The streets were lined with old cars under harsh streetlights and occasional half-lighted billboards. This neighborhood felt warm and cold at the same time, its shadow constantly motionless yet shifting. Jim was washing down a Ho Ho cupcake with a bottle of Yoo-hoo and Christiani was lighting another cigarette when Arthur switched off the headlight and turned into a dark alley and rolled to a stop, deep in a neighborhood somewhere in the heart of Washington, DC.
Arthur was the only black student in the entire senior class, and was the only person we knew that didn't drink, smoke or curse (other than the occasional utterance of "dang it," but even that was heard and confirmed only twice). Yet somehow he allowed himself to be in the company of those who did drink, smoke and curse. He was a straight-A student with a quick smile and a strong compassion for those fallen outside the high school mainstream: If you were rejected by the jocks, or if you were not good looking, or just unpopular, or unfairly denied by the many organizations, groups and cliques, then you were his friend.
Perhaps being the only black person in his senior class made him feel that he belonged better with the outcast of the school; but, whatever the case, tonight we were glad that Arthur was with us, being that we were roaming an all-black neighborhood. But in the back of my mind this would either help us or kill us. He was just driving us to get the pot.
Within seconds a young and stocky fellow wearing a heavy jean coat and a grey hoodie over his head appeared in Arthur's window. We only saw his chin and mouth, while the rest of his face remained in the shadow of his hoodie.
"You lost?" His mouth barely moved.
"Just looking for a hit." Arthur said.
"You looking for a hit, huh?"
"Yeah."
The young man stooped and looked at everyone in the car, one by one. I looked away and I'm pretty sure the others looked away, too, out of nervousness.
"How much money ya'll got in there?"
"Enough for a dime bag."
"Pff. For a dime bag? You crackers came in from the Virginia suburbs, ain't ya? Them leather musta' cost a few of mommy's pretty coins, and you telling me you got enough for just a dime bag?"
"I mean, that's all we need." Arthur's voice crackled, which didn't settle well with me. "You know. Just a dime bag. Um, or so."
"Or so?" He stood up straight and looked down the alley, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. "Follow me."
He turned and walked away, motioning for us to follow with a sideway throw of his head. George -- quiet George -- said "I have a bad feeling." But Arthur, loosening the scarf from around his neck, slowly rolled the car forward, following. "Yeah," Jim said, "maybe we should get out of here."
But no one else said anything and the alley became darker and deeper and smaller. I wiped the condensation from the window with my hand, one quick swipe, and immediately saw dark figures following us. My heartbeat began to race. "We need to get out. Now."
"Yeah, back it up, now," George said, controlling his panic, and the other guys added their opinions, too, which was to slam it in reverse and get the fuck out of this place.
At this point Arthur had his foot off the gas and one hand gripping the transmission lever, wrist cocked to throw it into reverse. Then all of a sudden Christiani's door swung open and a gun pressed into his collar bone. Everyone in the car murmured a barrage of curse words, mostly "oh shit, oh shit, oh my fucking God, oh shit."
"You guys do realize driving around here in the dark with a car like that ain't a good idea. We could cap your asses where you sit, mother fuckas."
Then the gun was slowly withdrawn from Christiani's collar bone and a dime bag dropped onto his lap. "Keep it. And consider this a gift." I was later pretty sure the gift wasn't the dime bag but was every breath of air we took from that moment on. "But when you want more reefer," he said, "next time come during the day so we don't cap your sorry asses by accident. Know what I mean?"
No one said a word until we crossed the Key Bridge and well into Virginia, at which point, Arthur, whose tongue was more sterile than surgical instruments, exploded in a hurricane of endless explicit. He had anger coming out of every orifice, but we eventually realized that he was angered not out of fright but out of bruised ego.
As for the rest of us, we rarely touched drugs of any kind after that night. But Arthur, straight-A Arthur, started peddling drugs, at first marijuana and then later PCP and crack. Sadly he dropped out of high school during finals and after that we didn't see him much. The rest of us went to different colleges and never saw much of each other after that.
In my junior year at Averett College I received a call from Jim one autumn day. Perhaps it was because I haven't heard from him in a few years but his voice sounded distant. And before the thought that I missed him left my mind he told me that Arthur was murdered three blocks from Dupont Circle, his body found faced down on a sidewalk with two bullet holes in the back of his head, his scarf soaked in blood. 17 individually wrapped crack rocks were found in the sports jacket he was wearing -- enough evidence for the police to conclude that he was another low-life scum whose death was only a blessing to society.
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