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threedimensionsTimeline: 12/05; 04/06; 05/06; 08/06; 07/07
Title: Dealer's Choice 2/4: Crescendo
Summary: Of Brandon's relationship with drugs: diving back in.
~5k
Notes: crescendo - gradually increasing in loudness
December 2005
When his dad tells him that they're moving out of Boston around Christmastime, Brandon is incredibly bummed, but not for long. He immediately wants to know where they're going: he has research to do, plans to make, contacts to connect with, hopefully. He likes this and doesn't want to stop—it's fun—and when he finds out that Lynn and David have worked together to get them moved to Chicago, in the goddamn Midwest, he's pissed at first. He doesn't know anyone there, not even online, and he knows a lot of people online.
It doesn't help to wallow in it, though, not when even Dad is on board for this, so he allows himself a short sulk for the loss of his business and his sense of self, then he smokes up to chase it off and gets online, whining just enough about the relocation and the lack of people he knows there, hoping for a hit, and...luck grabs him again, something that, if he isn't careful, he'll come to rely on one of these days instead of recognizing it as simple coincidence instead of something destined for him. He already knows that he's destined for something great, be it this or something else. He's still not quite sure what he wants out of life in general yet, but for now, this is what he wants.
One of his followers online is an emo band fan called Abbi, with whom he's chatted here and there. She's easily recognized exactly what he looks for in music and occasionally tags him in a song or a band, sometimes saying just this song ok or yessss this band @/heybrandon omg and he's usually impressed with her accuracy: she hasn't steered him wrong yet. He doesn't like most of her favorites, but she likes almost everything he does and almost always hits the nail on the head with a short playlist or a single track, so he's come to trust her judgment. Abbi lives in a small town now, but she used to live in Chicago and has a cousin there, a girl called Kylen. Brandon stalks her feed for a few days and sees almost a mirror of himself: Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Smashing Pumpkins, Alice In Chains, pot, skateboarding, weed, concerts, friends, smoking, loud opinions that he agrees with, a 'fuck off and die' attitude. And that's and, not or.
He's just about to friend her when he gets a notification that she's added him with a PM: hey so my annoying ass cousin abbi @/nothankuforthmmrs won't stop talking about you, if she hadn't said your gay I'd think she was trying to set us up lol. When Abbi gets online later, before he can say anything to her, she messages him first with, ok so i told kylen, thats KYLEN dont call her kylie or kyle or she'll eat ur face and not in the good way—
Jesus, what's the 'good' way to eat someone's face?
—to add you so if ur looking to start off soft in chicagoooo the big apple start with her she knows a fuckton of people and she can probably hook you up.
He goes ahead and adds Kylen back, typing out a thank you to Abbi when she messages him again: and not with dick, you fucking perv. i'm talking something to smoke yes but not pole. though i think she does know a bunch of gays so ask her
Shut the fuck up, like you have any room to talk, cumdumpster, he replies back. Oh and thanks. Abbi gives him an "np" and a smiley face, so they're good.
.
April 2006
The second time he gets started is easier still, with all of his planning and preparation helping out. After the move, he meets up with Kylen, who introduces him to her best friend Delta, who "knows a guy". Kylen doesn't know or want to know anything about procuring and dealing and contacts because her mom is against it and has enough to worry about, but she does know, as Abbi predicted, a fuckton of people.
Delta doesn't like to be a go-between, and most of their friend group has been out for a long time because their last usual contact got busted. The only one anyone else can think of is a disgusting creep, she says, so they're all still weighing pretty heavily just continuing to go without versus calling the guy. Brandon's been around disgusting creeps, though, and he confidently says that he can handle it.
"Okay," Delta says, in a you're gonna regret this voice.
Brandon shrugs. He doesn't regret much; when he makes decisions, he's almost always good with them. He's good at considering a situation and figuring out where to go from there.
He gets the name and a number to text, a quick reply and a location to meet. He goes out headfirst into the night, ready to take the tiger by the balls. Ready to get into the scene up here and to carve his own name into it.
.
Charlie is a fucking creep. He doesn't care that Brandon's only just sixteen and he's at least twenty-three.
Brandon refuses to play his attempted mind games, which impresses him in a gross way. They were incredibly lame attempts anyway, even for someone that hasn't lived with his father for the last five years. Charlie has some, though, and he offers to smoke him up easily enough when Brandon demands to sample the quality of what he can get. Charlie likes that; no careful manipulation for him, just straight-up orders. Also gross.
He has a catch, though, before he'll take Brandon to meet his contact. He's not a quid pro quo guy, exactly, but this is. Brandon knows he should refuse, but he's too eager to dive in and get back to where he was back in Boston. And it's not like it's that bad—it's not all the way. And shit, this pot is good. He's been without for a couple of weeks during the move and trying to coordinate meeting up with Abbi's friend and then her friend, all while helping to babysit his little brothers and sister and unpack their shit while his dad and David and Lynn got set up at their new hospital.
(And...okay, he's a little horny? He's too high to feel disgusted with himself. For now.)
Then Charlie takes him on the back of his motorcycle to meet his guy. He's never been on a motorcycle before. That makes him feel better—being stoned and flying through the dark city as he clutches Charlie's sides puts him back where he wants to be, back up.
Charlie's guy introduces himself as Germy and doesn't want to say what his actual name is. Whatever. Brandon thinks it's either Jeremy or—no, it's fucking Jeremy. It has to be. He snorts to himself at the way Germy acts so proud of the supposed-to-be-gross nickname that he's reclaimed, or some shit. He doesn't look dirty—in fact, he looks and acts a hell of a lot cleaner than Charlie, whom he lets in to his apartment and then kicks out when he gets a good look at Brandon.
"How old are you?" he asks, frowning a little.
"Almost eighteen," he says immediately. Just under the wire should he get busted, he thinks. Not enough to be held fully responsible, so he wouldn't be a liability, and old enough to not be under his parents' influence quite as much.
"Bullshit," Germy says kindly. "Look...don't hang around with Charlie anymore, okay? I feel like I need to get tested every time I look at him. You didn't—uh—?"
Brandon shrugs nonchalantly. "Don't see how that's any of your business."
Germy puts his hands up, not offended. "Whatever, man. He's kind of known around some circles, though. I only even still talk to him because he'll do whatever it takes—and I mean whatever—to get any kind of drugs he can. He's the only one I know right now who can get some powder any time I feel in the mood. I'm mostly just pot and sometimes pills." He pauses. "That's not what you want, right?'
"Not right now," Brandon says. Probably not at all, but he doesn't need to show any more of his cards than he needs to. He's in a strange man's apartment by himself at night in the middle of a big, new city, with several hundred dollars in cash on his person. Not to mention that he's already let things go a little too far tonight. He is determined that he get what he wants, though, and in that moment he wonders how far that might take him. He feels like he's close, and if that means pushing the limits, he might just do what he has to do. Limits only apply until there are new limits.
"Okay," Germy says. "I think I can hook you up. You thinkin' now?"
"Sure."
"How much are you looking for?"
Brandon shrugs again and gives him a few options, sticking the one he really wants in the middle. He doesn't know anyone that will buy from him just yet other than Kylen and probably her friend, but he isn't going to ask his dad to figure out how to supply him after several months of not having to, and this way he'll have his own supply for a while.
Germy actually has enough on hand, he says, and he excuses himself to another room, telling Brandon that he can sit down at the table in the kitchen where they've been sizing each other up. He politely declines, wanting to stay on his feet just in case, but it he trusts his instincts, which are telling him that this guy is okay.
After a minute or so, Germy comes back with a huge bag and a scale; he packs a bowl for them both to smoke while he weighs out, and he even accounts for the weight of the smaller bag when he fiddles with it to get it exactly right. Brandon makes sure to get his number so that he doesn't have to go through Charlie again—once was enough—and Germy of course knows what he's doing, gently advising again that Charlie is seriously gross, man. Brandon nods and tries to dismiss that for the time being—he'd looked okay, and there's nothing he can do about it now—but he texts himself an X, a reminder. He'll try to find a discreet clinic when he can.
Later, at home in their new house in his attic room, he puts on some music while he sets to work cleaning it all, sorting off the seeds and stems and picking some of the dense, sticky bud apart. He's had to leave all of his gear behind—David had flipped his shit at Dad for casually packing his favorite bowl, saying we're going over state lines, STATE LINES over and over until Dad had thrown the pipe at his face, at which time David had stuffed it into a large box of shit he planned to drop off into a Salvation Army donation bin—and so Brandon had given everything he'd collected in Boston to Lindsey. He'd asked Kylen the first time they'd met up if she knew where he could start to replace some of his most-used items, such as his grinder and roller, and the place she'd taken him to was great. He probably made them suspicious by how much he'd spent, but he's serious business about this shit and only wants the best.
He's kept his digital scale, though, and has grabbed a box of baggies out of the kitchen on the way up, so he begins dividing portions so that he'll be ready. He grins to himself as he works most of the giant green chunks into smaller bags of precise weights, dreaming big—something he indulges in when he has a lot of time alone and no plans for the evening. Hopefully that won't be for too much longer; he's excited to meet and get to know more people, but he knows that he can't seem too eager. So far, Kylen and Delta and even a supplier is a great start. He picks up his new grinder and a roller and goes to work with them for a bit, creating a row of neat, smooth joints as he relives some of his best memories from Boston and imagines how it might be here if he can play it right. Once he gets to where he wants to be, he figures it can be whatever he wants. A steady client base like before, his name, his reputation. Money.
He has a much better idea now about what he needs to charge, but he reminds himself to judge each situation independently for the time being—some of his clients before reacted well to a slightly higher price, thinking that he'd saved something better for them, and some reacted well to a slightly discounted price on the "we're friends!" model. Kylen will get a discount either way, he decides, for helping him get started. He recognizes and is grateful when others help him, and he makes a point to show it so that they know it, too.
Brandon finishes rolling the last joint and lights it up for himself, exhaling slowly, and he tells himself to get ready for a great year.
.
Kylen is delighted when he shows up at her house the next day with a backpack and a knowing grin after her mom goes to work; she lets him in at once and they go to her room, where Delta is also waiting, also excited: they've been out for so long. When she sees the organized stock in his pack, she calls her boyfriend and then leaves for a short time to get more money from him, and between the two of them plus the smaller bag he gives to Kylen for next to nothing when Delta's out of the room, they almost run him out again.
"Nobody wanted to get into it with Charlie," Delta says as he consolidates several smaller bags into a bigger one for her and shows her the reading on the scale. "He'd always hint that he had some or could get it, but that we should do something for him to make it worthwhile, and ugh." She shudders. "Even if I didn't prefer girls, he'd skeeve me out." She gives him a shrewd look. "He likes anyone that's breathing, though. Did you convince him with the power of your words?'
"Words can be powerful," he says, knowing that he sounds like a douche, but not wanting to answer. They're all high as fuck anyway, so he can sound a little douchey without it meaning too much. He offers her a grin as he holds out her bag. "I got the name of his guy, though. I won't have to see his face again."
"Good," Kylen says hazily, looking up at the ceiling of her room. "I'd want to punch it too many times." She looks at Delta. "Claudia is sure that he's where she got gonorrhea."
Delta sighs. "Don't make me throw up, I swear to god." Her phone chimes and she looks at it. "Okay...thanks, Brandon. I'm gonna take this to my boyfriend and get the good lovin', as long as he doesn't get too wrecked and fall asleep."
He snorts. "Yeah, watch out for that."
"Can I get your number? Are you going to have more in the future, do you think?"
"Yes and yes," he says immediately. He pulls out his new phone and adds her to his contacts as well so that he'll know who it is if she texts him for more. Now he has two people in his "2" category, which is for dealing, and one in his "1", which is for friends. If Delta's boyfriend likes what she brings back—and why wouldn't he?—and he has friends that have also been out, Brandon's going to need to get back in touch with Germy. Soon, his categories will be filling up. Soon, he'll be the guy again.
.
May 2006
He meets Mark Allgeyer in the guitar section of an instrument store a month or so later. What do you know, he and his friends have all been out, too—Kylen doesn't know them, but Delta's boyfriend Luke hangs out with him and many others in this huge basement-type of place underneath an abandoned clothing store.
Brandon falls in love with it the second Mark takes him there: the aesthetic of the dimmed lights and loud music blasting from high-mounted speakers, the random walls and rooms, the dozens of chairs and sofas in singles and in clusters. The smell of smoke and incense and popcorn. The safety of a place to go, a known hideout. The guy that runs it from behind a snack counter knows that most of them smoke or drink in there, and he openly doesn't give a shit as long as no one is outright fighting or fucking. He sells snacks and some food items and plays music over the cobbled-together stereo by request if they pay, and the place is always full.
There are at least a dozen people there at any given time. Luke Radford, Delta's boyfriend whom Brandon has already met a couple of times, greets Mark and then Brandon when they come in, and his, "Oh! Hey, man! Good to see you!" to him is all that the others need before they trust him and welcome him in.
So many others: Andrew, Brian, Claudia, Matt and Nikki, Steve, Shaundra, Kieran, Will, Brianna—and those are just the regulars, in addition to Kylen, Delta, Luke, and Mark. The list gets bigger, lots of people circulating as the nights get late and the days go on. Brandon adds more and more numbers to his phone and his orders with Germy get bigger. He's always carrying pot, cash, and his scale. His phone chimes constantly and people look for him, their faces lighting up when he enters the room.
He's the guy.
.
Autumn 2006
It's not all fun and easy, though.
The first time Germy suggests that his business is getting so heavy that he's having trouble keeping up with him, that he should go to his dealer, Brandon's fine with it. Bigger and better things, that's what life is all about. Germy warns him about his guy, but Brandon's still cool; he's met a lot of people, in Boston before and Chicago now. He's almost seventeen now and can handle himself. Germy warns him again and Brandon asks him if he's going to introduce them or keep getting it all himself, and Germy sighs.
When Toddball pulls a gun on them, Brandon's stomach goes cold and he's almost sure that he's going to wet his pants before he remembers that he and Germy had gotten blazed out of their minds before showing up, Germy insisting that they be "as chill as fuck man. I'm not kidding." It seems to have worked; Brandon takes his cue from Germy, who stays completely calm and blank-faced when the strung-out paranoid freak he called his guy got close enough to him that the gun almost touched his cheek. "You know me, man," he kept saying soothingly. "We said I could show you how you'd know me. Can I show you?"
"Show me what?" Toddball spits, the gun in his hand shaking. Brandon thinks he's on meth at least, and that it might not be all.
"Look, okay?" When Toddball doesn't reply, Germy slowly pushes back his sleeve. "Remember?" he asks quietly. "This was you."
Brandon looks too and feels himself go cold again—Jesus, is he going to have to do that too? Germy has a ragged T scar on his upper arm.
Toddball looks at it for a long moment and then laughs, a strange sound that's a mix of hysterical and choked, and he lays his gun on the kitchen counter. "Right, right! Germy, okay, I remember you man. How's it been?" Then he throws his arms around him and hugs him tight. "You're the best," he says, grabbing at his cheek. "No blood from you."
"None," Germy says, still calm. Brandon doesn't know what the fuck that means and isn't sure he wants to.
"I Teed you and you smiled and so did that one." Toddball's eyes look to the empty corner of the room and his grin drops off of his face as he seems to concentrate. What the fuck? Brandon tries to catch Germy's eye, but he doesn't look away from Toddball's face.
Finally, Toddball settles down a little more and they all sit at the table. He has no issue at all with the amount of pot Germy wants his for own little business and what Brandon wants for his. He hesitates in talking directly to this guy, still not for sure what's going on with him, but after his initial panic, he seems almost normal—until Germy mentions that he wants a few grams of coke, too.
Toddball gets his gun and Brandon thinks he can hear Germy sigh to himself, but he faces it again as he did before, staying calm and collected and only looking at Toddball, not the revolver pointed at his head. Toddball keeps the gun on them as he gets up and goes to a kitchen cabinet, getting down a box of Lucky Charms, pulling the plastic insert bag of cereal out of it, and throwing a smaller bag of white powder at Germy's face. He doesn't flinch, allowing it to hit him, and Toddball seems satisfied. He gets out another little baggie and weighs out what Germy wants, takes his money, smells it, passes the coke over.
Brandon wants to leave. He wants to be away from his paranoid fuck who kisses his gun softly before setting it back down on the table in front of him. He wants to have left half an hour ago, when they first arrived, when Toddball demands that he have some coke too, to prove that he wasn't one of them.
He want to ask, "One of who?" but does it really matter at this point? He looks down at the coke doubtfully, glancing up at Germy long enough to realize that he's a little afraid, and that he'd just fucking better do it. He's never had coke before and while he knows academically what to expect, he's heard enough firsthand accounts to be apprehensive.
He doesn't expect to like it so fucking much.
Better stay away from this shit, he tells himself later, after Germy has taken him home. "Told you," he'd said, when they'd gotten back in the car.
"Jesus," Brandon had shot back, his heart going so hard he felt like his chest was vibrating. "You didn't tell me shit!"
But Toddball had willingly given Brandon his number and said that he could get just about anything he wanted, just let him know as soon as he thought he'd need it. It was fine; he trusted him now. Brandon had been afraid it would be his turn to get fucking Teed, but Germy told him while driving him back that Toddball been in 'a pretty bad place' when he'd done that, and that Germy was the only one he'd ever done it to. He didn't think it was personal—it had something to do with some mental breaking point or other. "It's been handy, though," Germy had said as he pulled into Luke's driveway, where Brandon had left his car—he hadn't been allowed to drive himself or Toddball would refuse to see anyone if he noticed more than one car. "He's forgotten me or hasn't recognized me right off a couple of times, and it's always brought him back."
"Jesus, is he going to forget me?"
Germy had given him an amused look. "Don't think so," he'd said lightly, and then he imitated the embarrassing fucking thing Brandon had said after awkwardly snorting up the line and it hit him: "Goddamn, this shit is my new boyfriend!"
"Shut the fuck up," Brandon had grumbled.
But he's only a little sorry, only a little embarrassed at the way both Germy and Toddball had cracked up laughing at him, because it wasn't mean laughter. Just...yeah, best to stay away from that, because he knows already that it has the capacity to get out of hand in a big way for him, and that's not what he wants at all. It was a different high, one that zapped him instead of rising him up, but he'll be happy to stick with the tried and true.
And, overall, it's gone well, so now he doesn't have to go through Germy every time he needs, every time his phone starts going off (weekends are big and every two weeks are bigger, as those with jobs or those that get money from their parents celebrated pay days). He's the guy that's taken another step up...and hey, if anyone else does want something other than pot from him, he at least knows now where to get it. Not like he wants to deal in powder and pills, but he can, and he likes to keep his options open.
.
Summer 2007
The second time he gets a gun pulled on him, he's pissed.
Not just for the gun, though—they're at Eddie's and his friends are around, and Terry's there next to him looking as if he's going to cry. But Brandon can't do anything about it because he's the guy and their guy was busted and hey, he's wanted his name on the scene, so they've heard of him and found out where to track him down. He tries to get them all to leave with him so that he can get a hold of Toddball, but they zero in on Terry, whom Brandon had been kissing when they came in, and they realize that he's their bargaining chip—their hostage.
He doesn't want to leave Terry with them, but he has to. He looks away from the terrified, pleading look on his face and leaves him there. He almost grabs Mark as he goes out with one of them and sees Mark pulling up, but he's afraid of what might happen if any of them think he's tipping off someone else to know what's going on. Hopefully Mark will see Terry and notice how scared he is and keep an eye on them; approaching them would be dangerous—the one with the gun has stayed, though Brandon is sure the one he's with also has one. But Mark's good at reading the room, so Brandon gets into the car with the gang's leader and hopes that he hasn't gotten anyone he loves and cares about killed with his goddamn careless romanticized ambition to be a teenaged fucking drug dealer.
It goes okay, just about as good as could be hoped for—Toddball recognizes him right off and has stock, has no issue trading him a baggie of white for a wad of green—but that isn't the point. When he gets back with their coke and they leave, he takes Terry out of there at once, still furious with himself and sorry that it's essentially his fault that Terry's so frightened that he's shaking. He sees Mark frowning at him from the corner of his eye, but he looks away, not wanting him to see the embarrassing, shameful thing he's had a part in. Hopefully he won't ask about it later, but he might. He hopes he'll be able to tell that he doesn't want to talk about it.
(He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to think about Terry asking if, now that the group with the gun—and the knives, they were taunting and terrorizing Terry with them while Brandon was gone, which makes him feel an empty, useless rage—knows that he can get cocaine for them, will they be back?)
He can get out if it if he wants, take a giant fucking step back now that some cold water has hit his face. He knows, he really does, that something could have gone wrong tonight and that it would have been his fault. Nothing has gone wrong, though, and the comment that the man in the bandanna had made to him on the way back—knowing where Toddball lives now—makes him hope that this is his problem now.
He doesn't want to get out of it. This one hiccup...well, this one after a few others, that have also turned out to be nothing...doesn't really weigh that much against his years of good, easy times. As long as he firmly sticks to only pot (and, okay, some Adderall for Shaundra because she really is trying to stay focused and her parents don't believe in ADD or that the meds will help her, and Brandon thinks it's great that she wants to take steps to medicate herself as she sees necessary, and maybe some hydro for Diego since his quack-asshole doctor never writes good enough prescriptions for his football knee), he shouldn't have any more issues.
He can re-evaluate if that doesn't turn out to be true, but right now...he doesn't want to quit. It's still fun. He's still the guy.
WARNINGS