7

Allen Eklund, the "Third Roommate," was an incorrigible layabout. He was a scalawag, a scoundrel, and an entrepreneur of illegal means. Which is to say: Allen was a wanted criminal, drug dealer, and an all-around lazy fucking bastard. But we loved him all the same.

He didn't appear on our rent contract, and as such not much more than fraternal camaraderie bound him to pay a share of the rent. And he did pay rent . . . on occasion. As he came and went on a whim, sleeping on the couch and eating few meals, we didn't grudge him the intermittent payments. His own income ebbed and flowed with the tide of drugs that streamed into southern California. Weed, cocaine, ecstasy, K, and acid – at one point or another, Allen had dealt all of them with the kind of bright-eyed professionalism that would make any sales manager glow with pride. When the market for his drug of choice was brisk (and when Allen had the motivation), Stuart and I could expect a neatly-packed envelope full of cash. Sometimes, the envelope would come with a sticky green nugget of cannabis, sealed in a zippered sandwich bag.

I remember those days as being particularly good ones. Relieved of one third of the burden of our rent and flush with wacky tobacky, we would celebrate in our way – pizza, video games, and bong-soaked laughter late into the night. Those moments went a long way toward making up for all the absent months, strange phone calls, and sweaty midnights listening to approaching police sirens.

Allen himself was an unassuming presence. His slight body tended to lean against doorframes and room corners. He cut his brown hair short and shaved obsessively. Like Stuart, his wary eyes took in details from behind black-framed glasses.

Now, tilting in through the front door, he wore a conservative pair of jeans and a plain, clean black tee-shirt. He carried a gray duffle bag slung over one shoulder.

"I got stood up," he said. His voice was flat and emotionless. He shuffled through the front hall and lobbed the duffle onto the couch. Flopping next to it, he removed his glasses and massaged the point where the bridge of his nose met his forehead.

"You got stood up?" I asked, incredulous.

"Yeah."

"So it was a date," I mused. I grinned slightly, thought better of it, and attempted a more somber expression. With the single bottle working its light magic, the effort was more difficult than it should have been. I sidled onto the couch and grabbed Stuart's bag of chips with an absent hand.

Allen shook his head. "I guess. Sort of."

"Sort of?" Stuart suddenly loomed behind the couch, arms crossed. "Dude . . . details."

"She's a supplier." Short, clipped tones. Allen stared forward into space, his glasses still folded in one hand.

"Oh. So – a business date." I crammed a handful of corn chips between my lips and began to munch. I hoped that some starch might begin to counterbalance the previous beer.

"Yes and no." A short, pregnant pause hung between us. Then: "See, I really like her. Have for a while. But she's got this boyfriend, right?" He raised his eyebrows.

Stuart and I nodded. I popped another chip in my mouth and began sucking the salt from its ridges.

"So, like a month ago he breaks up with her and takes off for Hawai'i or some shit. She's a tough girl but she starts wanting to hang out more and more, just to talk. Less business. And I get it in my head that maybe I can make my move now, tell her what I feel. I put it off and put it off and . . ." He sighed. "Last week she told me she had some E to offload. I'm . . . such an idiot. I asked her if she wanted to get some dinner before the buy. I planned to ask her if she wanted to go to Oakland with me while I sold my cut. I have some buyers set up, see? It was all planned out. Dinner, tell her how I felt about her, go in halfsies on the sale. Get a relationship going."

Such stories almost always made me apprehensive. Allen already had a warrant out for his arrest. The mere relation of drug anecdotes made me think that a SWAT team was soon to come bursting through our doors and windows. That night, I listened to Allen's story with a blasé feeling that I had heard this all before. No such images of men in black body armor came to me. Maybe it was the beer. Asshole.

Allen continued, "So I got everything together. Cash in case she doesn't want a cut of the Oakland sale. Clothes." He sniffed. "Condoms. And I go to the restaurant and I wait and wait and sure enough she doesn't show. She's never done that shit. Never. Not as a friend, not as a supplier. Jesus. I called her a half-dozen times. No answer."

Stuart chuckled. "Maybe the Bishop got her."

The Bishop tended to float in and out of conversation those days, flitting between stories like a blood-soaked phantom. Another of his victims had been found in Compton a mere week before, slashed to ribbons. I say "he" only because serial killers are statistically more likely to be men. The police didn't like to admit it, but this one had them baffled. Some of the local papers were already claiming that this was the new Zodiac killer; a Jack the Ripper for a new century. As with his three other kills, the Bishop had left crosses carved into the victim's torso. No other evidence whatsoever.

Allen whipped around in his seat so quickly that I couldn't help but jerk backwards in surprise. "Don't even fucking joke about that shit. I'm really," a deep breath, "really worried right now."

I swallowed a lump of corn mush, then asked quietly, "What's her name?"

Allen seemed to calm slightly, turning back toward me. "Lacey."

"Last name?"

Allen cracked a weak half-smile. "Trade secrets, Linus." Then, softly, "It's not like you would have met her anyway."

Stuart, ever sensitive while stoned, said, "Aren't you taking this too hard, dude? I mean . . ." He gestured with one large, calloused hand. " . . . It's not like you walked in and she was blowing her ex under the table. I've been stood up before. It sucks, but there's usually a reason. Well." He scratched his head. "I guess there wasn't with me. She was just a bitch." Stuart trailed off, as he was wont to do in this kind of situation. In that moment, I briefly resented having met him during sixth-grade math.

"You don't get it," Allen huffed. "She doesn't do this shit. It's not her. She's like me – this is business, even if it is on the down-low. She doesn't take her own shit. She doesn't live in some crack house, selling to kids and bums. Like I said, she wholesales. Pure professional."

I wanted a sandwich. Call me cruel, but in that moment nothing mattered more to me than a ham goddamn sandwich and nothing was going to stop me. I stood, and in mid-motion seemed to remember where I was. As I walked to the kitchenette, I attempted, "Maybe she just missed the bus."

"She drives," Allen said miserably.

"Maybe she broke down. And . . . her cell phone ran out of batteries while she was calling AAA. That happened to my sister once."

"Linus . . . please."

Christ. I was not nearly drunk enough for this. Already, the quiet pseudo-buzz of the Stone IPA was fading. As skinny as I was, I had a fairly decent tolerance for booze. I tended to blame it on the old Scandinavian blood in my veins . . . but I'm fairly certain every American drinker attributes his or her tolerance to their ethnic heritage, no matter what it is.

I busied myself with sandwich-making, darting about the cramped kitchenette as I talked. "Seriously, man. It sounds like she got held up someplace and either forgot her phone or left it off."

"You think she got robbed?" Allen sounded distressed, but not surprised.

I reconsidered my words. "Uh . . . no. Sorry. Like, 'delayed.' Car out of the picture, train's late . . . that shit."

"More like she was weirded out by the invite and fucked off for a while," Allen sighed.

"Then why'd she accept in the first place?" I asked. My hands worked nearly subconsciously, deftly assembling a few surviving slices of ham with bread and spicy mustard.

He didn't answer. Between the two of us, Stuart looked on with an increasingly less-glazed expression. Finally, as I placed the finishing touches on the sandwich, Stuart said, "Dude, you want to come to a party my brother's throwing at his place? Ramon's showing up in, like," he seemed to concentrate hard, "fifteen minutes."

Allen shook his head. "I need to stick around, just in case she calls."

"It's a cell phone, Allen. You can take it anywhere." Stuart leaned over the couch and smiled.

"It'll take your mind off of things," I suggested. I held my sandwich aloft with one hand, considered it, and took a bite. The bread was dry, the ham old. The mustard evened it all out, strong and cracking against my tongue. Not spectacular, but what I needed. I considered that I suddenly wanted Ramon to arrive for the first time that night, if only to get away from Allen's moping. I suppose that we can't stand that which we hate most within ourselves.

The fans churned hot city air in and out of the room. The light continued to fail.

Allen spoke up. "We have any beer here?"

"Just one bottle," I answered, mouth half-full.

"Will there be beer at the party?"

"Inevitably."

"Fine then," he sighed. "Fine. I'll go. No need to shower, even." Allen laughed sadly.

I didn't bother to ask him if getting drunk was wise, given his position. As terrible as it is to admit, I half-wanted him to finally do something that would get him arrested. At least then I wouldn't have to compare my life to a drug dealer, and see it come up wanting.