A Late Night Candy Run
Late at night, you get a craving for some Skittles. Not just normal Skittles. That unusual flavor that was declared illegal in 49 states. The Nopal Cactus-flavored ones. There’s an obscure Kyrgyzstani bodega on the west side of town that you go to. It’s the only place that sells this particular varietal.
The fruit of the nopal cactus. Also known as the
prickly pear.
You find the candies hidden behind the packs of pornographic playing cards – where all contraband is to be found – and you take them to the counter. The man at the counter does not pick up the cash you leave in payment, nor acknowledge that you are there, except for a soft, pleasant grunt of farewell.
You return to your car and consume the candies, all flavored – naturally, of course – with different species of the genus opuntia.
As you put your car into gear, you hear a strange scratching sound in your trunk.
Terrified, you pull into a gas station that is well-lit. You turn the car’s engine off and step out of the vehicle. You could make a break for it. Yet curiosity gnaws at you.
You take your car key back out of your pocket and hold up the remote entry unit, pointing it at the back of your car.
The trunk opens. Your heart races. You peer inside.
There is a little man in there. He is not a Little Person in the typical sense. He cannot be taller than a foot. He is wearing a stylish business suit and has a pair of sunglasses pushed down on his nose so that he can see while it is dark out.
“Oh, hello,” says the little man.
You say something. You’re surprised, baffled, but also somewhat relieved that this is all you found.
“I’m terribly sorry to invade your personal space here, but I wonder if I could ask a dear favor.”
You are too shocked to answer coherently, so he hops up onto the lip of your trunk and sits down, his feet dangling over the edge. “I need to get to Vegas.”
You ask who he is.
“Oh dear, I am so sorry. I’m Kilmer. Valentino Kilmer.”
You remark on the similarity between his name and that of the famous actor.
“Yeah, the son of a bitch joined SAG before I did so I had to change my name.”
You ask if he’s an actor.
“It’s LA. Isn’t everyone? But I’m more of a behind-the-scenes guy.”
You ask what he’s worked on.
“A couple of big ones. Dark Stone. A House in the Hatfields., Penny For Your Thoughts. I EP’d that one.”
You’ve never heard of those movies.
“Really? “Penny” got four Oscars. Oh well. They’re a sham anyway. Can you believe they didn’t nominate Kangaroo Steve this year?”
You shrug.
“Anyway, turns out I’ve got a couple old ‘friends’ from the Old Country who are looking to finish the job, if you know what I mean.”
You don’t know what he-
“Let me just hop in the trunk. Take me to Barstow and I’ll call a cab or something the rest of the way.”
You hesitate. Kilmer gives you a dirty look.
“Oh, I see. A guy gets in a jam and you want to make a little profit.”
You protest.
“No, it’s all right. Here,” he says, and he takes out a wallet stuffed with bills. “Let’s say six hundred to Barstow, or the full thousand if you get me to the MGM Grand.”
This shuts you up. That’s rent-plus for a single night’s work.
You put on that new Steven Malkimus album and drive off into the night. You head north on I-15, but as you pass Kenwood Avenue, you see the flash of red and blue lights in your rear-view mirror.
That spooky tunnel leading out of LA on I-15,
just South of Kenwood Ave.
You pull over.
“What’s happening? Why are we slowing down?” shouts Kilmer, sotto voce.
You tell him that there’s a cop.
“Oh damn. Oh damn!” he says.
The police officer sidles up to your car. He has a pushbroom mustache that was once blonde but is now grey. He wears mirrored sunglasses. It is pitch-black outside of the glow of his bike’s headlight and the circle projected by the streetlight you’ve parked directly beneath.
You roll down your window and then put your hands on the wheel.
The police officer is chewing gum.
You ask what the problem seems to be.
“Pretty late for a night drive.”
You agree.
“You been up to anything I’d need to hear about?”
You shake your head no, shrugging and hoping that he doesn’t notice the bag of Skittles: Nopales – “Taste the Cactus” candies in your cup holder.
The police officer nods, “Right. Right.”
You note that the serial number on his badge just reads “Serial Number Here.”
You begin to mentally calculate how long it would take to turn the ignition and put the car in gear before he could stop you.
“So…” says the police officer. And then he pauses for a while to chew his gum. “Who’s your favorite for Best Picture this year?”
You tell him.
“Oh really? I will say, David Oyelowo was robbed.”
You shake your head.
“Of course, the real travesty is Coyote Steve. I mean, what’s he got to do to get a nod?”
You resignedly agree.
“Well,” says the police officer, and he spits on the road. “You drive safe out there.”
You thank the officer.
“Oh, and if you see a man about yea-tall,” and at this he holds his hands about ten inches apart, “you take a look at this card and call this number.” He hands you a black business card. In white writing, in a bold font – bold in the sense that the letters are thick, because the actual font choice is quite tired and generic – it merely reads “THEM.” And then it reads “Phone: ( ) - 4”
You look up to tell the officer good night, but he has already driven off.
The rest of the drive is uneventful. You peer into the blazing, rising sun as you head northeast, fulfilling your end of the deal with Kilmer. You drive into the garage at the MGM Grand, and as you do, your trunk door pops open. You step out and find that the trunk is empty, save for some jumper cables and an envelope.
Las Vegas, where hopes become dreams,
dreams become reality, and reality is lost in a
foolish wager at the crap table, leaving you a
broken shell of a man.
Inside the envelope is a stack of ten $100 bills, as well as a written note. The handwriting is atrocious.
“I got you a pair of jumper cables. It just seems irresponsible to drive around without them. Unless you’ve got Triple-A. Anywho, thanks for the ride. You’re a real mensch. Maybe when this all blows over I’ll drop you a line.”
“Oh, and go to Grigori’s at the Cotton Glen Casino and Resort. Ask for Jay – I’ll let him know you can have my usual table.”
You arrive, and Jay – tall and broad, with ivory-colored hair - puts you at a table by the window so that you can look out at the strip as the early-morning sun casts long, stark shadows.
A server comes by and puts down your meal – a Belgian Waffle with Bacon (or Facon, if you’re a vegetarian) along with a side of grilled nopalitos and salsa. You smile. They’re legal here.
-Szolo
