Nas took one last look around before pulling $180 out of his front pocket, then rang the doorbell. His hands were sweaty and dampened the bills, all twenties folded into a perfect square. As the door opened, he found himself standing in front of an older man with silver combed back hair, a scruffy beard, and a long silver mustache that curled at the tips. The man wasn’t wearing a white lab coat as he expected, and Nas quickly realized that was a stupid assumption. Only Chemists that worked in labs wore lab coats. This was an underground Chemist, an illegal manufacturer. Proper dress attire was not required, he thought.
“You Nas?” The Chemist asked.
“Yeah.”
The Chemist looked up and down the alley, just as Nas had done a few seconds prior. Making sure no one was around, the man turned and looked directly into his eyes. Big, blue, and concerned. Nas was obviously nervous, and he sensed the old man could tell. With a slight grin, the Chemist said “It’s $180 a gram.”, which put him at ease.
“Yep, Tuyo told me. Here you go.”
Handing the cash over, he received a tiny plastic ziplock bag, about an inch tall, in exchange. It was yellow with little white smiley faces patterned on one side. The bottom slightly bulged from a purplish powder that filled the bag halfway. A tiny thing for such a large sum of money.
“Thanks. It’s the Original, right?” Nas asked.
“Yep. 100% pure.” the Chemist replied. “First time?”
“Yeah. How much should I take?”
“Depends. If you want to feel it out first, start with one point. If you want to go all the way, take two points. It’s worth it, though. Two… You’ll like it.”
“Ok, thanks.”
“Yep. And if you get caught with that…”
“I don’t know you.” Nas interrupted.
The Chemist opened his mouth as if to question him again. “Good. I know where you work… but your boy Tuyo vouched for you, so… I hope I don’t regret this.”
“We’ve never met. Promise.” Nas replied, and gave a nod of acknowledgment.
“Ok then.” The Chemist said and shut the door.
Nas turned and walked back to the corner of the house where he had climbed down from the wall-mounted ladder, a rusty old thing that looked like it might fall off at any moment. The wall on which it hung was faded black with no windows. The alley smelled of sewage and sweat. All alleyways smelled of sewage these days. Before climbing back up to the roof, Nas reached around to make sure the bag was secure in his back pocket. It was just where he’d put it, but decided to move it to his watch pocket for better safekeeping.
A pleasant breeze waited as he summited the roof, which calmed him and helped dry his hands. The ease in tension made him want to sit and enjoy it, but not on the Chemists’ roof. That wouldn’t be smart. Taking a few big strides, he sprinted and leapt to an adjacent roof. Then another, and another. Each subsequent roof sloped slightly upwards. Play it safe, he thought. After a minute or two, he found a spot with a view. Breathing heavily, he bent down to sit and pulled the bag from his pocket, legs now dangling over passerby below.
The house on which he sat was perched on top a small hill, the city sprawled out in front as far as the eye could see. Chicago was so populated that houses and buildings had been constructed just a few feet apart in most areas, which made roofs the quickest way to travel by foot. It was dark, but city lights lit up the sky through alleyways and streets. Not many people took to the roofs at night. It was dangerous and out of public view, but Nas liked to sit and watch the city at night. The label he wore acted as protection. As he sat there, staring out at the sea of lights, he momentarily forgot about everything; his job, his loneliness, his past. All that was known faded into nothingness. The feeling felt familiar.
A few minutes passed and another cool breeze pleasantly brought him back to reality. What is reality? Why does it feel like it’s slipping away? These thoughts had been occurring more frequently, filling him with a sense of pessimism and distrust. Nas couldn’t place the reason, though. It felt faceless. shadowed. Like someone was pulling his marionette strings, but couldn’t tell who, or what was in control.
Opening his hand, he looked down to find a gram of O-MDMA, as it was now called - Original MDMA. Back in the 21st Century, it was just called MDMA, Molly for slang. Ecstasy. It was still illegal, but it didn’t look too different from its now legal cousin, MDM-5, which Nas sold as a Sales Rep for the DEA - the Drug Enhancement Administration. He wondered why the Chemist has agreed to sell to him. Tuyo must’ve put in a good word, a really good word.
Buying any form of the drug, other than MDM-5, was strictly illegal. In raw form, both were synthesized into purplish crystal rocks, but the effects were drastically different: the new version erased traumatic memories, while the Original simply made the user feel euphoric. Over the last two centuries, the DEA had modified MDMA into a substance that it sold as a cure-all; traumatic pasts, losing loved ones, lost partners, anxiety, depression, even stress… Anything and everything that held negative value to the user could simply be forgotten for the most part. Taking MDM-5 made negative memories seem like they happened a lifetime ago, making them irrelevant, old, and unimportant. In high enough and consistent doses, negative memories were forgotten altogether. As a result, global violence had been reduced and tensions eased. Gross Domestic Happiness (GDH), the index used to measure the collective happiness of a population, was high. At least that’s what the DEA reported. And all due to MDM-5. At face value, it was a wonder drug. The world seemed happy. The DEA was even happier.
Looking up, he saw an ad for MDM-5 across the street. In bright neon yellow, it read: “Live a joyful life, with a joyful past.” The ads were so prevalent, and the drug so well known, that the DEA didn’t need to advertise their brand or the drug. Everyone already knew what it meant and what it did.
Nas removed his black cap, which also had yellow print. In big bold letters, it read “DEA.” He was wearing his standard-issue uniform: black trousers with a matching black button-up. His shoes were black slip-ons, the bottoms of which emitted a soft neon-yellow light around the soles. His trench coat was also black, with “DEA” written across the back. Yellow on black. It had been two years since he started there as an intern. Since then, Nas had risen to District Sales Rep for Block 5C of Chicago, formally known as Wicker Park. It was one of the more popular districts, just as it was back in the old days.
Sitting there, thinking about the history of his recent purchase, a new feeling slowly crept in from behind. Pressure in his lower stomach, which ached through to his buttocks. Nas realized he had to shit. All at once it seemed urgent like it had been hiding there all along. A sense of unease filled him once again, just as it had moments ago with the Chemist. Standing up, he pocked the bag and went looking for a ladder, which he found on the other side of the building. Shimmering down, he walked into the crowd towards his apartment building just a few blocks away.
Pedestrians filled the street. Offices were closed, but restaurants, pubs, and nitrous bars were filled with music and laughter. A typical Friday night. Homeless people sat across the sidewalks, perched in front of rickety-built shelters. Mostly tarps draped over aluminum poles, which the government had provided for lower-income people. None asked for change. MDM-5 was subsidized for those who couldn’t afford it. Rather, they sat with smiles on their faces as if nothing were wrong. Like hunger didn’t exist. They were tame and content, happy to take anything that anyone offered, but never making any requests. Every now and then, one lay dead from starvation - a small curve of their lips indicating a happy ending.
Nearing his apartment, Nas pulled a fab from his pocket and entered. He lived on the fourth floor, and quickly ran up the stairs; he couldn’t wait for the elevator. Flinging the door open, Nas threw his jacket off and beelined it to the bathroom. Close call. He thought.
After a few moments of relief, he pulled the bag from his pocket and studied its contents. Purplish powder glittered under the bathroom light. It looked beautiful like someone has sanded a crystal down into fine dust. Opening the bag, he licked his pinky and dipped it into the bottom. A powdered coating covered his finger nearly up to the joint. Licking it off, it tasted of bitter chemicals, which made his eyes squint and lips curl. There was nothing natural about it. Absolutely disgusting. He took a second dip and a second lick, thinking two would equal two points that the Chemist had suggested. Leaning over, he turned on the sink and stuck his mouth under the faucet to get the taste out, pants still sagging around his ankles. Then, standing up, he pocketed the bag, wiped his ass, and washed his hands.
Back in the kitchen, Nas opened the cabinet above the stove and poured himself a whiskey before taking a seat on the couch. The taste of chemicals still stung the back of his mouth, but the whiskey helped covered it up. Smooth, smokey, robust. Pretty good chaser.
Nas didn’t know how long the drug would take to kick in, so he grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned the TV on.
“… exclusive news from our source on the ground that four members of the extremist group known as ‘The Cleansing’ have indeed been arrested by the DEA…” a reporter spouted.
“… they’re believed to be responsible for the recent explosion at an MDM-5 manufacturing plant, which killed 13 people. Just tragic, Ross.”
“Indeed, Susan. Tragic.” The anchor replied.
Nas had heard of the incident but didn’t know anyone involved on the DEA side. That was a completely different department, and there were strict boundaries between Sales and Siesure. Employees weren’t allowed to discuss interdepartmental information. And they sure as shit weren't allowed to take O-MDMA. It was Friday, though, and Nas figured the weekend should be enough time for his system to clear before starting work again on Monday. He didn’t know that for sure but had decided to try it out anyway. It’d been something he’d wanted to try for years but never managed to work up enough courage to try, until tonight.
As the news anchors continued their conversation, Nas noticed his vision beginning to blur. A slight fuzziness had laid itself over all objects in his view, the woman on the screen slipping from perception. He felt cold but his hands were clammy and hot. Tingles were running up and down each and every muscle. All over his skin. Drawing in a deep breath, he laid his head back and exhaled deeply.
Then, without notice, he had to shit again.
(To be continued…)
I’m all in!
Lookin' good!