Buying Pot

[hazlogs]

October 29, 2000

Malachi
In a word, waifish. A small boy who could be anywhere from nine to twelve 
  years old. He is thin and delicate in appearance, like a grubby glass 
  unicorn, with black hair falling messily across his forehead, and 
  mis-matched eyes -- the left brown, the right blue -- swimming behind the 
  lenses of a pair of thick-framed eyeglasses, obviously secondhand.
His clothes are secondhand as well and ill-fitting besides; his small body is 
  swamped within the folds of a faded SCCU sweatshirt. The hem comes down to 
  his knees; his hands are all but hidden despite his having rolled the 
  sleeves up several times. Battered jeans, grubby sneakers, and an equally 
  grubby jeans jacket complete the boy's usual outfit.
His manner is quiet and pensive, often wary and far too solemn. His nails are 
  bitten to the quick, and he rarely, if ever, looks anyone directly in the 
  eye, but rather ducks his head to give one a sidelong glance.

McDonald's
A small McDonald's which is devoid of any sort of garish trappings. Instead, 
  it seems to focus on fast, friendly service with a smile and good food. 
  Above the counter to the north, you can see the glowing yellow billboard 
  which details the food and prices. Behind the cashiers, a few people can be 
  seen scurrying about near the grill, making drinks or tossing finished 
  burgers down a small metal chute toward the cashiers. Along the side wall, 
  children's high chairs can be seen, each with the grinning face of Ronald 
  McDonald. A wall poster asks you to donate money to the Ronald McDonald 
  House. Opposite the cashier counter are both Smoking and Non-Smoking 
  sections for in-house dining. Fake plastic plants hang from the ceiling and 
  below the skylight in the center of the room is a square wooden basin that 
  rises 3 feet into the air. In the basin are live potted plants, including a 
  rather stumpy tree.
A glass door on the western side of the fast food joint leads back out onto 
  the street.

Taylor
     Taylor's a somewhat serious-minded young man in his midteens, one who 
  seems unusually at ease with himself when compared to others passing through 
  these ofttimes-turbulent teenage years. He's somewhat tall, pulling within 
  an inch of the six foot mark, but he has more the look of a scholar than an 
  athlete about him. It's the wire-framed glasses that probably add to the 
  look more than anything. His brown hair is kept cut pretty short, worn off 
  the collar, and matched by a pair of hazel-brown eyes. His smile, when it 
  surfaces, can be rather disarming.
     As far as teenagers go he seems rather personable, mature for his age, 
  the type of guy who could get along equally well with adults and other 
  teenagers both. Already he's shaping up to be a rather handsome young man; 
  you just have to overlook a bit of the current blemishes brought out by the 
  'pimples and puberty' stage of adolescence he's in, that's all.
     There's an air of 'college prep' about him. He's dressed neatly, 
  tan-colored dress pants and a button-up shirt, white. Neat, clean-shaven, 
  tidy. He even smells faintly of aftershave.

Sunday afternoons aren't the best for business at the local McDonald's, but 
  it's busy enough so that there's almost always someone waiting to be served. 
  The restaurant itself has only a scattering of people inside. Taylor is back 
  in the non-smoking section, one of those super-jumbo-biggie-size cups on the 
  table, and enough sweat running down the side to indicate that he's been 
  here at least a while. He's reading the Sunday paper.

Malachi's gaze shifts about with nervous restlessness as he enters the 
  restaurant, left hand shoved deep into his jeans pocket. Chewing fretfully 
  on his lower lip, the boy studies the people about -- even those behind the 
  counter, clearly looking for someone. His eyes keep backtracking toward 
  Taylor, but it's several minutes before he actually starts to approach the 
  older teen's table.

Taylor is reading the sports section at the moment, folds of newsprint from 
  other sections spilled somewhat haphazardly over the table. He's in a booth 
  at the back of the restaurant, separated from the entry into the restroom 
  area by a low wall topped with a few pathetic-looking fake plants. It's a 
  fairly isolated area. He looks up as the boy approaches, casual interest and 
  a friendly, open smile, one designed to put people at ease. "Hi there."

Malachi returns the smile, hesitantly, as he stops at Taylor's booth. "Um... 
  hi. Um... are you, um, are you Taylor?" He shifts his weight a little from 
  foot to foot.

Taylor has seen kids like this before, of course, the jumpy ones. "Indeed I 
  am," he says, and shakes the folds of newspaper out a little so that he can 
  fold the section back up again. "What can I do for you, kid? Go on, have a 
  seat." He gestures across the booth, and leans back a little in the corner 
  of his, relaxed.

Malachi slides into the opposite side of the booth, one hand still in his 
  pocket. "Um... Ji-- uh, I mean, someone said I could find you here? Uh..." 
  His voice lowers to a whisper. "He said you had, uh... stuff. He told me to 
  get some."

Taylor pushes his cup to the side, smearing droplets of water, and leans 
  forward a little over the table, forearms resting against it. "Listen, kid, 
  try to relax a little okay," he advises. Taylor's done this lots before, 
  after all; he's got a quiet sense of self-confidence about these deals, 
  which he's able to project into his words. He acts like a protective older 
  brother, or perhaps a trusted teacher at school. "I'm the guy you're looking 
  for, so no worries, right? What can I set you up with?"

Malachi nods, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He does indeed seem 
  reassured by the teenager, and is probably thinking something along the 
  lines of 'gee, this ain't so bad after all'. "Um... grass. Like, uh, loose."

Taylor is an accommodating sort of guy. His nod is an easy-going one, casual. 
  "Sure, kid, I can hook you up with that. How much are you after? An eighth? 
  A quarter?"

"An eighth," Mal says, answering quickly. "Please."

Taylor seems to consider the younger boy for a few moments, and the hesitation 
  might be enough to draw worries back to the surface, though that's certainly 
  not the purpose. "You buying for yourself or for a friend? I'm just curious, 
  you don't have to say if you don't want."

Malachi chews on his lower lip for a moment. "Um... for a friend." He does 
  seem a little bit worried over Taylor's hesitation. "Is that okay?"

Taylor's smile is quick to return, reassuring. "Yeah, it's fine, kid. Like I 
  said, no worries, I make deals like this all the time. There's never a 
  problem. Now," he continues, starting to slide himself out of the bench, "I 
  need to go grab the stuff, and you'll need to wait here. I don't like to 
  carry it on me. Okay?"

Malachi nods obligingly. "Okay, sure. I'll be, um, here, okay."

Taylor dips a hand into his pocket once he's back on his feet, and fishes out 
  a crinkled dollar bill and a few coins in change. "Go buy yourself something 
  while you wait, my treat," he says, and starts out at a lesiurely pace for 
  the side door. He leaves his newspaper and half-filled soda there on the 
  table.

Malachi stares at the money for a moment, surprised, then looks toward 
  Taylor's departing back. Finally, he pulls his hand out of his pocket -- 
  carefully -- and grabs the dollar and change as he gets up. By the time the 
  teenager returns, Mal is contentedly munching his way through a pack of 
  french fries and squinting at the Sunday funnies.

You wouldn't think Taylor was carrying anything new on him to look at him. 
  It's not like a small baggie of pot is even noticeable when concealed, after 
  all. "I'm back, kid," he announces as he slides back into the booth, back to 
  the corner. His voice lowers next, even though no one else is really in the 
  area. "It's twenty-five bucks. I'll pass it to you under the table, and you 
  hand me the money back under there. Okay?"

Malachi looks up quickly, nodding solemnly at the instructions. "Oh, uh, okay."

Taylor does the hand-off under the table just as outlined, and assuming 
  nothing goes wrong on Malachi's side of handling things, it runs smoothly. 
  What's passed over to the boy is a plastic baggie, the size that you could 
  fit a sandwich in; inside is -another- plastic baggie with a few small 
  amount of loose pot inside it. But there's something else as well: a joint, 
  thinly rolled, and a book of matches from some uptown hotel. "Keep it in 
  your pocket, and don't go flashing it around or anything. I stuck an extra 
  join in there, pre-rolled. First time buyer's bonus, my way of thanking you 
  for your business. Pass it along to your friend, or keep it for yourself, 
  all the same to me."

Malachi takes a careful peek at the baggie under the table before stowing it 
  away in a pocket. Judging by the boy's expression, it's a decent guess that 
  he's thinking about trying the joint out for himself. "Okay..." He looks up 
  at Taylor. "Thanks."

Taylor nods a little, settling back into the corner again and reclaiming his 
  drink cup. He seems more thoughtful as he watches his young customer. "An 
  important thing, kid, is to not get caught with that. So don't do anything 
  stupid to attract attention and you'll be fine. If the cops are after you 
  for some strange reason, you can try ditching the weed. Just, don't eat it, 
  okay? I've seen guys try that and it's not pretty, it's not worth it. You're 
  a minor, they're not going to shackle you up in prison for holding onto a 
  little pot. Hell, even the President smoked it when he was young."

Malachi absorbs the advice attentively, mismatched eyes swimming behind the 
  thick lenses. "He did? Really?"

"Yeah, except he didn't inhale," Taylor says, laughing like that was some sort 
  of joke. "So be cool, alright. And one more thing." Now, he takes on a much 
  more serious air, and the look he favors the young boy with is an 
  accordingly stern one. "If you get caught, and they ask where you bought the 
  stuff, you don't tell them anything about me. Don't tell them anything, or 
  else you can lie, say you bought it off some kid at SCCU. But don't mention 
  my name. Are we perfectly clear on that, kid?" It's a question that fairly 
  well demands a 'yes' in response.

Malachi is already nodding, agreeing before Taylor even finishes the warning. 
  "Uh-huh. I promise. I'd never snitch on anyone." He seems a little proud by 
  this last.

Taylor nods, and he's back to friendly big brother again. "Then everything's 
  cool between us. Go on, get back to your friend. Ask around if you need to 
  make another purchase, people know where to find me."

Malachi flashes a brief, completely honest smile. "Okay," he says, sliding out 
  of the booth. "Okay. Um... thanks." He backs up a step, then leaves with a 
  slight wave. "Bye."

Taylor says, "See you around, kid." A lazy wave, and he fishes out the section 
  of the newspaper he'd been reading before.