by Giano Cromley

"Twenty-five hundred bucks," he said in this calm, flat tone like a doctor who's telling you the final curtain is nigh. From where I stood, "twenty-five hundred bucks" sounded like "emphysema" or "pancreatic cancer."

I left the mechanic's shop and walked home – at least two miles – all the way hanging my head in defeat, practically crying. The thing is, it's like three miles from my house to work each morning. And there's no kind of public transportation in a town like Eureka. So I was in a pretty big spot, being pickup-less and all.

I kicked around my house that evening and checked on my Little Bundles of Joy. They were drying quite nicely by now. In fact, they were basically all squared away and ready for trimming. And, as I inspected them – walking around them, poking at them, sniffing the buds – a plan began to form in my head. Slowly at first, like, I can't do that. But then, wait, yes, perfect, that should work without a hitch. Everything was falling into place, not exactly as I'd expected or even hoped, but definitely something I could live with.

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The next day I jogged into work at five in the morning, before anybody would have the good sense to show up. I scribbled a note and left it on Slate's desk. It said something like: "Gordon wants me to recheck the data points on Lot 46 up near the Beaver Creek Project." I can't remember exactly what I wrote, just something that looked official enough that Slate wouldn't question it too much. I signed it "All the best, Trigger." And I put a smiley face next to my name with a little wink, which was meant to say, Hey, even though this may not be entirely kosher, please just cover for me.

Then, on my way out the door, I slipped a set of keys for one of the company trucks off the pegboard they keep near the lunchroom.

It wasn't the best plan in the world, to be sure. But I was making the best of a rotten situation. That's what I always do. Whether or not the rotten situation was something of my own making is a philosophical question I'd rather not get into. Leave the Thou-Shalls and Thou-Shall-Nots to the clergy.

I was driving south on the 101, right down the spine of California in a white pickup truck with "Imhoff Engineering" printed on the sides. In the seat next to me were three plain-wrapped packages filled with the dope I'd cut from Patsy, Jude and Clementine. I'd had to hack my Little Bundles of Joy into tiny pieces until all that was left were the valuable parts. To be precise, there were about three pound's worth of valuable parts. And those little gems would be my ticket to a new transmission.

I kept the cruise control locked on seventy-five miles per hour. No way was I going to go tear-assing down there with three pounds of dope riding shotgun. So it took a while. Nine hours and some change.

It felt good to be out there driving. Though I'll admit that the low-level Skeebers I'd been feeling ever since my interlude in the pot field had kicked into overdrive. My stomach was doing a gymnastics routine – bounce, flip, bounce – with every mile I crept southward. And my heart was pumping like one of those rubber balls that Slate kept at his desk to relieve stress.

I drank coffee until about nine, then switched over to Mountain Dew. By noon, the cab of the pickup was strewn with cans. I figured that piss stops were really eating into my progress, so I bought a gallon jug of fresh spring water, which I promptly dumped out and then used as my own personal port-o-potty. It was a hell of a set up, no doubt, and the smell was not pretty, but these were desperate straits and I was in them up to my neck.

At a gas station outside Oakland I called an old buddy of mine from my LA days. Tiny was a good guy at heart. But he'd also been at least a part of the reason I'd had to leave. Tiny is involved in some of the less savory aspects of life – that's the nicest way I can put it. But he was a guy who would know how to move what I was bringing with me. Tiny seemed pissed that I'd woken him up, but he said he might be able to help.

Driving down to LA and talking to Tiny put me in the mood of my former days. And once those memories were stirred up, my thoughts turned to another certain someone who I shared those LA days with. Sherise. It seemed like it would be a tragedy to go all the way down there and not look her up. I hadn't been with another woman since Sherise and I have to admit, I was feeling some manly urges. I knew she might not be super-pleased to see me, but maybe I'd be able to patch things together. It seemed like it was worth a shot, so at the next gas stop, near Fresno, I dialed her number.

It rang three times before a creaky answering machine clicked on. After the beep I said, "Hey, there, Sherise. This is your old buddy, Lewis." Sherise, unlike most people, never called me Trigger, a fact which I've always held to her credit. "I'm going to be stopping by LA for a little business. If you're free, I might have an hour or two when we could get together. Maybe coffee or something. If you're free."

Coffee! Ha! I couldn't believe the way that sounded after I'd said it. So sophisticated. Yes, this was what adults did. They got together over coffee and rehashed a few sweet memories before parting ways and sailing off into the night.

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I rolled into LA around three in the afternoon. I was to meet up with Tiny at this little bar in West Hollywood called The Sweet Hereafter. It was one of my favorite old haunts.

As I walked inside, into the cool, dark air, I got all soft for the old days. There was the same velvet picture of the naked mermaid over the bar. The same high-backed barstools made out of red Naugahyde. It was a genuine homecoming.

I even recognized the woman tending bar. Her name was Marion. She had this wild, dyed blond hair that was perpetually frozen in a bad perm. She was an older lady and she was a tough one, no doubt. She had overseen some of our more festive evenings at The Sweet Hereafter. She had put up with a lot of our grief over the years, but she always took it in a good natured way. I really loved that woman.

"What're you drinking?" she asked when I took a seat at the bar.

She didn't recognize me. That made sense, though. It had been a while. And my hair used to be a lot longer too. I'd cut it after moving to Eureka – not too short like Slate's, but decent-looking, respectable.

"Remember me?" I asked, all chipper and eager. "Lewis Lapin."

Then I saw it dawning on her. "Trigger," she said. "You back in town?"

"Only for a little while. Just taking care of some business."

She nodded at this, one hand resting on the bar. Then she turned and started filling a mug with icy cold beer.

She set the mug on the bar in front of me. She was squinting at me, peering close as if she were trying to solve a long division problem on my forehead.

"What happened to your face, Trigger?" she asked.

I touched my face and felt the hot lines of the scratches. "Had an accident," I said. "You know me, clumsy as ever."