It was Wednesday, January 18, 1989.
I was getting ready to head out to one of my bars. Wyatt was about to head out to his. He’d just sent one of his girls – a bartender from a bar on University where he worked – on her way before Teresa came over for the night. He was drunk and high.
After the blowup a few weeks ago, we hadn’t talked much. I was looking for a way either to get him out of there or, perhaps even better, get me out of there.
I’d lived with roommates pretty steadily since my sophomore year of college. Some were good, some were insane – but this was getting ridiculous. Maybe I can figure out a way to afford a place of my own, I thought as I heard Wyatt padding down the stairs.
“You got the rent or NSP for the last two months?”
He snorted. “I told you I’d pay that when all the product gets moved”. He walked on, apparently thinking that settled it.
I’ve heard that before, I thought about saying. But what’s the point?
“Hey”, he said padding past my room again. “I’m thinkin’ maybe all the guns in the house should go through me for safekeeping”.
“Uh huh”, I muttered, tying my shoes.
“Because I’m the only person in the house who knows how to handle them”.
He padded back upstairs.
I headed out to the car and started driving to work.
He’s dealing drugs out of the house. AND he’s a moron. And when, not if, he gets busted, I’ll end up in a world of s**t too. What can I do?
Part of my brain strained to recollect the names of cops I could talk to, that I’d met while covering police stuff for neighborhood papers back in ’86 and ’87.
Nothing, another part of my brain thought. Not a damn thing. Ever.