. But this was moot, too. He was in this position and he had to get himself out if he ever wanted to look in the mirror again.

He would bide his time; wait for the opportune moment. He would get his ducks in order somehow, and find a trustworthy undercover cop who he’d help infiltrate, just like Serpico, or Donnie Brasco. He’d be a silent hero, the guy you don’t see, but who tips the guy you do see.

His breakfast partner had come back and was perusing the menu. He continued to look noticeably calmer when he returned. Less nervous. “Sorry, man. I really needed that. It’s kind of a leftover, from, you know, my days of tweakin’.

“I’m sorry. Tweaking?”

“Oh, right. Sash said you really didn’t . . . Hey listen, Man, why are you doing this, anyway. Somebody got you by the short ones? Cuz you are definitely don’t look like you’re cut out for this shit, man. I can see that right here. Look at your shirt, man.”

Bill didn’t know whether it was kosher in this world to air one’s dirty laundry to stranger, but he certainly knew it was unseemly in his, so he ignored the question. “You were saying about tweaking?”

“Yeah, well, it’s when you’re, you know, on the stuff. Tweaking. That’s what we say.”

“Are you, are you tweaking now?” asked Bill. He thought he ought to ask. Was this the drug where people can pick up cars when they’re hyped up? He thought he ought to know. And what was wrong with his shirt? How did that of all things give him away as being straight or square or uncriminal?

“Nah, man. I’m done with that part of the life. I mean, sort of,” he laughed at himself. “I mean, I’m still, you know, a consultant I guess you could say. Yeah, a consultant. The Guru of meth-making,” said Jim. “It’s sort of a by-product, the nervousness, though, you know, like how people who shot H gotta stay on methadone?”

Bill shook his head. His drug experiences began and ended with alcohol. Once he took too many painkillers after a knee surgery and got a little loopy, but short of that, he had no experience. No, he didn’t even know what “H” was.

“Well, drugs, you know, they have side effects, man, after long term use. Addiction, shit like that. OK, so, like people who snort cocaine, a lot of them really need the cigarettes to lay the chill on, you know, relax and all? And heroin users, like the really bad ones, they need to stay on methadone, you know, just to survive. You know what I mean? So, well, meth users, we, I don’t know.. we get nervous still. I mean, not like paranoid like when we were using and all, but like just nervous, hyped a little, you know?”

“If you say so,” said Bill. He had never heard so much about drugs in his whole life. He had no idea if Jim was telling the truth or what to measure it against. He took his word for it and was grateful he had never gotten started.

“So, anyway, a smoke really calms me down. I probably should have had one before I came down here, but I’m trying to quit, so I didn’t.” Jim laughed at himself. “Ha! Look at me trying to shake cigarettes. That shit is actually kinda funny.” Bill smiled.

“But I’m not tweakin’ any more. I can’t afford to. I’m totally fucked up behind that shit and if I’m going to try to do something with my life, I have to, you know, stop crankin’. I mean, I got the scars for sure,” he motioned over his face. “Shit, look at my teeth man.” He opened his mouth to reveal an upper set of teeth many of which were brown, tiny stubs peeking out of clearly diseased gums. “It’s pretty bad, huh?”

“Well, yes. I have to say so. Is that from shooting meth?” Bill asked, hoping it wasn’t too personal a question.

“No, I wish I had used needles, now, but I didn’t want to get AIDS, you know, so I thought smoking it would be safer. It’s from smoking meth. You don’t get meth mouth – that’s what they call this -- from shootin’ up. Smoking it. That’s what does it to you. Well, that and what you do when you’re on the shit. I think I probably ate more candy bars and Mountain Dew than any human on the planet. I should call Guinness.

“I’m clean, now, though. Been clean for almost a year now. Trying to get myself together, make an honest living, maybe go back to school. But well, I gotta get a paycheck if I’m going to stay clean, and I’ve tried to get a regular job, but, who wants to hire this face?”

“Is that from smoking meth, too?” Bill asked. Jim had prominent brown and yellow discolorations all over his face. They looked like stains from dye that didn’t quite wash off. The skin between his eyes was white and wrinkled, as if it had been burned. One of his eyelids looked peculiar, also like it had been burned.

“It’s not from smoking meth. It’s from making meth.” He shook his head at his own predicament, and then told Bill the story. “So I was using red phosphorous for a batch and trying to get the red shit off the goddamn pills – the red dye on the ephedrine pills has to be washed off or you could get a bad reaction. Anyway, so I’m doing God knows what – I was pretty tweaked at the time -- and the shit just fuckin’ went unstable on me man; blew up right in my face. And you know what the worst part was? I woke up in a fucking hospital handcuffed to a goddamn bed, man. I was in jail hospital man. Jail hospital. How fucked up is that? Anyway, like I said, I’m clean now, but I gotta make a living. Sasha helps me out with a job so my PO stays off my back and I help him out with what I know.” Jim looked around for a waitress. “Man, what do I have to do to get some coffee in this place. Hey Miss.”

“You mean you can’t get a job, even at a McDonald’s?” Bill asked. Bill was a religious man. On the one hand he believed all these drug addicts needed to be thrown in jail forever. On the other hand, he believed in redemption. If someone was really ready to make amends, they would suffer through whatever humiliation they had to face to stay on the path. It seemed to Bill that Jim could have tried harder to get away from this life.

“What about your arms? Is that from the explosion, too?” Bill asked. Jim had marks on his arms. They weren’t scabs, exactly. They looked like moles or scars, but they were too irregularly shaped to be natural, in Jim’s opinion, and too far from visible veins to be needle marks, he guessed. So he assumed it was the meth.

“Nah, not really. Well, sorta, actually, now that you mention it. Those are from the smoking. Your skin crawls, like you feel like things are biting your or something, so you pick at them. You think this is bad, you should have seen me when I was icing. Blood, man. It was fuckin’ gross.” He laughed. “Yeah, wow, I guess in a lot of ways I’m glad I’m clean now. That shit was nasty. I’m on the program now.”

Bill had a few friends over the years who were now on the program. That’s what they called it: the program. Alcoholics Anonymous. He had been told by them that some situations were tough to stay sober in, so they avoided them. Being around too much booze made some of them crazy. He wondered how it was for Jim.

“Doesn’t it make it hard to stay clean when you’re talking about it and working around it all the time? Maybe you should try to get away from this.” Bill finally asked after the waitress left.

“It ain’t easy, but, shit, what am I gonna do? It’s not like they have some special methhead-to-work program. Try getting an interview, much less a job when you’re a felon in the first place, a drug-using felon in the second place, and you look like me. Shit, the only thing worse than being me is being all those things I am and black, too in this country. Sasha is my rehab program,” said Jim who had in the course of 40 seconds, emptied 6 or 7 sugar packets into his coffee.

The waitress returned with a bagel for Jim and a refill for Bill. “It’s not like alcohol or cocaine, you know, where people call it a sickness and forgive you if you fall off the wagon. Yeah, Meth they think is a white trash drug so if you get hooked it’s cuz you were stupid or a hillbilly or somethin’.” Jim stared at his food for a moment, then said “Truth is, if you’da asked me how I felt about drug addicts before I became one, I woulda said we were all losers. We had a choice and we made the wrong one. Hell, before this, if I would have seen me on the street, I would have crossed the street. I sure as hell wouldn’t have given me a job.” He laughed softly to himself.

Bill considered his booth-mate’s perspective. It rang true what he was saying. He could see now that his life might be more difficult for that simply turning off a light. And closing a door to his past life. Bill thought back to his job at Grund. He might hire a guy who was in a 12 step program for alcohol, but a guy with needle tracks on his arm or a mouth like Jim’s, no way. He considered his own predicament. Until a few weeks ago, he would not have believed that sometimes a man didn’t have a choice in which life path to take. But despite the shame he felt, he knew, knew he was a good man. Maybe Jim was a good man. Maybe Jim was his ticket out.

“I . . . I guess you should be proud of yourself, Jim. It’s a big accomplishment to redeem yourself. I know the good Lord had a hand in it. And God loves you, rich or poor”

“Maybe. I don’t reject anyone’s theory. God is about the only friend poor people got when they’re kicking this drug. You just wait, though,” said Jim. “People like to toss out poor people like we’re yesterday’s news, but this drug is big, man. It’s big and it’s addictive like you wouldn’t believe, and pretty soon cute little college co-eds are gonna be strung out on this shit, cuz it ain’t just a matter of self-control.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m just saying, man, that this drug is perfect for college kids and rich people, is all. And straight-laced people like you are gonna shit when they find out their son is cranking on ice so he can make it through finals, play football, and still have enough energy to take his best girl to the fuckin’ prom. That’s all I’m saying. This ain’t no hillbilly drug. People like me, no one cares. But it’s comin’ man.” Jim picked at his bagel, digging out little holes in it and rolling the bread between his thumb and forefinger. He lowered his voice.

“I mean one of the reasons Sasha’s looking at you is because we got a big order coming up in a few weeks and he wants to push the money-making side of things. The order isn’t to a bunch of Uppers living in trailer parks. There’s some kinda boat race down on Mackinac and these rich fuckers sail in on corporate sponsored boats and take shitloads of it back to the North Shore in Chicago. Last I checked, places like Winnetka and Glencoe weren’t buying up the bleacher seats at Sox games. And those kids up there don’t go to public schools. Oh. It’s comin’ alright.”

Bill said nothing. He didn’t want to think about his girls being exposed to whatever this was. He didn’t want to know about this world at all. He desperately wanted to take back his whole life for the past six months. Still, he thought he better understand its pull, just in case. “What makes it so attractive,” Bill finally asked.

“Dopamine, man. It’s the Dopamine.”

“Dopamine is a natural stimulant, isn’t it?” asked Bill, still wavering on whether he really want to know much more.

“That’s right, man. Controls pleasure. So, like imagine if you like, you know, went for a run. That would be like a little dopamine, you know? Like, a 20% more than normal boost. And then imagine if you took some coke. Now that, that would be like 400% more than normal.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Damn skippy it’s a lot,” said Jim. “You are feelin’ goo-ood, and that’s why the shit is so popular. Coke makes you feel like Superman. But now we got meth, man; it’s like the devil drug. Fuckin’ get this: 1500% more dopamine, man. It’s like you are the king of the world, man.”

“Can I . . . can I write that down?” It’s better to ask, thought Bill.

“Uh, shit, I don’t care, man. Write down whatever you want. What else do you want to know?”

Bill wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to ask. He was in this for the time being and so he had decided on his way over to the diner that he would treat it like any job. He’d used what he’d learned at Grund to get the information he needed.

“I . . . I was wondering what it looked like.”

Jim smiled and reached into his pocket. Before Bill could say anything, he held up his hand. “Don’t worry, man. It’s not real. But Sash told me you were, you know, a neophyte, so I made these little packs up.” Jim dumped the contents of the first baggy onto the table. They were tiny crystals that looked like the world’s smallest chunks of rock candy. “Kosher salt,” he said. “But this is what crystal meth looks like.” Jim took his napkin and brushed it away.

“Sometimes it’s called ICE, because it looks like ice.” He shook his head. This shit’ll kill you. I kid you not, man.”

“And, uh, how much was that, about a tablespoon? Is that what you need.”

“That much would send you to the moon. or your grave. Nah, it’s like a teaspoon’s worth usually,” said Jim. “It all depends on the quality of course, but crystal meth, which is made from the iodine method, that’s the purest shit.”

“Is that . . . is that what Sasha’s people make?” asked Bill.

“That’s what he wants to make. But depending on the ingredients available when an order comes in, well, sometimes he has to change the recipe, you know. He’ll ask me to make other kinds. It’s a really hassle, too,” Jim said, pointing to his face. “Shit can get fuckin’ unstable. I’m out of the kitchen now, man. Like I said, I’m clean, and that shit can get absorbed in your skin. I can’t afford that, man.” He paused for a second and continued. “It’s good to have lots of room, you know? So you can do different processes in different places. But I don’t care how much room you have, it’s still dangerous. I don’t go near the places anymore,” Jim said, shaking his head.

“But what would you do if Sasha made you go?” asked Bill, feeling out the guy for how frightened he was of the man; hoping to set the stage for his pact. Jim just chuckled a little.

“I go, I die. Simple as that. Sasha could threaten to kick me out of the Subway job he set me up in, I suppose, and I’d have to go panhandle or something, but going back in the kitchen for me is death, so I don’t have anything to lose by saying no. Anyway, no reason for Sash to kill me; he’s a businessman. Don’t get me wrong, he’d kill me if there was a reason, but there isn’t. It’s a delicate balance man, like everything. I’m not afraid of Sasha. I’ll get out as soon as I can. Sasha knows that. But anyway, I’m not going to any more kitchens.”

“So you haven’t seen that place up in Branton?” asked Bill, remembering his road trip.

“That place? The flop house? Sure, but that’s not where he’s gonna make the stuff. That’s just a vacant place I found with an out-of-town owner that would be good for some of his cooks to flop if they need a place. Sasha doesn’t actually own that place, or rent it, either. It’s just empty until someone does buy or rent it.”

“But he had a key,” said Bill.

“Do you know how easy it is to replace a door in a shithole like that? He just had one of his guys break down the old door and put in a new one,” said Jim.

“But . . . but he told me that he was going to make it there. He said it was good because it was near water and had an absentee owner and no one was around,” said Bill. Jim laughed and shook his head.

Jim smiled at him again, this time shaking his head. “Listen, man, Sasha knows what he’s doing. Sasha is Serbian. He’s been in the criminal business ever since he came to this country. He’s connected. You know what that means, right?” Bill nodded. “He may look like a clean-cut Midwestern boy, but while he was working behind the counter in sandwich shops or digging ditches or what-have-you when he first got of the boat, he was shaking down someone, you can bet on it. The Serbians? Fucking ruthless, and you know why? Because they don’t even think that what they do is wrong. Anyway, the more money he got, the more legitimacy it bought him, but like, don’t think the guy is stupid. Sasha ain’t gonna give you an opportunity to narc him out.”

“But why would he bring me all the way up there?” Bill was confused. None of this made sense.

“All those things he told you were probably true, man. He needed you to see a place like where he was gonna make it so you could, you know, figure in all that efficiency shit. All you know from that place you saw is the place he’s got for making this shit is probably the same size or layout, near water, and probably in an area, you know, kinda remote, which is always smart. There’s too much waste to make meth in the city.

“So you know the layout, step one. Step two is Sasha has me give you the recipe, man, and you know I know him, but other than that, you can’t connect him. Also, look, I’m not gonna rat the guy out. And you aren’t gonna know shit else. Drop off times, cash grabs, stash locations, nothing. Not that you would, but don’t even think about crossing Sasha, man. You don’t have it in you, man. Besides, he’s probably got you on tape or some shit, or got some notes you took in your handwriting. Something that will make you look like the bad guy. Dude, you could end up in prison for doing nothing and Sasha will still be out there.”

Bill put his hand to his forehead. Whatever made him think he was smarter than these people was beyond him. Of course Sasha was going to protect himself. He had put Bill on the payroll to manage the books at the various Subway franchises he owned, and given him a decent wage. Sure, each month, Bill paid Sasha back the loan plus a portion of the vig, but that could be explained. Even if there was some anti-loansharking law on the books, how could he know who else was in debt to Sasha. Just one man helping another man out in a pinch. He was setting Bill up to take a fall if Bill got any ideas.

If Bill had been stupid enough to lead the cops to the house that Sasha had taken him to, it would be empty. At best, Bill would look paranoid, at worst, they would investigate him instead of Sasha. If Bill had shown any officer the notes on making crystal meth that he was about to take, it would only implicate himself, and perhaps the half-baked chemist sitting across from him. It was his meeting with Jim, his handwriting, him soliciting information about meth. Besides, he suspected, though he wasn’t sure, that having a recipe for an illegal drug wasn’t itself illegal, so even if he was taking notes for Sasha, well, who cares?

Yesterday, when Bill showed up at his cubicle, he was called into Sasha’s private office. Sasha had handed him back his pad and gave him some papers dealing with certain Subway matters to put on his desk. He also informed him that their discussions would be out of the office. He, or someone, would let Bill know when and where, but under no circumstances would they discuss his other businesses with Bill at the office. His marching orders for the time being were to pick up the cash receipts daily at the Subway shops, and learn what he could about the process of meth making and efficiencies he could see from a manufacture and purchase perspective.

In addition to these obvious safeguards, it was never far from Bill’s mind, as he had thought about earlier today, that Bill had his balls in a twist: family. Bill would make good on his promises. Bill suddenly felt what little ray of hope was yet left in him leave his body. He stared blankly out the window, losing himself in his dispair.

“Man, hey. HEY! You gotta hold it together. Uh, you OK?” asked Jim.

“I’m OK.” Bill took a sip of his coffee, opened his notebook, and looked at Jim. “I guess we should get on with it.”


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