SandScript 2022

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Shell Sign
Isaac Zierenberg
Digital Image
“What’s good man?”
“Nothing much just getting stoges”
“Bett, whatchu want”
“A pack of Newport shorts”
“Bett, can I see your ID?”
“I don’t have it, but I’m in here all the time”
“Bett, that will be nine eighty-seven”
“Thanks, have a good day man”
“Bett”
Of course, I always have my ID, and the guy or gal behind the counter knows I have it. Most of them are
underage as well, and really too high to care. It is comforting to know I am not the only person in Utah that does
not go to the temple every month. After a smoke, I am back on the road.
My plug lives in West Valley, the only real “bad part” of Salt Lake. The highway west rolls through the
industrial district passing warehouses and truck depots. The warehouses never see much use. It seems some spiteful
city planner has spaced them too far apart to gossip with each other. They seem lonely. This whole stretch of road is
lonely and every week it pleads with me to turn around, I don’t.
I pull into West Valley and park the car in the public park. Every time I wait here feels like an eternity. I
twiddle my thumbs to Mary-Louise Kelly and pray I can get what I think I need. This is the only reason I ever pray.
I watch the kids on the playground and think about my siblings on the other side of the mountains, until the sight
of a Nissan snaps me out of reality.
The driver of this Nissan is a pudgy girl of Asian descent in her mid-twenties. Always accompanied by an
anxious Yorkie. I know her as Brit, and she claims to be a figure skater (something I doubt) when she isn’t delivering illicit
substances. She parks and signals me over. I hop in, and the small talk begins. This is an art that most drug dealers neglect
to learn. Brit is a master. She asks me how things are going and how the weather is up in the mountains. Sometimes we
talk for half an hour. I see she does this because she is terribly lonely as well. Eventually, we agree on an amount and a
price. My usual, an Eightball, and two punishers for the weekend. About two hundred dollars depending on the state of
the market. After paying up she offers me a bump for the road, and we cut up lines on the center console. It tastes like a
high school chemistry lab and feels like autumn in Baja. This is the reason I was down here. We exchange the customary
“stay safe out there” go on our way.
If I wasn’t high on the way down, I am now. The trip home feels a little more comfortable knowing I
accomplished the objective. On the way down, I was terrified of getting in an accident, not because I might get
injured or worse, but because I would not be able to pick up. (Although I might get free Dilaudid at the hospital).
On the way up at least I know if I die it won’t hurt as much. Mary-Louise talks faster now.
This comfort lasts until the bump Brit had given me wore off, as I am passing Jordanelle. The
incomprehensible demoralization we addicts often feel sets in. I can’t believe it happened again. Couldn’t I have
found a better use for two hundred dollars and two hours of driving? The lights of the mega-million-dollar homes
across the reservoir reflect off the water to my over dilated eyes, or maybe the sun is coming up, neither one is
pleasant. I cry. Sometimes it seems Jordanelle cries with me. I cry not because of the immeasurable guilt I feel. And
not because of the fear I have of my dwindling prospects for the future. I cry because I can’t understand why I do all
this, and because I will have to do it all over again next week.
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