WHITE CROSS
CHAPTER ONE
Anytime now. I know he'll arrive here eventually, but I'm starting to have doubts. It's already 9:30 for fucks sake, 30 minutes later than he usually is, and by usually I mean always. That asshole, maybe he just had a hang up with one of his clients, which wouldn't surprise me considering they're all a bunch of dysfunctional destitute pieces of ghetto shit. Maybe I shouldn't stereotype, I mean hell, I'm a Jew, and maybe I'm a pot calling the pot a kettle. Or the kettle black, or whatever the hell that stupid saying is. I have other things to worry about than some retarded saying about a kettle.
Stan's not the type of person to let anything come in the way of a deadline. Christ, he's the most time conscious person I know, a pretty significant feat for a druggie. Well, I shouldn't call him a druggie, he's claimed to be clean for what will be a year this May, but being in the business he's in, I must imagine he'd have some slip ups. Even so, I've never considered Stan Marsh in the same class of people whom are his clientele. He's a smart guy, and he's always had that "no-bullshit" approach to people I've just never been able to pull off successfully.
Even though he's a dealer, something he knows I'm adamantly against, I still have more respect for him than most people. It's been three years since he smoked his first joint, er, I should say, many joints, but any change in him I attribute to just normal teenage boy "coming of age." Sure, he'd gone onto experimenting and becoming an expert in harder drugs, but he was still the same boy I'd known my entire life. He knows it'd take something a hell of a lot bigger than drugs to take him down. I had agreed. Now I wasn't so sure.
I peer out the window of my room for what feels like the thousandth time. The rain is pounding louder now, creating an eerie din that in any other situation I'd take a strange form of comfort in. My eyes follow the ripples of water as they skim over the street, which has now morphed into a turbulent lake of muddy water and leaves. The sky is a yellowish gray, with little light making it through the opaque mass overhead. I look out to the small but relatively well groomed houses that line the neighborhood street. Branches and other debris lay scattered across the road, and I see Mrs. Philip's garden pergola fallen over and broken across her garden. I can tell her prized whatever-the-fuck they are helplessly toppled, with wicker fragments lying strewn across her yard. I find myself snickering, and then telling myself not to take pleasure in this miserable old bag's misfortune. Then I think of how in the whole 17 years of my living here, she's been nothing but a saggy old cunt to me who'd yell at me from her porch for playing hockey in the streets while blasting Nirvana from my portable boom box. She never did appreciate the 90's. Bitch. Yeah, I hope your flowers drown.
My stomach just got this sinking feeling again. I check my phone, and it's been a whopping two minutes since I checked it last. What's the fucking deal here. He had a couple clients to visit, and then he was supposed to come straight here to crash for the night like he always does. Maybe he stopped by his house to get some things, but I doubt it. He's been kicked out of his house for almost three months, I'm pretty sure anything he would have needed he would have gotten already. Well, he wasn't technically "kicked out," more like he decided he couldn't tolerate the idiocy of his parents and sister and just up and left. The kid has balls man, that's for sure.
I see headlights on the corner of Clarik and Hooper st. I can vaguely distinguish the blue outline of a medium sized car, and for a moment I hold my breath in eager apprehension that maybe it could be Stan's Buick. I feel my stomach plummet again as I realize it's not, but instead some blond lady talking on a cell phone in a faggy ass Pontiac. Ok, now I really want to see Stan. Fucktard needs to get his ass out of the storm.
I jump at the sound of the television screeching a weather advisory for Park County Colorado. I ignore the monotone voice droning on about wind speeds over 60 mph and golf ball sized hail. They've been flashing that warning every ten minutes for the past 2 consecutive hours. I glance at the radar, and I see our little town of South park about to be engulfed by a massive red, yellow and green blob. Just fan-fucking-tastic. Stan better get home soon. God forbid something happens to him.
More lights on the corner. I wipe away the fog from my window, trying to distinguish what I hope is his car through the torrential rain. It is, and I feel a weight being sucked out of me. Maybe I'll save my bitching for later. Besides, I'm just glad my best friend is ok. I run downstairs to the small foyer and wait by the door and sigh. Thank god.
The door flings open before I have a chance to make it more than halfway down the stairs. In front of me stands a very soggy and winded Stan Marsh.
I want to yell and him and at the same time give him a big hug, (Not like a gay hug but like one of those guy hugs) but I'm feeling such a jumble of emotions that the only thing I manage to articulate is "Dude.."
"You're parents home?" His voice is unnervingly urgent, and I already know something is wrong. And not just wrong, like, "I'm in shit up to my eyeballs" wrong. I inspect him closer, and under his matted black bangs I see his bright blue eyes are wide and darting and his face is flushed. He's never looked this way, not that I can remember. He's always been able to keep a level head under even the harshest situations. I brace myself for the unexpected and get ready to ask the inevitable.
"Why? What's going on? And no,
they're not home, they're at some school function with Ike. And
what the hell does it matter?" I'm stammering.
"Listen
Kyle, I gotta get out of here. They're gonna find me if I stay here
too long."
I don't like the way he says "they."
"Dude,
what're you talking about? We can't go out, if you haven't
noticed it's storming like a mofo out there. And who's they?"
Ew, my palms are sweating now, and I can feel my heart pounding in
just about every one of my appendages.
"Dude, no time. I
gotta go like now, I just need to grab some money so I can get by the
next couple days." I watch him dart over to the drawer and pull out
an envelope where he stashes some financial reserves-about 200 if
I'm correct, and then rush back towards the door. I'm not sure
what to think right now.
I grab him by the shoulder as he reaches
for the knob trying to make an exit. He's one of those guys that if
he wants to do something, he'll do it. If he really tries to leave
I don't have a snowball's chance in hell in stopping him.
"Wait.
So you can't explain anything to me?" I'm desperate.
"You
don't get it do you. I have to leave now. I'll call you tonight
and fill you in."
Hell no. I'm not going to settle for that.
Time to acknowledge my impulsive side.
"I'll come with you."
I blurt. "I'll get my coat." Stan stares at me for a moment,
probably trying to decipher if I was being serious or not. "Christ.
You don't know what you're getting yourself into Kyle."
I
know I don't. But my mind has switched gears, and the adrenaline is
pumping. Maybe it's the current atmosphere with the wind howling
and the thunder crashing like a rock concert, but I feel like taking
a risk. "Go out in the car, I'll be out in 30 seconds."
"Make
it twenty." Stan slams the door shut behind him, and I see him
through the window making a mad dash out to his
'84 Regal. This
doesn't feel right.