The Cynic’s Cache

I forget exactly when this happened, though due to the nature of the memories, I can assume that it was late winter, either 2003 or 2004.  The memory is fuzzy, thanks to an unhealthy mix of fatigue from poor sleep, being overworked, and relying on stimulants to keep moving.

I was driving home from work after a nine hour shift on perhaps an hour of sleep.  At the time, I was doing ephedrine fairly regularly simply as a way to keep functioning.  I would sometimes not sleep for days, not because of the stimulants, but because of the insomnia.  Sometimes, my body would simply refuse to rest.  I knew what I was doing to myself when I popped a packet of Yellow Jackets, threw two of the pills in my hand, and then reached for a cup of coffee.

The problem was, I felt as if there were little choice.  I needed to work to survive.  My dreams had died, my ability to sleep had failed.  I assumed that my future was a young death due to the stimulants.  I had enough money to eat and sleep somewhere warm, but little else.

I was focusing intently on the yellow lines in the middle of the road.  I did this when I was at risk of falling asleep despite the unhealthy levels of alkaloids in my system.  For whatever reason, it seemed to help.  It reminded me of what I was doing, I guess.

While driving up a large hill, my car suddenly began to sputter and slow down.  I gave it more gas, but it refused to run.  The thing was old.  It had less energy than I did and, unfortunately, was unable to rely on unhealthy chemicals.  At first, I wondered if I had gotten a bad batch of something that was causing my leg to twitch.  The stuff sometimes made me shake a bit, which was part of the reason I never took it unless I needed to.

This proved wrong quite quickly, as the car shuddered and the engine turned off.  I eased to the side of the road, grabbed my things, pulled out the keys slowly, and wondered if I had the energy to walk home.  It was several miles.  At the time, I had no cell phone to my name.

I was wearing black that day.  Boots, pants, shirt.  It was all black.  It was also cold that morning, leading me to pull on the heavy leather trench coat that I have always favored.  Say what you will about what they make people think, the things are unbelievably warm.

I buttoned my coat and simply started trudging up the hill.  The people around here regularly ignore the stranded.  It has always amazed me how, in an area where people are regularly underemployed, bored, or simply do nothing all day, nobody has the time to give somebody a ride when their car breaks down.

At the time, I cared little.  My primary goal was to get home before the ephedrine wore off.  I knew I was as good as comatose as soon as I came down.  I was regularly fingering the yellow and black-striped pills in their little plastic blister packs on the inside of my coat with a mix of fear and stubbornness.  On one hand, an extra shot of energy would carry me long enough to walk home, back to my car, and then home again rather easily.  On the other hand, that might put me over my tolerance and land me in the hospital or morgue.  I was more worried about the hospital, as I had no insurance and an empty bank account.

When I neared the top of the hill, I sighed with relief as a car pulled over.  I put all thoughts of taking the next pill out of my head.  If I had believed in God at the time, I’d likely have thanked Him.

What stepped out of the car was a short fat man desperately trying and desperately failing to look casual.  He wore a cheap gray suit with a cheap, white and blue striped oxford shirt.  His suit coat was unbuttoned.  His car, in all of its averageness, was trying so hard to be average that it failed.  I find it ironic how something trying to blend in with its surroundings by looking like it belongs there can, at times, fail so horribly.

The man was with the police.  I doubted he was local but thought little of where he was from, who he worked with, or why he chose to pull over.  I simply scowled at him as he stepped out of the car and kept walking.  I was going up the hill and he had parked at the top of it.  Encounter with the Fuzz or not, I was still walking up the hill.

The look in my eyes, I had no doubt, said two things; first was “I am severely fatigued and should be sleeping but am likely on some heavy-duty stimulants right now.”  Second was “I know you’re a cop.  Don’t tell me otherwise.  I already don’t like you.”