The streets had gone dry. Droughts like this were worse than the Dust Bowl. And just like in the 30's, here we were two "Arkies" that would drive to hell and back for a little work.

      Only we wouldn't work with it. We just played around with it. Lolligaggin at the worksite.

    The silverbacks on our backs were relentless if we didn't. 

     We pulled into a gas station in Tulsa, you as pale as China, sweat beading on your forehead. Stoney Larue belted "Idabel Blues" from the truck speakers.

  - "Won't you hide me, pa, 'fore the Red River is my grave?"

You twisted the knob, calming him down and nodded to your right.  I turned my head as quickly as my aching body would allow for.

     "Ask that dude," you said.

 -"Man, why the fuck I gotta do it?"

      You answered, "I asked the last guy. And I bought the rigs. C'mon you gotta put something on the table!"

     That's how bad we both felt. We just needed something on the table. Anything! 

     Foreign dishes prepared by foreign hands.

   It was a black Dodge Neon and the olive-skinned fellow at the steering wheel gleamed in the Tulsa sun. He was probably high as hell. Or his A/C didn't work. Judging by the state of the car and it's operator, both were almost certain.

   As I approached the car, the driver turned his head toward me. When he realized I was approaching him he leaned inward and reached for the console. 

   I showed him my hands and then reached to my chest, grabbing a handful of my shirt and lifting it to expose my belly. Once he realized I was unarmed, he preceded.

     "The fuck you want?"

 - "You workin'?" I asked.

    "I said, what the fuck you want, homes?"

    He was getting impatient and uncomfortable and I didnt blame him. I was a stranger, and he probably had more to lose than me. Right?

   I answered his question simply, "negro."

   "How much you got?" he questioned.

 - "I've got a hundred."

  "I'll give you a half."

 -"C'mon man!" I spat. He leaned further into the car once more. 

  "I don't know you, gringo. You take it or you don't. At this point, I don't give a FUCK!"

   I fished the twenties out of my right front pocket, gripped them in my fist, leaned into the cars window and dropped them in his lap, rolled up. 

    He slapped the heroin in my hand and I said, "preciate it," as I strode back to the truck. 

     You could tell by my newfound grip of energy that I had scored. Your eyes lit up like a menorah.

    Seconds later we were already making shots, oblivious to anybody that might be interested in what we were doing sitting in the truck by the pumps. You talked eagerly like the sickness had already left you. 

     You plunged the needle into your arm, pulled back a thin string of blood then slowly pushed down on the plunger. I watched the Neon shoot out of the parking lot headed westbound, and the man's leaving helped me relax a bit.

     "We can probably make it to Shreveport tonight," you said with a spark of optimism I hadn't seen in nearly 20 hours.

    I took the plunge too.

    You continued, "Or we could shoot down to Bossier City and stay at one of those shit casinos. Those are always really-"

       I was putting my paraphernalia back together and turned to see what had interrupted you. Your head had lulled back and you staired emptily at the roof of the truck.

  -"Yeah, man. Not falling for that shit this time. Stop fuckin' around."

  I realized I was higher that I'd ever remembered. My face burned and my chest melted. 

     It was like a shroud of terror was draped over my body when I realized it wasn't another one of your twisted jokes. 

     I had time to slug you in the chest one good time before the darkness took me along.