Fingers shaking, Lane frantically opened the box of Marlboro Reds. A crisp box, he liked the sturdiness of the packaging as well as the way cigarettes smelled. Smoking was not a particular behavior he took part in, but his desire for a cigarette was stronger than it had ever been. Grabbing one of the little cylinders from inside the package, he put it to his nose, expecting the smell of raisins. However, this time, he got no smell at all. With curiosity, he examined the cigarette, quickly realizing it was not filled with tobacco yet instead, something better. He squished it around in his fingers, kneading out a substance and tearing apart the cigarette's paper. Now there was a little pile of white powder on his coffee table. The pile grew large once all 20 cigarettes had been emptied onto the table, forming a white sea of cocaine. His hands trembled; his nose twitched. At the bottom of the package there was a razor blade along with a small folded note that said, "you are what you eat." His racing mind slowed to halt... "What does this even mean?" In confusion, he immediately began chopping up lines and reached into his wallet to find a dollar. No time for the dollar, he wanted it now. Closing one nostril with a large finger, he bent down to the table, ready to snort the shit that was ruining his life. But he stopped right then and there. Someone was calling his name. He felt disgusted, and now his urge was gone. "Lane!" Someone called him again. Feeling his bed warmed by Chelsea, the addict realized it was a dream.
"Lane, I think someone is at the door. I'm not kidding. Wow, that took you a while to wake up. Having a good dream?" Chelsea said.
"Sex dreams are always hard to wake up from," He lied.
"Open the door! We are not knocking again!"
It had to have been the police. During the night they had heard other noises and knocks from below, but didn't think of it. Sliding the lock chain and punching in the security code on his key pad, Lane opened the door. Staring in his face was a drug hound (Rottweiler to be exact).
"Officer, I would ask if there's a problem, but I already know that answer if you are kicking in my door at 4 am. Can I help you with anything? I assure you nothing is wrong," Lane frantically spoke. He sounded like an idiot. Like a drug addict. Well, he was a drug addict.
"The Police Department has decided to a random search of apartments in Dreamwood Terrace following reports of expansive drug abuse. I would advise you to tell us if you have drugs and where you store them immediately. Non-cooperation with a police officer can get you in jail. So can meth, if you have any, so be quick," Said the officer. He was fat and bald, wearing his officers uniform as well as knee high boots. He was the kind of guy who was addicted to power. Everyone is addicted to something. Before Lane could speak, he noticed the nasty, orange mustache on his face. There couldn't be a more disgusting facial hair color. In a panic, Lane tried to remember where he used to stash all his cocaine.... his mind raced. "Do I even have any?" Then he realized he threw the last bit away a few days ago along with the condom box he hid it in that was now empty. Chelsea was very pressing these days in an attempt to keep his mind off of cocaine. He didn't mind.
Chelsea attempted to join the conversation with the police, wondering what the commotion was
about, but Lane sent her back to bed. Couldn't have the creepy orange stache guy eyeballing his girlfriend in her pajamas.
The police began searching his apartment without asking. No warrant was even presented, however, he wasn't mad. Not until they broke his bottle of single barrel scotch. The dog franticly licked up some of the mess. Something was wrong with this police unit. Lane made sure to examine them more closely, noticing their bloodshot eyes, mild sweating, and strange aroma. These policemen were all drug addicts as well. Maybe not addicts, that was a stretch, but something was certainly not right about them. Most reeked of marijuana smoke, and one of them had a "powdery nose." Looking at the broken bottle of scotch, he remembered another broken bottle, one from his past. In high school, his father had been an alcoholic and a carouser, treating Lane's mother like absolute shit, abusing her, and sleeping with other women. One night, he came home drunk, and Lane tried to defend his mother from him. A whiskey bottle was thrown against the wall that night, and Lane received his first punch from his father. High school was not a good time for him. His family was too poor to afford nearly anything, and his father drank all of their money away. Lane never did well in school, and right after he graduated he moved to Colorado to become a construction worker to escape his family. Construction gave him purpose in life and allowed him to focus on something else other than his broken family and his own battle's with depression. Its funny though. He thought he had escaped troubles after starting his own company but in the end everything returns in one way or another. Coke screwed him over. But he would never treat Chelsea the way his father treated his mother.
Drifting back to the scene of his apartment, he realized the police couldn't find anything. One cop yelled, "****" and they proceeded to leave. He went back to sleep with Chelsea.
Lane went to his current construction project, admiring the work going on. He supervised, led, analyzed, and directed his team of workers as well as the progress they were making. With relief, the workday ended around 4. It was too hard to work in snow. Taking a stroll to meet up with Chelsea back at his apartment, he walked by an old laundromat. As he walked, his Cole Han loafers crushed the snow underneath him, leaving footprints and impressions. Weather was no excuse not to dress with class, however, he was poorly dressed for the snow and somewhat regretted it. His clothes looked good, but he looked like crap. It was 14 degrees outside and he was sweating at the brow, and out of nowhere, stumbled through the snow. His heart raced, his brained screamed for cocaine. The snow made him crave it the most. It was like he was walking through a world filled with cocaine. Still stumbling in front of the laundromat, Lane looked in front of him, attempting to get home in one piece without falling. He felt weak at the knees. God he wished these withdrawals would lift. No wonder people can't quit. "Your a damn fool, son. A damn fool. No better than I am. One man's poison is another man's powder." In confusion, he turned around and for a moment, his father stood laughing behind him, smoking a cigarette, laughing, smiling. His father was dead. "Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. What is wrong with me?"He muttered. He clenched his face with his hands and kept walking and looking over his shoulder. In place of his dad now was a little asian man, walking briskly behind him. The man looked crazed, like a lunatic. His eyes had a glaze on them like he hadn't slept in days, and the bags under his eyes could have been used for groceries. Something was on the little man's mind. Something as powerful as cocaine, but not actually cocaine itself. Something else. It must have been interesting to see a crazy man and an addict walking in front of the laundromat with one another. Lane put a pep in his step and so did the little man. He had to get home.