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Highs and Mellows: A Bo Fexler Short Story by Clair Dickson
Eddy pushed his unusually long bangs to the side, but not quite out of his face. The rest of his head was nearly shaved. It was dyed blue-black. He smiled shyly from his slightly bent head. He was perpetually bent, apparently so that his long bangs wouldn't hang on his face.
After observing him for a pair of weeks, I had dyed my normally golden tresses a shocking ultraviolet color. I completed the look with black lipstick and nail polish and heavy purple eyeliner. I'm a licensed private eye, which has made me into a jack of all trades as well as a chameleon. This time I'd retained my unusual name, figuring the target wouldn't look up Bo Fexler, PI in the phone book anytime soon. Most seventeen-year-olds don't hire private eyes.
It was his mother who hired me, fearing that Eddy had gotten into trouble with drugs or something. His grades had suddenly taken a slide. He'd always kept odd hours, so the only evidence was his report card. He'd been dying his hair for more than a year in odd colors, which alone was not evidence of any suspect behavior.
Slowly, I'd inserted myself into Eddy's group of friends who could usually be found hanging out in one corner or another of the elementary school playground. Eddy took to me well enough. Even gave me his cell phone number. And he'd told me that he was clean. He told me he just liked to hang out with his pals, listen to heavy metal and play video games. His favorite was the Final Fantasy series. But he was adamant that he wasn't one of those hardcore gamers that can't get laid. Apparently, he thought it important for me to know that.
The only lead I'd gotten as to his sudden drop in grades was that shortly before the end of the school year, he'd tried to score with a pretty young girl he knew through a friend and got shot down like a duck during hunting season. I was going to have to get closer to him. So, I went back to the playground, the first of many meetings, I was sure.
"I called you," I said by way of greeting as I took a seat on the bench next to Eddy. I purposefully bumped my hip against him. "Your mom said you were at school. Why's your mom answering your cell phone, anyway?" I asked, coolly lighting a cigarette.
Eddy smiled sheepishly. "Yeah. She won't let me take it to school. You said you'd call over the weekend."
"Didn't get to it." I blew him off with an exhalation of smoke. "Dude. How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"So. Don't tell me. You're still in high school. Damn."
"I'm a senior this fall!"
I shook my head. "You're just a kid."
"Come on. Does it really matter that much?"
"I guess not. You party?"
"Not really."
"Drink?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"Regular goody two-shoes, huh?" I derided.
"My ma would kill me if I came home after drinking."
"That's right––you're still a kid." It came out harsher than I meant.
"Well, look at it this way––free room and board," he said quickly, tripping over some of the words in his haste. "And all I gotta do is keep away from the booze."
"What about MJ?"
"What about it?" Pronoun use indicated how intimately involved he was.
"You use?"
"Do you?"
"Who doesn't?" I skirted the question.
He smiled, still trying to gauge how okay I was with it.
I debated pressing the question. I couldn't figure out a way to do it, so I just kept my mouth shut.
More and more I find that people talk when there's gaps in conversation.
Obligingly, Eddy filled in the current blanks. "I only use it a couple times a week. Two, sometimes three. I don't use a whole lot either. I've been using for a while and nobody even noticed. I know my mom doesn't know anything or she would've done something. Only problem is…" My lips only moved for my cigarette, so he kept going. "…my guy moved away. He was a grade ahead of me and moved off to college. I don't have a new dealer yet."
"That's convenient. I bet you don't even use."
Eager to impress me, he insisted, "I'm supposed to get a new guy soon. So long as he don't scam me. I already lost out when I got scammed by a guy just before the end of the semester."
"How do you afford it anyway? You don't have a job."
"My allowance. Like I said, I don't use much. You don't believe me? Man. Why the hell not?"
I shook my head. "Come on. You can only buy a small amount because you use your allowance? That's a line."
"I don't try to get high all the time. I mean, I like the buzz. But what I really like is how it mellows me. I'm ADD."
"So what?"
"That's kinda why I do it. It's better'n Ritalin."
"And the high's just an added bonus."
"Yup. Honest Injun." A phrase I thought was left on the playground of my own elementary school. He went on, "I'm surprised my mom doesn't think something's up because my grades last term were pretty bad. Because I ran out. Couldn't focus. The pot helps me with that like you wouldn't believe."
"You getting more?"
He nodded. "Should be by the end of the week."
"Gimme a call when you get some?"
He agreed.
And shortly after I received his phone call saying he'd just made his purchase, I called his mother––my client. She was skeptical, but agreed to go along with my suggestion.
I broke it off with Eddy the following morning, saying it wasn't working out and a couple of other clichéd lines.
Then, about a week later, an envelope arrived in the mail. Eddy's drug test results. Positive for pot. Mom also jotted me a note saying that Eddy admitted to using for the better part of three years. Because it was better—and more fun—than Ritalin.
In response, I mailed my report and invoice.
THE END Clair Dickson © 2007 |
