Psst…!
My head swiveled.
“I got an eighter,” a man announced in a loud whisper.
I looked around quickly, no one had noticed. “Let me see.”
He opened his jacket slightly to reveal four beautiful rolls nestled protectively against his chest like a newborn babe. He did up his jacket quickly.
“That’s only four,” I accused.
“Am I gonna walk around with an eighter under my shirt? I don’t think so, buddy.”
I studied him: clothes clean but worn looking ─which was a good sign, less chance of him being a narc. There’d been a lot of arrests lately for buying black market TP. I checked out his hands. They looked roughened from manual labour. He seemed legit.
‘How much?”
He motioned with his head towards the alley. I looked at him and then looked at the alley.
“I don’t think so. Let’s do it right here.”
“Are you out of your mind!’ he hissed. “I’d be mobbed if anyone caught on.”
True. There’d been more than one instance of otherwise law abiding citizens turning into a crazed mob, attacking and almost killing TP dealers: trying to squeeze out more than they had to sell. But still, I hesitated.
“Look buddy, if you’re not interested, move on. There’s other customers’ willing to buy this baby,” he said, patting his bulky chest.
Reluctantly, I agreed to his terms with a nod.
He moves quickly, covering the few steps to the alley. After a moment I follow him to a windowless van parked a third of the way in. He opens the side panel, and I gasp: the van is stuffed from floor to ceiling with pristine, thick white rolls, encased in their airtight packages. The promised eight-packs are there, but also 12’s and even 24’s!
“My god…!” explodes out of me: unable to contain my feelings.
“Yah, I get that a lot.”
I am mesmerized. “How much?”
“For an eighter?”
I swallow, and say hoarsely, “For the twenty-four.”
“Ooooh, Mr. Money-bags here! Ok, so what you got that’s worth it to me?”
“I guess you don’t take cash?”
“Nobody’s looking for cash.”
I look at my Rolex and offer it out.
“Nah, I got a dozen of them. Can’t move ‘em.” He studied me. “What you got that people want more than TP?”
I stick my hand in my jacket pocket and grasp the package I’m carrying: stored professionally inside a paper bag by the harried sales associate. It suddenly occurred to me that it was no accident that a TP dealer was waiting near this particular alley.
He looked towards my pocket, a smile breaking out. “I bet it’s worth more than a 24… Maybe I throw an eighter in there as a bonus…” And to emphasize his offer, he pulls a large flattened box out of the van and constructs it quickly with a practiced hand, which is strangely reassuring. He puts the two TP packets inside the box and closes it up: safe from prying eyes.
I’m now deep into a trance state, beguiled by that box of 32’s, unable to take my eyes off of them. No longer in control of my body, I pull the package from my pocket and hand over my two month’s supply.
Before I can change my mind, I grab up the box and scurry out of the alley –but not too fast. I had just bartered away my inhalers.