Andre is on his cell again.

"Yo Frank," Andre speaks up, "I was wondering if you're home?"

Donny could recognize some code-speak. Are you home=Are you holding?

"Just a sec," Andre says, putting the cell by his large chest, to muffle the talking, "Ey!! How much you want?"

"Twenty," Donny answers.

"A dub" Andre says, resuming his conversation.

The rest of the talking includes Andre basically just saying yes or no in a long string.

"Awright, we'll be seein' ya soon, then. Bye." Andre says, hanging up. He turns to Donny. The moment is here. Would Donny be able to maintain his perilous high???

"He doesn't have a twenty millie" Andre informs, "we caught him on a bad day. He only has five milligram doses left, and only has two pills of those. Like it, or leave it."

"Ok," Donny says, "I'll take it. Whatever."

"He's already coming over," Andre mentions, "so we'll just chill outside till he gets here."

It is arranged. They head back to the porch to wait for Frank. As Donny sits there, he is ridiculed by the group. Being the lowest notch on the totem pole, Donny is mocked and insulted. It isn't a bother. Donny now had drugs headed his way, and could tolerate the taunts from them. Donny starts to think they gave him a hit of spice because they wanted him to overreact out from the intense high it gave. Drug addiction made for strange bed-fellows.

"You and Frank have some things in common," Andre says smugly.

"Oh really? What's that?" Donny asks amusedly.

"You're both dope fiends," Andre says, "and you're both homeless." 

Frank took his sweet time getting there. Almost half an hour went by until the dude showed. He hopped from the back of a pummeled Ford F150. A small puppy was held in Frank's grip. 

"When'd you get the dog, Frank?" Andre asks, walking up to pet the pooch. It is a tiny german Shepherd. Despite the cold, the whole porch load of people get up to fawn over the adorable animal. The puppy is passed from person to person, as each of the guys pets and hugs it. The German Shepherd licks faces and hands wildly. All are in agreement, the dog is precious. 

When it gets to Donny, the dog growls deep in it's tiny throat. Donny reaches out to caress it's muzzle and the dog snaps at him with tiny teeth. It is not threatening, but it hurts Donny's feelings a little. Animals could sense evil. The dog's reaction confirmed what Donny suspected earlier: Donny was not a good person.

Frank is even more scraggly-looking than Donny. The guy had nappy whists of cheek fuzz on his caucasian face. He had the sunken look of a junkie. Frank's emerald green eyes looked distant and dilated. He was high. Donny remembered a lyric from an Alice and Chains song: there's nothing better than a dealer who's high. It meant Donny would soon get his just deserts: An Oxy sundae. 

Frank is wearing ripped blue jeans and a scraped and faded D.A.R.E t-shirt. Donny recalls the acronym: Drug Abuse Resistance Education. They had DARE classes in school. Fat help it did Donny. When the cops came and spoke at school, Donny would space off and not pay attention. Who knew the path Donny would eventually undertake? At the time, it seemed a faraway scary world, but a landscape that was outside the borders of Donny's life. Now, Donny was in the shit.

Donny cannot keep his hands still as Frank makes the rounds, talking to the others. They all retire to the warmth of the porch space. They smoke another joint, of weed this time. Donny doesn't say much of anything. His sober self is now bland and burnt out. It is hard to keep attention focused on anything more than where his next fix would come from. After a time, a few of the other brothers leave, and Andre motions them to come inside.

Donny follows behind. Frank is off to the side of hallway waiting. 

"Hey Ronny," Frank greets.

"It's Donny, actually," 

"Sorry, Donny," Frank corrects, "you said you were looking for about 20 millies, right?"

"Right." Donny affirms.

Frank pulls a cigarrete pack out of his pocket. From the empty package, Frank pulls out a coffin-shaped cigarette holder. It is small, looking more suited to carry a few joints, or nuggets of weed than cigarettes. Donny recalls Chase's comments about Oxy being death in a jar. A tiny skull glints on the front of the miniature coffin.

Frank produces 4 small, circular pink pills from the case.

"What's that?" Donny asks.

"OC," Frank responds, "its a fast-acting 5 milligram pill. It's an Oxy-Codone Hydrochloride. Most people just lick off or burn up the coating on the extended-release pills anyway. This doesn't have that. It saves you time. It'll fuck you up fast."

"I've haven't tried these before," Donny says hesitantly, "I've never seen pink ones before. How do I know you're not trying to rip me off?"

Frank looks indignant. But Donny knows there is no such thing as honor among thieves. 

"I thought you said he was cool?" Frank says, turning to Andre, "it ain't like these are Flinstones chewable vitamins, or something!!"

"He just doesn't want to get cheated," Andre says, "he don't look like he has much money left. God only knows what he did to get the cash he has now."

"It's popcan money," Donny says defensively. What little character Donny had left was now under attack. Andre shrugs.

"I tell you what," Frank says, "since I'm a nice guy, I'll sell you one, then you can head on over to my place with me, and hang out for awhile. When the buzz kicks in, you can buy the rest from me, okay?"

"Where do you live?" Donny asks.

It turned out Frank was residing in a storage shed. After buying and snorting the pill, Frank and Donny headed out. It was a few blocks walk to the rows of storage buildings. Donny was more than a little confused as they approached one of the garages.

"This is your place?" Donny asks with trepidation.

Frank grunts a reply, and fumbles with many keys on a ring. The dog (Copper was his name) stood patiently beside Frank, wagging his little tail. The pooch recognized his home. The sliding door was metallic, and made a banging sound on the track as it was raised. 

There was a blue couch with white flower designs. The flowers had worn and faded on the arms of the couch, now looking like skin rubbed away from a limb. Frank had an entertainment center as well. There was even a TV sitting in the enclosed space of the cabinet. Frank clicked on the beaded string of the lightbulb overhead, and everything was lit.

Frank kept a stack of boards piled up almost shoulder-high at the entrance of the garage. It was cover, to prevent anyone from immediately seeing beyond that, and over to Frank's living quarters. Several blankets were nailed to the rafters, into a type of curtain, further obscuring the area. Frank had a space heater. Those remarkable heaters seemed like a necessity to all impoverished people. 

"Have a seat," Frank says, motioning to a car seat resting on a wooden pallet. Donny plops down. Copper studies all of Donny's moves with it's flitting brown eyes. 

"I have all that wood over there," Frank says, referring to the pile of boards, "in case I have to burn a fire to keep warm."

"Oh yeah?" Donny comments.

"I'm using the heater now," Frank says, "but the landlord here is getting suspicious of the high utility bills. If he cuts off the power, I'll have to use the stove."

"There's no chimney in here," Donny points out.

"I was thinking about that," Frank says, "I was gonna use dryer duct to channel the smoke outside, maybe leave the bottom of the sliding door open a foot or so. I could cover the gap with a blanket, to insulate it."

"Good man," Donny says, with a weak smile. The fast-acting Oxy is racing through him. He is actually much higher now than his previous doses. Too many times recently, he merely felt like he was getting back to normal, instead of enjoying a buzz. Donny will definitely buy the others as well. Right now, he is appreciating all the world has to offer. 

"You're feeling pretty good, huh?" Frank asks, "I told you, those pinks are the shit."

"The best things in life are pink," Donny says sleepily, "pills and pussy. What else does a man need?"

"Here, Copper," Frank says, grabbing a bag of hard dog food and pouring it into a metal bowl. Copper devours the pile of kibble. The dog's gangly paws hold the container in place.

Frank hits the power on the slim radio atop the entertainment center. 

"The Iowa game is on," frank says, hitting the digital tuner over to the sports station.

"Do you watch football?" Frank asks. Donny is close to nodding out and doesn't hear the question.

"Feel free to pass out here for awhile," Frank says with a cackle, "It's plenty warm." After Frank hits the power button on the space heater, the soft drone of the appliance makes Donny drift off.

Donny is nudged awake. Frank is holding out a coffee cup to him. Donny takes it, and winces at the hot feel of the ceramic sides.

"Careful, it's hot," Frank says, walking leisurely back over to the couch. It's not cocoa, nor coffee, but soup. Campbell's alphabet, from the taste of it.

"Thank you," Donny says, filtering the warm bits of food with his teeth, and swallowing the broth. He chews the particles of meat and such also. It is great.

"I have crackers," Frank explains, "but I'm taking the last of em. Sorry."

"No need to be sorry," Donny says, "thank you. For the food, and the drugs. It'll keep me from getting sick."

"Yeah, I know what that's like," Frank mumbles, as he spoons soup into his mouth.

"Did Iowa win?" Donny asks.

"Sure did," Frank says with a smile, and points to his Iowa Hawkeye sweatshirt he now wears, "I'll be an Iowa fan till the day I die."

Donny is silent. He has no interest in sports. It was simply another method of improving relations between him and his new dealer. 

Two addicts nurse their soup in a space never meant to house human beings. Donny thought of all the larcenists gallivanting around the world today, in stolen mansions and overpriced cars. Donny and Frank were subsiding on scraps from the table. It wasn't right.

"So, I'll buy the rest of those pills and be on my way." Donny says out of the blue.

"Alright," Franks says, brushing cracker crumbs from his lap, "let me get my jacket."

Frank once again takes out the coffin container and pulls out three pills.  Donny notices a series of discolored marks on the inside of Frank's elbow. The fold of flesh between his bicep and forearm had darkened dots of skin that looked slightly cratered, like bug bites. But Donny knew what they really were. The veins forked away from the pock-marks, similarly darkened, like healing bruises.

The money is exchanged and Donny once again has pills. Donny is provided a cellophane from a cigarette box to seal up the pills.

"I was thinking about using a needle," Donny says abruptly, "can you show me how?"

It wasn't a smooth transition to the topic, but Donny was antisocial, and had long since lost his subtleness with people. Donny nods towards the track marks on Frank's arm. Self-consciously, Frank rolls his sleeve back down over the injection scabs.

"My advice is, never do it." Frank says gruffly, "you don't know what you're getting into."

"I only have this little bit of dope left," Donny explains, "and I don't know if I'll be getting more. I want it to last as long as possible."

"There's no good reason to start," Frank says, lighting a cigarette, "unless you got a deathwish."

That's exactly what Donny had. His internal wishing well was continually accessed for a request to stop living. Poking his vessels with a needle would be like prodding the abyss, and waking what resided there. His promise to his dead father Ronald was forgotten.

"Maybe we can work out a deal," Donny suggests, "do you need help with anything? Is there any job I can do? In exchange, you can show me how to pop my veins with a rig."

Frank stares at the glowing orange helix of metal within the space heater. He might as well be looking into the furnace of hell. Frank would be the devils advocate for this agreement. 

"YOu know how I became homeless?" Frank asks.

"No. How?" Donny asks.

"I used to have it all," Franks says musingly, "I had a wife, little girl, nice 2 story house. Everything was mine."

"What happened?" Donny asks.

"The economy. That's what happened," Frank relates, "I used to run my own construction business. We built pre-fab homes. That's pre-fabricated, if you don't know. I had a lot of employees under me, and my wife ran all the accounting."

Copper trots over to Frank, resting his head on the masters leg. Frank scratches behind the dog's ear distractedly. Copper's leg gets going, twitching spastically with pleasure.

"It looked like there was nowhere to go but up," Frank says, "but then everything stalled, and we were headed straight down. We built too much, and had no more customers. The houses already assembled stood empty, or were in the process of foreclosure. I laid off every last employee."

Frank chuckles bitterly, still caressing Copper's muzzle. No matter how far he plummeted, Frank would always be a hero in the canine's eyes, at least.

"My wife said it was like amputating limbs," Franks mumbles, "I cut off all those limbs, to save the patient. But it was no use. I still remember going into our main storage building, and seeing all the pieces of homes just standing there unused. Things were profitable, but I spent all the gains on more lumber, more siding, more materials. It was just more, more more."

Copper breaks away from Frank and walks over to his place in the corner. While passing Donny, Copper gives a cautious sniff at the bum. Donny extends his hand. The pooch looks at Donny's fingers, then steps back, growling softly. Copper circles his bedding three times, and plops down. His small paws rest on the blanket, and his head settles upon them as well.

"I have a friend, Gus Landry," Donny says, "he had a similar experience. He owned a carpet warehouse, and a remnants supplier, for all the leftovers from jobs. The housing market tanked, which made his business dry up too."

"Yeah, it's like a chain reaction," Frank comments, "the houses sit empty, then the banks are hurting because of the loans. So the government bailed out the banks. But no one's working, so Uncle Sam's revenues are going down. So I guess my question is, who's gonna bail out the government???"

"China, it looks like," Donny says, "from what I understand. They're buying all our debt. And we can't pay it back."

"There's gonna be war," Frank says, "shit, we're already been involved in Afganistan longer than we were in WW2. It's like that old Johnny cash lyric: "Matthew 24 is knockin' at the door. And there can't be too much more to come to pass.'"

Frank leans forward and searches through the CD cases next to his radio. He pulls out Johnny Cash's greatest hits and taps it with his finger.

"We don't have many artists that understood the poor, like Cash did," Frank comments. He examines the cracked CD case, which showed the elderly Mr. Cash looking over his shoulder, with a guitar case slung over his shoulder.

"We're getting sidetracked," Frank says, putting the case back, "I was telling you how I got homeless."

Frank coughs hard, and hawks a wad of spit into a coffee can nearby.

"I hate how overpriced the healthcare is in this country," Frank says bitterly, "we have some of the best technology, but it's all for-profit. They design this stuff to be as expensive as possible. That's the main reason I lost my fucking house."

Frank shoves his arms into the pockets in front of his sweatshirt and continually stares at the heater, as if it were a fireplace.

"I was driving my wife's car," Frank says distantly, "I had to sell the truck because we couldn't afford the payments, or the gas. It was winter, and the windshield was all iced over. I scraped it, but it was sleeting, and didn't do much good. The heater blower motor had gone out on the car. It still gave heat, but only on the front panel, not on the windshield."

Donny braces himself for another sob story. he might even compare the hardship to his own. If it was worse than Donny's situation, it would make him feel better. If it was not as difficult as Donny's, the information could be discarded. 

"I tried to fix the damn thing," Frank says, "but I'm no mechanic. I tore it all apart, and had a hell of a time just getting it back together. We couldn't pay for the car shop to fix it for a few weeks, so we just made do. We just made do."

Frank lowers his head as he repeats this phrase. The hands in his lap are harsh and calloused, the implements of house-building. Now, those very same hands inject poisonous liquid everyday. Or, as much as Franks funds allow.

"I didn't see the semi coming," Frank says, "It slid through the intersection, brakes all locked up. The dumbs driver didn't have sense enough to slow down on an icy road. The toxicology report came back and showed the driver was on speed. Meth."

"Me and my daughter Lindsey were riding in the front. The semi-truck slammed into her passenger side door going maybe 45. The next thing I remember, I was upside down, the car flipped over. They had already cut out Lyndsey by then, with the jaws of life. I just remember looking over, and seeing her blood dripping from the seat. There was so much of it. I also saw one of her hair ribbons, with some of her blonde hair hanging off of it."

"The death of our child killed our marriage," Frank says bleakly, "between the funeral costs for her, and the hospital bills for my messed up back, it took away the last of our savings, after the business foreclosure. My wife was a good woman, but we had so much invested in our daughter Lori, that it was like another bankruptcy. All that college education we paid. All the doctors appointments, and loan co-signs we did with her. It was all for nothing, in the end."

Frank pulls out his wallet and shows Donny a picture of Lyndsey. It always felt eerie to see a picture of a presently deceased person. Her smile contradicted her dead nature. Her toothy grin was alive with compassion, full of vitality. She didn't know of her impending doom. Her thoughts were most likely that of boys, or school tests, or maybe track meets. Or concerts. She was pretty and clean-cut. Her golden blonde locks were strewn across delicate shoulders, and framed an angular face. 

"People say this country is becoming socialist," Frank says, "but it wasn't that way for me. I was stuck with a huge hospital bill, a buried girl, and a failed marriage. All because of money. Nothing but money."

Frank stretches backward, then winces at the pain in his spine. He twists from side to side, with his hands tucked up like chicken wings. Donny hears several brittle popping sounds come from his back.

"I started on morphine, from the hospital," Frank recalls, "then they got me on benzos like collatapin, and vicodin. I got on disability for it, because I was in physical rehab, learning to walk again. By that time, my wife was packed up and moved out. She was actually pretty cordial about the divorce. She left me the house because she couldn't afford the upkeep. As it happened, neither could I. I settled with the bank, and they took the house."

"So there I was: wifeless, jobless, penniless. I didn't even have a car. I auctioned off the last of the house possessions, and holed up in a motel for about a year, until the disability checks started coming in."

Donny has heard enough already. Rather than empathizing with Frank, Donny begins to lament that this story is dragging down his high. 

"That's too bad man," Donny says dreamily.

"I'm still getting some disability now," Frank says, "but it ain't as much as it was to start out with. It pays for the shed here, and a little bit of dope. I sell it to get a little bit more, and just live day to day."

"A lot of people are living like that now," Donny says, "while the crooks make off with billions. It's like Trent Reznor said: 'God money, let's go dancing on the backs of the bruised.'"

"I still believe in God," Frank says wistfully, staring up at a crucifix nailed to the wood-paneled wall. It is unsettling, with Jesus lying there, hands and feet impaled on the cross. How was this supposed to evoke hope? Donny didn't comprehend it. The fairy tale didn't amuse him. It was an unpleasant falsehood.

"If it wasn't for God, I wouldn't have half the joy I've experienced with Lyndsey and my wife Lori. I am thankful to have such memories, even now. I just like to get high and pretend, for a moment, that time stood still. And things didn't change."

Donny looks at the crucifix and feels nothing. He struggles to remember the good times. The opiates played havoc with the memory. The drugs depressed his central nervous system, and did something with his spine maybe. Donny wasn't sure about the science of it all, but it was bad news for his noggin.

"I was sad when my wife left," Frank said, "that's part of why I kept taking the pills. It helped me get by, helped me--"

"It helped make do?" Donny suggests.

"Right," Frank says, "and now it's like I don't remember what real happiness is like. It's just fake joy, with the pills."

Donny slumps back into the sofa.

"Well," Donny says, "if it's gotta be fake joy, or nothing at all, I vote for fakeness."

That was the drug talking. It was the only thing that spoke within Donny anymore. Frank had let out his confessional. Donny might feel privileged. After all, Donny has spared himself long enough to stay warm within the confines of a fucking storage garage, with an over-the-hill junkie, and a dog that loved everyone but Donny. 

Donny couldn't beat the drug. Rather than rally against the OC, he would charge upward and onwards, out of this life. Out of the ionosphere into nothingness.

"Can you help me or not?" Donny asks impatiently.