Hot Mess

3

It’s late in the workday Monday when I get an email from my alma matter, Mizzou. It’s the quarterly journalism alumni update wherein they compile a list of about a hundred bullet points, all just quick mentions of who got hired where, which people have been promoted at their jobs and which of the former editors are now stay-at-home moms and freelance taste testers for Nabisco. Being three years post-grad and still happily working for an ear-cleaning company, this digest is basically my version of Page Six news.

Which is why I’m particularly shocked to see my name about a third of the way down the list.

Allie Simon is dating celebrity chef Benji Zane. They live together in Chicago.

Normally the chairman of the department solicits for these kinds of updates, and this is most certainly a blurb that I did not submit myself. So the fact that one of the best journalism schools in the country has scooped this intel straight from a popular food blog and finds my personal life newsworthy makes me feel like a goddamn celebrity, I must admit.

I don’t blame them for not including a word about my role at Daxa in the roundup. In fact, it’s kind of a shameful career choice considering I was at one point the managing editor of the school paper. But the truth is, I never wanted to be a reporter and by the time I pocketed my degree and moved back to Chicago, the way the world works had changed. People wanted to speak and read in bursts of 280 characters or less and Daxa, headquartered here in the River North neighborhood, was looking for someone to help them get in on a conversation of that caliber. Couple that with my need to pay bills and suddenly tweeting about cotton swabs became my calling. Or something like that.

It’s always a bit difficult to play catch-up on Monday mornings since we switch over to an automated community management system for nights and weekends. Unfortunately, the “NightHawk2000” has the personality of a bad first date and sometimes misses an influx of tweets if the system has to reboot itself—which it does, often. I want to say that today is no different, but it’s actually worse. Taking off last Friday for Benji’s pop-up set me back about 300 replies before 9:00 a.m.

I somehow make it through the day and am now standing outside my office waiting for the Route 22 bus up to Lincoln Park while group texting with Jazzy and Maya about tonight’s premiere of the new season of The Bachelor.

Maya: Starts @ 7. My Place?

Jazzy: Can BZ whip up some garlic hummus?

Suddenly, I’m interrupted by a tap on my shoulder.

“Babe! What are you doing here?” I pull my headphones out as Benji brings me in for a clammy hug. He clearly walked to my office, which is a good forty-five minutes at a brisk pace. He smells like a cigarette accompanied him and deodorant did not. Still, I’m happy to breathe him in, although I’m regretting the fact I haven’t touched up my makeup at all today. It may sound shallow, but in my defense, I’m not like Benji. I can’t just throw on a white Hanes V-neck with a sweaty man-bun and automatically look like I should be on the cover of People’s Sexiest Man Alive issue.

Plus, this is an ambush. He surprised me outside my work. Now, what for is the question.

“Remember how I told you there were a few VIPs on the dinner list at the pop-up? I circled their names on the sheet I gave you before service...” His eyes are big and intense. Kind of like how they always are, I guess.

I squint as I rack my brain. I don’t remember any one person in particular, but immediately panic wondering if they all got food poisoning or something.

Benji doesn’t wait for a reply.

“The guy who runs Republic, Ross Luca, invited us in tonight.”

Ross Luca is a Chicago restaurateur—an iconic one at that. I know this because FoodFeed loves Ross Luca. They seem to run a blog post about him daily. At first, I wanted to know who he was paying off for all the good press, but then I realized there’s a lot to cover about Ross. For one thing, he’s both a businessman and executive chef. In something like two short years, he’s managed to open everything from a kitschy Jewish deli to an over-the-top steak house and rotates cooking at them all, six days a week. It’s rare to find someone like that, who can fire from both sides of the brain. Who can be artistic in the kitchen and savvy in the boardroom. Everyone in the industry knows that Ross Luca is that prodigy. Hell, even a typically jealous Benji agrees Ross is the shit. Which is why his name was highlighted and starred on the VIP list—that I recall for sure.

While he may have just about every cuisine in this city cornered, Republic is Ross’s fine-dining spot. FoodFeed called it “an instant classic” when it opened about a year ago and the reservation list hasn’t dwindled one bit since then, despite the $150+ per person price tag. Which leads me to my next point: we can’t go.

“Well, that’s exciting. But...Republic is for very wealthy people.”

“Or for normal people pretending to be rich for the night,” he casually volleys back.

“Right. Either way, a $400 meal for two is pretty grotesque. Don’t you think?”

“I do.”

He’s not at all picking up what I am throwing down. The majority of our profit from the pop-up Friday has already been used for bills, groceries and drug debts, and I’ve set the rest aside for September’s rent since he hasn’t scheduled the next pop-up yet.

“Relax, Allie. It’s on the house. No charge for us.”

“Holy shit!” Yes, I’m a grown woman squealing in middle of the sidewalk. If people weren’t already staring at us, they are now.

“Wait, so let me get this straight,” I say. “Ross Luca invited you and me to eat free at Republic tonight? That’s so freaking awesome. What time’s the reso?”

“Eh, right now, actually. Sorry, I know it’s kind of early for multicourse dining but I expect we’ll be there awhile.”

The expression on my face sags a bit as I remember my plans to watch The Bachelor at Maya’s.

“Something wrong, babe?” he asks.

“No. Nothing.” I smile big to reassure him I’m so in for this.

“Great. Can I get the cash?”

Although having to ask your girlfriend for money to treat her may not feel like the most graceful display of chivalry, he knows the drill. That I’m the keeper of the cash. So I hand over a portion of the tips we made at the pop-up, our “fun money” as we like to call it, as discreetly as I can. In exchange, he grabs my chin and kisses me directly on the lips.

“Wait here, I’ll flag us a taxi,” he says, bolting to the curb.

I could call us an Uber from my phone. It would make trying to hail a cab during rush hour in River North a nonissue, but it’s linked to my credit card. And I can tell Benji wants full credit for this date so I let him hunt and gather while I text Maya that I won’t be able to make it to her place tonight.

Maya: It’s kind of tradition, A...

Me: Sry! Republic = MAJOR. Can we watch tmrw?

Maya: Jazzy’s already on her way. Can’t cancel.

Me: OK. Will watch online over my lunch tmrw. Next wk 4 sure!

I toss my phone back into my bag and cringe as I look down at my pencil skirt, flats and button-up shirt. I’m dressed like a district attorney. I dig around in my trusty Marc Jacobs tote for some lip gloss and a hair clip, then spend the rest of the ride over touching up my makeup and trying to pull my day-old hair into a decent-looking chignon. Before we get out of the cab, Benji uploads a selfie of the two of us to his Snapchat story, tagging Republic in the post. It’s been live for all of five seconds and I can already feel the notifications vibrating my bag.

“Welcome, Benji. Hello, Allie.” The hostess knows who we are without us having to introduce ourselves. I feel like a celebrity. “Follow me.”

As we trail the blonde hostess into the main dining area, I soak in the interior of the restaurant. Right away I see they run a silent kitchen—ten chefs, all with their heads down. Benji always says the quieter the kitchen, the more expensive the meal. Thank god this is getting comped.

We are led to a table in the middle of the dining room, close to the window nearest the entrance. It’s a strategic move on the restaurant’s part—so we can see everything and be seen by everyone. Once seated, we aren’t handed menus. When you’re a guest of the guy in charge, you eat what he cooks, end of story.

“Congrats on the FoodFeed review. Well done, Chef Zane,” the blonde says before walking back to her post.

It’s apparent she’s seen the article. Perhaps that’s how she knew exactly who I was.

The table attendant pours our water after ascertaining our preference for still. “Hey, nice going with the pop-up. FoodFeed said you killed it,” he whispers to Benji.

“So, has everyone in the industry seen this post?” I ask with a hint of sarcasm as I unfold my napkin and place it on my lap. Doing this promptly and coyly is something Benji once said separates the restaurant pros from the Friday-night novices. In fact, it’s a tactic I used while hosting the pop-up last week to measure the ratio of actual VIPs to slutty chef-chasers (1:5).

Benji takes a sip of his water and cracks his knuckles on the table. “Well, babe, we showed them what’s up. They fucking loved everything.”

He pulls out his phone, normally a faux pas at a fine-dining restaurant unless you’re quickly snapping a photo of some rare black truffles. I think it’s to check the number of views on our selfie, but he actually references the FoodFeed article for the hundredth time. I suspect he’s a little addicted to the good news, but that’s a vice I can handle.

“... From the high-end venue, to the bone-china soup bowls, it appeared that no corners were cut this time.”

“... Zane seemed remarkably poised despite a crowded dining room. Especially for someone who’s rumored to have a serious past with hard drugs...”

“... We’ll be dreaming of the bourbon honeycomb panna cotta dessert until the next pop-up is announced.”

As he reads the praise, I can’t stop staring at this man who I call mine.

“Don’t look at me like that...” He catches me.

“I can’t help it. You’re kind of incredible.”

“Only because of you, babe.” I smile at the credit given. “And I said don’t look at me like that or I’m not going to be able to wait until we’re home to fuck you.”

He may be blunt. He may be crass. But his matter-of-fact confidence in my feelings for him reinforces that we are working.

“Benji, Allie, good to see you both.” Ross graces us with his presence at the table. Did he hear Benji discuss his plans for me later? The thought causes my face to heat and Benji to smirk at me before getting up to shake Ross’s hand. I get up to do the same but Ross waves me back down. “Please, sit. Relax.”

All eyes in the restaurant turn like magnets in our direction. I remember Ross from the pop-up looking remarkably dapper for a fortysomething-year-old. His slicked-back brown hair contrasted his piercing blue eyes, not to be one-upped by the purple gingham shirt with a navy bow tie he was sporting. Tonight Ross is dialed down in a long, all-black apron and dressed to cook. It’s his turn to show off what he’s got.

I wonder if he feels like because he ate a good meal, he now owes us a favor—or if it’s more of a pissing match. A “you cook good, but I cook better” type of thing. Who knows? I’m just hungry.

“So, no allergies, right?” Ross asks.

“Nope, just...three months sober,” Benji says with a nervous laugh. Has it been three months already? Damn, now that’s something to celebrate.

“Got it, so we’ll hold off on pairings, then.” Ross’s tone is matter-of-fact. “Well, I hope you brought your appetites. I’m going to head back to the kitchen and get going on your first course. If you need anything, we’ve got Steve as the lead server tonight and Felix is his assistant.” Felix is the guy who got us our water. He nods in the background.

Ross departs and I spy a few rogue eaters awkwardly trying to make it look like they weren’t just taking a picture of us from across the room on their phones.

“To three months and a great FoodFeed review,” I say, clinking my water glass against Benji’s. “Proud of you, babe.”

Moments later, a plate arrives with a single tortellini on it. I grab my knife and fork and prepare to dig in.

“Whoa, whoa. Hold up,” Benji says. “That’s the amuse-bouche.”

“So?”

He swallows his portion and replies: “It’s a one-bite.”

From across the table, Benji uses his fork and shimmies my tortellini onto it.

“Open,” he directs.

I close my mouth around the tortellini.

“Now chew slowly. Take it all in. Let the taste hit your palate like a slow leak.”

Nothing like the manic addict telling me to slow down to show the world how far he’s come.

* * *

We’re six hours into what I can only describe as a food coma meets a red carpet event. The three-hour premier of The Bachelor has come and gone, and every half hour Steve and Felix have brought out some mind-blowing dish featuring food I’ve never heard of, and certainly never dreamed I’d be eating.

Our tenth course of the night arrives and by now, the restaurant rush is over and the dining room is starting to filter out. After all, it’s only Monday.

“I’m literally so full,” I whisper, trying my best to tap out.

“You have to keep eating, babe.”

“I can’t, I feel like I’m going to burst.” I’m a petite girl being suffocated by a pencil skirt, for crying out loud. Benji knows I’m struggling, especially since we’re still on the savory courses. He looks around to make sure Ross is nowhere to be seen and takes a forkful of venison from my plate, devouring it in one bite.

“Jesus. How are you still hungry, Benji?”

“I’m not. It’s just rude to leave food behind when they’re doing what they’re doing.”

“Showing off?”

“Basically.”

Ross makes his way back out to the dining room. As he approaches our table, he unties the knot on his apron, a sign that the white flag has been raised—no more food, thank god.

“How was it?” Ross asks.

“Fucking delicious, man. Everything was bomb. Seriously, dude.”

“Nice, that’s what I like to hear. I’ve got our pastry chef working on your dessert courses now. Figured I’d leave the sweet finish up to the pro in this case.”

I put my hand over my stomach like my food baby is kicking.

“Listen, Benji. If I don’t see you while I’m breaking down the kitchen, I just wanted to say thanks for coming in. I loved what you did at the pop-up last week and if you ever want to come in and stage, just hit me up. Cool? And hey, congrats on the sobriety, man. That’s killer.”

Benji gets up and gives Ross a hug. I follow. It’s the first time I’ve stood in several hours and my legs feel like jelly. I’m wondering if that’s because of the lack of blood flow or the fact that I’ve gained twenty pounds since being here.

Dessert is an orgasmic chocolate cake with little gold flakes throughout the ganache, served with a pot of gooey, warm caramel, which shockingly I manage to find room for. Afterward, Felix comes to bus our plates as Steve tells us the cake course completes the evening. He wishes us both a good night and departs to the back-of-house. That’s it. There is no check presented, no paperwork that shows we came, we ate, we conquered.

Benji stretches his arms and protrudes his food-filled belly forward. He must feel like a king right now. He digs into his pockets and proceeds to count the rest of the cash I gave him earlier.

“What’s that for?” I say.

“Kitchen tip-out.”

“Are you going to leave it all?”

Instead of verbally answering me, he puts the twenties down on the table one at a time like he’s dealing cards from a deck until there are none left.

Though it’s a bit hard to see him spend everything that’s left from what we made on Friday, I know it doesn’t cover a fraction of what this dinner would cost a regular patron.

But between everything I saw and tasted tonight, I’m now 100 percent convinced we are anything but regular.

“Ready, babe?” he asks, helping me out of my chair. We walk hand in hand toward the front of the restaurant, where we pass the blonde hostess who sat us so many hours ago.

“Have a good night,” I say to her.

“Excuse me...” she says back, checking over her shoulder for management. “Could I take a quick picture with you guys?”

The three of us squeeze in together as Benji extends his arm out with her phone to press the button. Anything but regular, I think to myself again as I smile big for the camera.

4

“Babe.”

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. I award myself a mental grace period in hopes that Benji realizes the sandwich I’m making requires actual skill. For me, at least. I don’t cook much anymore—well, let’s be frank, I never really did—now that an esteemed chef shares my address. But when I’m hungry and he’s exhausted, it’s back to a basic turkey-and-cheese for me.

I didn’t think I’d ever feel hungry again after last night’s nonstop food fest at Republic, but Benji picked up a crusty-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside loaf of bread with actual chunks of roasted garlic baked right in it from the Farmer’s Market while I was at work. And it’s a beacon of carby goodness that won’t stop calling my name.

Just like Benji.

“Hey, sweet babe?” he asks again.

“Yeah? What is it?” I finally respond after a lengthy pause.

“Come here. Come look at this email. I’m pretty sure I’m getting a fucking restaurant.”

Benji has left my laptop open on the couch, I’m assuming for me to peruse said email at my leisure while he grabs one of the last Camel Lights from a dingy pack in the pocket of his gray hoodie. I bought that pack for him earlier this morning as he walked me to the bus stop and it already looks like it’s been through a shredder. Stressful day of buying fancy bread and checking email on the couch?

I’ve always thought there were two kinds of smokers: the James Deans and the truck-stop loiterers. Benji is a James Dean, so I let it slide, especially since a cig hanging from his lips means he’s not smoking coke through a foil pipe.

I humor him, taking a seat on my couch and grabbing my laptop. To be clear, I’m not fighting some sort of custody battle over inanimate objects. It’s just that ever since Benji moved in with me a few months ago, boundaries have become a bit...blurred? Most days, I really like sharing my space with Benji. But every once in a while, I start to feel a little claustrophobic. It could be the 500-square-feet cabin fever kicking in, but today is most definitely one of those days.

Last night, I was famous, he was sober, and we were more in love than ever before when we had amazing sex until two in the morning. Then come 9:00 a.m., I was sluggishly pushing out tweets about a cotton swab while wondering why Jazzy and Maya wouldn’t text me back about some stupid TV show and if my direct deposit will hit when it’s supposed to so my bills aren’t late. It’s exhausting going from cloud nine to nine-to-five over and over.

Again, not the time for an emotional audit. Not when I need to see what this email is all about.

Dear Benji, the email begins. Before I read more, I peek at the sender’s address: a.blackstone.82@gmail.com. The email rings a bell, though I can’t quite place it.

My name is Angela Blackstone. I was a patron at last week’s pop-up dinner.

Bingo. It all comes back to me. I picture pasting her name and email into an Excel spreadsheet and recall her paying for two tickets to last Friday’s penthouse event.

As a fan of the Chicago food scene and industry professional myself (I’m the General Manager of Florette just outside of Chicago), I can confidently say you are doing some of the most interesting, flat-out genius stuff I have ever seen in a kitchen. From the carrot mousse as the amuse-bouche to the bourbon honeycomb panna cotta for the sweet finish, it was all so theatrical. Meaningful. Complicated. Appetizing. Amazing.

Now to be candid, as much as I follow your culinary delights, I am also privy to what they say about your lifestyle. Regardless, I want to talk to you about an opportunity.

I know what goes into a five-hour, five-course dinner like the one you hosted Friday. And so long as blood, sweat and tears don’t count for shit as seasonings, I know you are not actually considering doing pop-up dinners for the rest of your career. You are one of the best that ever has been and ever will be. It would be a shame if all of that capped at these fly-by-night dinners.

Like I said, I am in the industry. I helped open some of the best restaurants just outside of Chicago and earned accolades of all types less than 12 months after the doors opened. The gentleman financially behind those places is looking to invest, finally, in a space in downtown Chicago. As a result, he has excused me from my current role to start scouting for this forthcoming restaurant. After the location and talent is secured, it will be a fast, hard open. I will become the new GM and I’d like you to be Chef de Cuisine.

This is not a joke. This is not a drill. Reply for further details and give my best to Allie. She was a wonderful hostess on Friday night. Just tell her to keep an eye on her billfolds if you keep doing those pop-ups...

-Angela

Ah-ha.

So the bitchy blonde firecracker who damn near broke my sternum shoving a folder of cash into my chest wants to give my boyfriend a restaurant. Well, she’s going to have to get in line with the fifty other people who, for their own selfish reasons, like to dangle shiny false hopes in front of a guy who is trying to focus on getting his life together.

I take a bite of my sandwich and the crusty bread roughs up the roof of my mouth. The nerve of this woman and her sadistic little email has also managed to suck the saliva from my mouth, and now I’m rage-chewing and wishing I hadn’t forgotten my Diet Coke on the counter.

“What do you think?” Benji says as he blows a thick stream of smoke out the window.

“Still reading,” I say. Still processing is the real answer.

In Benji’s defense, yes, Angela’s offer sounds legit. But there’s a good chance she’s like all the rest: just someone who wants fewer degrees of separation between herself and the beautiful lunatic they see portrayed in the media.

I’ve got one job when it comes to Benji, at least until he gets a little more sobriety under his belt. And that job is to protect him. Protect him from the people who want to either glorify his addiction, or sabotage it.

I’ve got to look out for myself, too. “Give my best to Allie.” A cordial sign-off from a woman who just four days ago let me know exactly what she thought of my ability, or should I say inability, to command a room? I smell bullshit—even through the aromatic cloves of garlic six inches from my nose.

“I think this could be good for my reputation,” Benji says, ashing out the window before taking his next drag.

Here’s the thing about his reputation. He may be the one responsible for trashing it, but I care about building it back. I know that’s mostly his job, but we need people not to lose interest in his pop-ups. If he switches gears and takes the bait Angela’s hooked, we risk losing out on the type of cash flow that can be made with the snap of a finger. Or the sear of a scallop, I should say.

I get the allure of what Angela is offering: steady paychecks from a hot, new open. But Benji has sabotaged anything and everything that could have been good for him. In fact, he admitted that verbatim to me the first time we met. I thought it was the whiskey talking, to be honest, so I just giggled, asked for another glass of sauv blanc, and looked past it. I mean, who just matter-of-factly states that if it’s a good thing, he’s going to throw acid on it?

Perhaps not taking that warning seriously was an oversight on my part during the whole getting-to-know-him phase. But as his current girlfriend, I am now very familiar with his former MO. So while I should be supportive and excited at the thought that someone wants to give him a chance—a real, substantiated chance—I just can’t see the light when so many red flags clog my vision.

Angela has no idea how fragile Benji really is. Her job is to taste his food, catch a glimpse of him in the kitchen, post it on her Instagram and feel like the popular kid in school when the likes roll in. That’s it. She has no idea the size of the pot she’s stirring by promising sunshine, rainbows and restaurants. But I’ve managed to show him the way thus far and I’m not letting him take a detour on this dead-end offer. Go ahead, call me his part-time girlfriend, part-time game keeper. It’s true. God, Facebook “it’s complicated” relationships have nothing on us.

Then why the hell am I sticking around? Because the sex is just that good? I mean, it’s the best I’ve ever had by far, but that’s not what keeps me here. And neither is the cooking, although that’s a hell of a hook. So have I bought into the delusion that I’ll be the one thing that changes Benji, that sobers him up, shakes his shoulders and turns him into the Top Chef the whole country knows he can be?

Well.

Kind of.

I haven’t failed at much in my life so far. At least, not this quickly. For all the irritation and frustration a situation like this can carry, part of me really does believe that I could be the missing piece. Benji seems to think so, too. He tells me every day that no matter what success he has, it’s because of me. Everyone can see he’s doing so much better now that we’re together. And last night—three months of sobriety—is proof.

Benji rejoins me on the couch. My apartment reeks of cigarette smoke and mustard. I hate to admit that it’s not a terrible combo.

“That email’s crazy, right, Al?”

That’s one word for it. I don’t know what to say back, so I let Due Diligence Debbie chime in.

“Sure, but do you even know anything about this chick?” I decide not to tell him that I do, that she nearly football-tackled me over the little slipup I made when busing tables.

He takes the laptop back but doesn’t answer the question.

“Also, what happens with your pop-ups? You’re just going to ditch doing those right after FoodFeed announces it’s the one can’t-miss dining experience of Chicago? You finally have a real, passionate following, Benji. Just the other day I was at brunch and my server was begging me to spill the beans on your next dinner. Do you realize how easily you could sell them out? You’d be booked the next six dinners if you scheduled them.”

Full disclosure when it comes to his pop-ups: I front all food and supply costs. It’s not something I wanted to do, but when he came to me with a solid plan about how to pull off these pop-ups and contribute financially to our household, the Bank of Allie was really the only one willing to give the loan needed to get his idea off the ground. Plus, it was the only way to do this while avoiding his number one trigger—easy access to cash.

It works like this: Benji announces a pop-up on social media after he secures a “venue.” I use that term loosely since he never actually acquires any permits or paperwork. Therefore the destination for these dinners depends on who’s willing to say yes to letting him take over their space for a few hours, which usually means it’s only a matter of days between the initial announcement and the dinner itself. By that point, I will have withdrawn anywhere from five hundred to a thousand dollars from my personal account to purchase the last-minute ingredients and supplies.

Fronting the money isn’t as scary as it sounds. When someone wants a seat at the pop-up, they have to pay immediately online. The money goes directly into my account so I can pay myself back. After I’m reimbursed, the profit is enough to cover stuff like his cell phone bill, our gas and water usage, a fraction of the cable bill. We could probably stand to make even more of a bottom line, but there are only so many seats available to sell and Benji has a habit of insisting he needs just twenty dollars more for bigger sea urchins...or for a new slotted spoon...or to pay Sebastian in cigarettes. Even though the ebb and flow of things has become my obsession in the last few months, I can’t begrudge him twenty dollars. Plus, when I see people post gorgeous pictures of his beautifully composed dishes, I know there’s no possibility he’s abusing our system.

So if the pop-ups alone just cover the basic bills, where do we really rake it in? With gratuities. By the time the dinners end, patrons forget they’ve prepaid for their meal so it feels weird to them leaving the table empty—especially since they had a good time and ate great food. They dip into their wallets for whatever cash they have stashed away and make sure to leave it all as a token of their appreciation. It’s exactly like last night when Benji cascaded twenties like a waterfall onto the table at Republic before we got up to go home. But we were just two people, and stone sober at that. When an entire roomful of overserved celeb-chef chasers are involved, the result is hundreds of dollars just for a glimpse of the man-bun and a taste of his Sriracha Jell-O cubes.

I’ve thought about looking into legitimizing this business but the thought of figuring out an LLC for a guy whose credit looks like it’s been through a meat grinder is daunting as fuck. For now, I’m not worried as long as we continue to keep the gratuities as all-cash and totally under the table.

And as long as Angela is not in the picture.

“The pop-ups are what they are,” he says. “But this...this could be legit. Like, some real steady shit.”

He cracks his knuckles—the gesture I know means he’s getting excited about something. The first time I saw him do it was the second time we ever hung out. He had just gotten a text from a buddy who’d scored an eight ball (aka a helluva lot of cocaine) from a dealer known for having the good shit.