my sentiments exactly

‘This is the life,’ the drug dealer thought, pulling back on a hinged brass handle screwed into a row of others like it. A brownish, fermented, sugary fluid ran out of the nozzle attached to the handle, flowing into a freshly washed glass. Setting the now-full glass down on the copper counter erected for the purpose of giving the users of that particular drug somewhere upon which to rest their arms while using it, the drug dealer took cash in exchange for the addictive, mind-altering substance he’d just dealt.

The appearance of cleanliness was important to the drug dealer, wherefore he carefully wiped down a few meters of bar dirtied by customers who’d become slightly sloppy after using the habit-forming drug he peddled. The drunk people had left earlier - not because he’d kicked them out for shouting crassly or the other drug users had told them to leave for making racist comments but because they’d decided to keep taking drugs elsewhere. Such things happened often, and the dealer was used to it. He knew they’d be back. He sold them the junk they liked in an environment they enjoyed, and he pretended to listen to their problems, which made them repeat customers.

“This is the life,” slurred a middle-aged patron, holding up his glass of beer to admire its color under the tepid house lights, his back stooped and bent under the weight of decades of sadness and addiction, his skin fallow and eyes yellowish from early-onset liver failure. On the bar in front of the middle-to-end-phase addict was a packet of cheap, pre-rolled cigarettes and a cheap lighter, things he needed on his sprint to an early grave. The drug dealer, who was in the process of mixing a drink using a more refined and potent form of the life-shattering substance he got paid to sling, nodded encouragingly, saying, “My sentiments exactly.”

americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan