Sylvia, Catrina, and Victor: Continued - Off to the Southside

Off to the South Side


Two guys in ties, on the Southside. That’s what we were. We were as discreet as the desperate look in our eyes, which bore the kind of image that transmits the message “I’m on a mission.” The only time a man is found on the Southside with something tied around his neck is during a suicide investigation. Paranoia waved hello.

Surely every city has its equivalent to my city’s Southside. Weary people drift along the sidewalk, some with all of their possessions in tow. Nooks and crannies of the public street grid are laden with corners occupied by persons trying too hard to look invisible, and all too eager to strike up a conversation punctuated with references to parties and good times. We made a right-hand turn into one of those nooks and turned left at the first cranny, not too far from the action on the street, but close enough to the object of my desire.

“Right there!” Rick exclaimed, “Next to that mailbox.” I missed the mailbox, but I did notice the 1980s model Ford LTD in the front yard. It had a beautiful chocolate metallic, powder- coat finish with elaborate spoke wheels, directly from the old-school low-rider era. Unfortunately for its owner, all four tires were flat and it was obvious that it had not been driven over the span of many elapsed bi-weekly pay-periods.

“This is Catrina’s place.” Rick said. “Wait here, I will be right back.” Rick grasped the door handle on my Yuppiemobile, bolted past the LTD and toward the warped screen door to my salvation. I watched as Rick was swallowed into the darkness of the entryway to the house. I waited alone, in my starched and pressed Nordstrom’s Oxford while the tension of my Windsor Knot weighed heavily upon my jugular veins; this was no place for a man to be wearing my costume.

Money is never more paper-like when it is passed in the desperation of a drug deal. The Hamiltons and Jacksons flipped through my fingers like cards through the hands of a blackjack dealer. As I paid Rick for the plastic sandwich bag bulging with the discs of hydrocodone and acetominophen, I gave no thought to the value of the cash I shoved in his hand. I had a good paying job and more money than I needed to keep my façade erect. At the negotiated price of five dollars per tablet, I would likely never even miss the three hundred bucks that I carelessly shoved, bill by bill, into his palm. Every time I stuck my ATM card into the machine, money came out. That was all I knew for the moment. Occasionally, a small part of me would notice that my wallet was bulging from ATM receipts. “The cost of doing business,” I thought. It was just another slice of me consumed by the god of hydrocodone.