The wait

Why can’t drug dealers ever be on time. It’s forty fucking below, and I’m loitering at 7-11 just underneath the “No Loitering” sign.

“Where the hell is he?” I mumble under my breath. “This is fucking ridiculous.”

The snow’s falling. My hands are tucked into the pockets of my dingy boarding jacket. The damn zipper broke off and the two sides swing free in the wind. Snot is starting to freeze to the inside of my nose. I can't feel my toes.

I should have worn a couple more layers. Another hoodie at least.

“He’s 15 minutes late already,” I whisper in disgust. There’s no one listening to me. If someone was here, they’d probably ask me what I was doing or why I didn’t dress for the weather. Damn I hate people.

“Come on, come on, come on.” I want to get back to my warm futon and trip out on some crazy cartoon. Maybe some Lupin tonight. I haven’t seen any of that crazy shit for ever.

There’s the little fucker. He’s clothed in a toque, scarf, mitts, snow pants, winter boots and the puffiest red jacket that I’ve ever seen.

“About fucking time. What took you so long? I’m freezing to death,” I enquire of my hookup.

“I was watching cartoons, and mom wouldn’t let me out of the house until I was bundled up tight,” he replied in his squeaky prepuberty voice.

“Now remember. I want the red ones. You get me the fucking green one again, I’ll talk to the boogey man and have him chop you shity little head off in your sleep. The green ones are shit. Who the hell likes limes anyway?”

I hand the seven-year-old kid, who’s buying my pixie stickes, $5.

“Make it snappy. I’ll be watching so don’t even think of running off with my dough. I'll slit your cat’s throat if you try anything funny.”

Damn kids. You just can't trust them.