CONTRABAND
By
Susan K
Maciolek
I loaded up
the trunk of the car
with the goods. My Honda Civic was what they called “reliable
transportation,” a few
dents here and there but dependable. Maybe it didn’t look great but the
car ran
like a champ. It also had a trunk big enough for a body, if I ever
needed it
for that purpose.
But
not tonight. While I might be a blonde in a trench coat, I wasn’t some
gun moll
packing a pearl-handled revolver in my purse, looking to settle a
score. This
was a simple cash transaction, to be repeated only as need dictated.
And people
sure had needs, were
desperate in fact. I’d
never seen anything like it. How could human beings let themselves
become so
dependent? But then who can figure an addict?
Sure,
I was a user but I kept it under control. I mean, isn’t that what
separates us
from the animals? The stealing, robbing, beating each other up, maybe
even
killing for the stuff made no sense. I’m sure Dr. Freud could explain
it to me,
if he were around to explain anything to anybody.
It wasn’t much of a
drive, 6.2 miles
last time I checked. There was a street light at the corner where I
turned
towards Lake Michigan but I was headed for the shadows. We picked the
spot
because the nearest street light was burned out. A pitch dark night, a
poorly
lit street, a large clump of bushes along the lakefront across from a
deserted
baseball field. At
midnight, nobody out
but dog walkers and even they were rare. Not likely we’d be noticed.
I parked the
car parallel to the
bushes and cracked the window for a whiff of fresh air. But the breeze
off the
Lake was raw and damp. At a mere forty-one
degrees, it was typical early May weather for Wisconsin where spring
was as
reluctant to appear as a
six-year
old who knows there’s broccoli for dinner.
I rolled up the window and settled in to wait. I’d
give her fifteen
minutes, that was our deal, and then I’d be gone. There were other
customers
who wanted what I had.
I checked my
watch – too much light
if I used my phone. Twelve minutes had already ticked by. I scanned the
street
in the rearview but all I saw was a kid of
twenty or so pedaling a bicycle like Lance Armstrong juiced up for the
final
stretch of the Tour de France. Seemed like a strange time to ride,
except there
was almost no traffic. He soon disappeared in the opposite direction
and the
street was empty again. Then I saw headlights.
It never
ceased to amaze me that
those suburban tanks known as minivans were entitled to share the
roadways with
normal vehicles. Did people simply lose their good sense, along with
their good
taste, once they managed to procreate? Minivans were notoriously pokey
in traffic with
such a wide turning
radius that if you got stuck behind one, you could drink a cup of
coffee in the
time it took for it to make the damn turn. Yeah, I know, I know,
they’re
practical for hauling kids around, along with their mounds of sports
equipment.
How about just having them read a few books instead? Then you could get
a
normal car.
The driver
turned around and backed
up so we’d be trunk
to trunk. Made for a smoother transfer of goods. As she inched towards
me, the
minivan moving with all the streamlined grace of a city bus, I could
see her
“Safe-driving Soccer Mom” sticker on the rear bumper. If all the kid
detritus
in the back of her vehicle didn’t make it obvious it was too late on
that
score, I would have suggested a better sticker for her: “Condoms
Prevent
Minivans.”
As she
popped the trunk – or
whatever you call it in a minivan - and got out, I could tell this was
one
stressed out Soccer
Mom. It was our third exchange and it looked like the subterfuge was
starting
to wear on her. Her blonde salon highlights had grown out a couple
inches by
now and what had once been a neatly cut bob was ragged at the edges. I
couldn’t
fault her for that. My own hair wasn’t looking its best after I hacked
off a
few inches with my sewing scissors, and I was overdue for a mani/pedi.
But it was
her eyes that got to me. Peering from
above her mask, they
looked weary and bloodshot. And there was a hole in the thumb of one of
her
blue nitrile gloves.
I
slipped my mask on, making sure my earrings didn’t catch on the
elastic, and
squeezed a dollop of Purell on my own gloves. You couldn’t be too
careful. For
the last few months, I’d kept a bottle in my cup holder, tossing an old
scarf
over it before I parked the car for the night. Leaving the bottle in
plain
sight would just be an invitation for some deprived passerby to help
themselves.
Popping my
trunk, I got out of
the car and closed the
door behind me. I stayed put and waited for Soccer Mom to make the
first move.
This was our routine. She immediately went to the back of her minivan
to place
the envelope of cash in the trunk, with a visibly trembling hand. Then
she
walked to the passenger side of her vehicle to wait.
I moved in quickly
and scooped up the
envelope. Peeking inside, I lightly fingered the bills to confirm it
was the
amount we agreed on. Yup, Soccer Mom was dependable on that score. I’d
let the
bank teller sort it out bill by bill. For now, I just slipped the
envelope in
my pocket and stepped back.
Soccer Mom moved to
the back of my car
and began to unload, swiftly grabbing the goods from my car and
stashing them
in the minivan.
Sixteen
twelve-packs of Scott tissue
was a hell of a lot of toilet paper but I think soccer mom was helping
out a
few neighbors. I mean, she
must be, this was our third meet up. If she wasn’t sharing, then this
was a
serious case of hoarding that hearkened back to the early days of
toilet
training.
When she had
moved all sixteen
packages, she stared at me over the light aqua paisley mask she wore, no doubt
straight off Etsy. To my
chagrin, her eyes filled with tears.
“Are you sure
you can’t get Purell?”
Not this
again. I felt for
her but all I could
say was, “No, I’m sorry. It’s just not possible.”
She
asked me that every time we met and I couldn’t help her out. I only
dealt in
paper goods. Once I ventured into products containing alcohol, I’d be
lost.
There’d be no turning back.
“But
if I hear of anyone...”
She nodded,
her eyes downcast now. “OK. Same
time next month?”
My eyebrows
went up. “You want
more?”
Her head
bobbed. “Another
sixteen. Can you get
it?”
“It’ll take
me a while. Text me next week and I’ll
let you know.”
She nodded
again and shut the trunk
of the minivan. I watched as she climbed into the front seat of that
ungainly
vehicle, started the engine
and rolled away, slowly disappearing into the shadows.
I stared out
at the Lake. Without
any light, it was only
a vast pool of darkness but I could just make out the sound of water
slapping
the shore. No matter what else was going on in the world, it was always
comforting to hear it. Long after Covid 19 was relegated to a folder of
pandemic statistics in a World Health Organization filing cabinet, Lake
Michigan would still be here.
I opened the
car door and got in, peeling
off my gloves. The mask
came off as I peered into the rearview and spotted the bicyclist again.
Evidently he was repeating the circuit. As he disappeared from view
once more,
I started the car and drove off into the moonless night.
Susan
K. Maciolek
is a writer in
metro Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Her poetry and short stories have appeared
in print
and online publications such as Willow
Review, Thunderclap!, Blink Ink, Vestal Review, Microw, Midwestern Gothic, Full of Crow, Grey
Sparrow Journal, and Pure
Slush.
She also does drawings and collage, which have been shown in a variety
of
exhibits. Current projects include a comics blog and a young adult
novel. You
can check out her words and pictures at lilymack.net.
Copyright
© 2021
Susan
K Maciolek.
All rights reserved. Reproduction
in whole or in part in any form or medium without express written
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