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Chapter 1: There’s something happening here.

“You see this? ‘Third fatal bear attack baffles game warden!’”
She was engaged with her own reflection craning over the sink and applying mascara in delicate yet abrupt swipes. Her upcoming appointment, the anticipation was killing her. For her, I don’t think it was the fucking that excited her, she never really was all that good in bed, but maybe that was more of a me problem.

“No?” She paused, glancing over at me, not stopping her ritual.

“Wow, bears, you must be so excited.”

“I could totally write about this! I’ll go out there and find this bear that keeps attacking people and I’ll write about tracking it!”

Her ritual was finished, just in time for her full attention in passing as she bounced from one customer to another with a new lollipop in her mouth each time.

“Jonathan, you bitch when the Wi-fi is slow. You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to stay here and pretend to write books and make sure my bowls are loaded when I get back.”

She clutched up her black knockoff Gucci purse, carrying needles no doubt and left the bedroom. I got up and followed her into the kitchen and poured old coffee into the cup, she was sitting on a bar stool. I raised both the coffee pot and my eyebrows expectantly to offer her a cup. She shook her head and frowned.

“Oh no, not before a client.” Waving her hand at the pot.

There was always these awkward moments before her appointments. No matter the time of day or night. This awkward waiting, both parties knowing full well one is going out and making bank to fuck and suck in whatever way pays the bills. I don’t love her, she’s unbearable to me at times, but she lets me live here for free and I’m always getting graced with free “practice sessions” as I liked to call them.

“You don’t need me to drive you today?”

“No, this guy’s gonna pick me up and take me somewhere.”

“Oh, not at his place, classy. I’m sure his wife would appreciate that.”

“Oh shut the fuck up Jonathan, you’re such a judgmental fuckin’ prick you know that?!”

She always goes at my throat before these appointments. Perhaps she feels lesser, angry that this is what her life amounted to. A popular high school beauty, who’s laurels rested almost entirely on her genetic gifts, now scores meth and handles dripping meats of many varieties, presumably. Schwarma anyone?

We both make our way to the front door, her heels clop across the linoleum flooring.

“Are you mad baby?” I asked half sarcastically, half genuinely.

“Don’t call me baby, it doesn’t work for you.” She lights a cigarette, exhaling the smoke into my face. She knows I fucking hate that.

“I thought we talked about this…”

“I thought we did too, I thought you were going to get a job or maybe write a book or something like you said you were going to do the last 9 months.”

“It’s just… Smoking makes you so unattractive…”

Her right arm was tucked neatly into the crevice of her left elbow bend. Her Forearm
protruding up from her torso adorned with her cigarette held erect between us. A smoldering monument to the tension I just created with that remark. Her pierced lips, her eyes melting my head as her fury crescendo’d.

“Fuck you, Jonathan.” Finally releasing me from eye contact to slam the front door in my face as she stormed off. She clunked down to two rotting steps and awkwardly clacked down the uneven cracked driveway and swung her body in one swooping motion into the passenger seat, making sure to advertise her long legs. Always be closing.

Satisfied with my send off of her, I began sipping my coffee. I made my way back to the kitchen to make myself breakfast, something I don’t normally do. My slice of ham sizzled in the dirty skillet, nothing was ever clean and it was my fault. I was far away, mindlessly poking the ham slice about, my mind was on bear attacks. Is this how Dexter Morgan has breakfast?

There’s something happening here…

I rushed back over to laptop, it’s light dimmed, depressed that it hadn’t been shown attention in the last 10 minutes. Happily illuminated and back to work (both me and my laptop) I feverishly started to do some basic Googling.

“How common are bear attacks?”
“How common are bear attacks in Oregon?”
“Umpqua National Forest….”
Umpqua….
“Umpqua.” The utterance of the sesquisyllable was the key to unlocking a treasure trove of memories. I had been to this area once before, I spent a few days in this area during summers at Twin Lakes Trail. The ghostly, towering, sagging trees a reminder of the constant cycle of decay and regrowth. The water a calming dance of colors mixing from emerald to turquoise until it sunk into a mystifying sapphire. It wasn’t perfect with a dilapidated cabin which boasted weather warn, splintery benches, and the single stall bathroom with a door adorned with dents from gunshots, but to me this place was sacred. It had stayed an unearthed memory with purpose, that way it can always be recalled and reviewed in the positive light that it should be.

Going back now may taint those memories.

Flicking off the stove I slid the ham out of the pan and onto my paper plate.
Burnt the ham. I’ll eat it anyway. I leaned against the counter gnawing on my breakfast and chasing it with bitter lukewarm coffee, staring at my silent companion, glowing from the aftermath of attention, like a battered wife. The Google searching hadn’t truly answered anything, but instead left me with more questions.

What an excellent business model, keep me coming back for more, you cheeky bastards. My thoughts were interrupted by several swift and bony raps against my door. I cracked the door and suddenly I remembered I was expecting a guest. I gently set the bat back to its position behind the door and let the visitor in.

“Oh hey! Tom right?” I boasted, ushering him in.

“Uh, Dylan actually.” He corrected me.

Dylan couldn’t even look at me, he was looking around, taking the surrounding in. This place as foreign to him. Dylan could have been a walking advertisement for the GAP. I had met Dylan and a bunch of his friends at a comic book convention in Austin. Unlike Dylan, I was there for business, trying to sell ideas for a few shows and pitch a few comic book characters. Compensation is Futile! Dylan and his friends took a veiled interest in one of the stories I made and they took me to lunch. I offered some weed in exchange, honestly, it was skunk weed, but these guys couldn’t tell the difference. I think they were just happy to be there and actually doing actual drugs (if you can call weed that) instead of reading about it on Reddit.

After that I became their grip for all sorts of shit. The best part is because they were scared white boys who didn’t know anyone else who could help them, I charged three or four times the going rate. The tech bros could afford it and they always paid.

Dylan was about five and a half feet tall, his hair was thinning on the top and he wore giant glasses. The kind DeNiro wears in all those mafia movies. They were too heavy for him, requiring frequent pushing to the top of his nose, only for them to begin falling again. He wore a horizontal striped green and white collared T-shirt, fully buttoned up, cargo shorts with red and white Hawaiian floral crocs. He breathed as though he had sleep apnea while he was awake, a true testament to his size relative to his height.

“Want some ham, I can make you some!” I offered. He was nervous.

“Nah man, I’m good. I’m just looking for some junk.” He said with some hesitation, lowering his voice at the end.

“Dylan, you don’t want this shit, man.” I said. I knew what I was doing, tech bros hate being told ‘no’.

“Come on man, just give me some of that shit man, like the basket or whatever!” He said struggling to breath.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking for, Dylan.” I said, “Are you looking for a bundle, the one that comes with 10 bags? Cause you’re not ready man, you don’t want to fuck with heroine.” I tried one final time. I like the guy, but I’m not going to miss out on this gouging if he’s begging me to take his cash.

“You know I fuckin’ got it covered like a Jimmy hat! How much is it? I brought a shit-ton of cash.” I wondered if Dylan was perhaps autistic. Did he not understand that going to a drug deal and telling the other party you have a large sum of cash was a bad idea? He’s lucky I’m only letting him destroy his own life and I’m not taking full advantage of him.

“Don’t curse, you’re bad at it…. iRobot?” a half-baked joke, but with a heavy caking of sincerity applied deliberately. “Alright my man, if you want the whole bundle you’re looking at… $850.” I said arbitrarily looking at my phone as if consulting some grand spreadsheet.

“$850?!” He exclaimed huffing and reaching for his wallet.

“Cost of quality! Gotta trust the person getting you this stuff, ya know?” I reassured him. I cut his heroine with sugar, heavily. Him, nor his buddies will know the difference, and it will help me sleep better knowing they are less likely to overdose. I will still charge him an exorbitant amount to ease my guilt.

“How much weed can I get if I make in an even grand?” He offered.

“I’m thinking maybe a half, five eighths.” I joked.

“Done.” He said flicking out ten crisp one hundred dollar bills. I got Dylan his product and escorted him to my door, he was sweating profusely. Perhaps a combination of exertion for such a sedentary creature, perhaps fear of being caught by the police or his wife, perhaps it was multiple things.

“Oh man, that shit is fuckin’ crazy!” Dylan said raising both his head and eyebrows to my open laptop, open to the bear attack article.

“Oh, you heard about these bear attacks?” I said trying to calm his nerves, knowing full well that nobody who makes that kind of income reads tabloids.

“Oh yeah. That stuff in Oregon or Idaho or something, crazy shit, bro.” He casually replied.

“Wait, really?” I was shocked. He was now fixated on his goodies.

“Mmmhmm. I actually hunt a lot so I track bear attacks.” He said, not breaking eye contact with the bundle.

“You, hunt?” I said, still in disbelief that someone that pale goes outside enough to hunt.

“Yeah man. Don’t you believe me?” He said looking up now at me.

“Oh yeah I believe you, I am just amazed cause I’ve never hunted.” I lied, three times.

“It’s really weird though, I think in the last couple years, there’s only been around ten attacks that have killed people, excluding these three in Oregon.” He calculated.
“What has me puzzled is that they are in the same relative area. That’s what’s really unique… anyway, thanks for coming through man.” He said dismissively. I nodded and opened the door ushering him out just as I had ushered him in.

“You should really clean the place up, maybe some fresh paint or something, it looks like a drug dealer or prostitute lives here.” Dylan suggested as he walked down the driveway with extremely overpriced, subpar drugs. I suddenly wished I had told him $1,200 for it all.

I chuckled and waved. He didn’t know a prostitute lives here, he’d probably be surprised to know that it’s her place not mine. I don’t consider myself a drug dealer though, this is more a safe hobby that makes me extra income. I actually have never sold drugs before I met the tech bros. I figured they were the safest people to sell to and my profit margin is far higher than most. I also have never done heroine, which is another reason I sold only to tech bros, they didn’t want to stick around and try the product, they were ready to get back to their cavernous home offices.

My thoughts were held captive by Oregon, these bear attacks, the location, it was all beckoning to me. I could perhaps travel there and investigate this, maybe write something about the bear that is killing all these people. Something like that may be worthwhile, the kind of thing that makes someone an online blogging hero.

If you enjoyed this, read the other parts or check out other series here.

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