Shadow Traffic by Richard Burgin

we’re both crazy in love man, it’s true.”
    â€œWow, that’s great,” I said, trying to sound as earnest as possible and not remind him that his whole day had, of course, been completely created by drugs. I even wondered if he’d still feel any real enthusiasm for her a couple hours from now when more of his high would wear off.
    I remember talking easily with the dealer that day. We talked about the Celtics, about women, a little about politics, too, during which the dealer surprised me by saying, “I’m going to respect Obama, you know, because he’s our President and that’s what we should do.” We also talked about our families, he about his big one, me about my small.
    â€œI love all my brothers,” he said, “all my sisters, too. Love ’em to death.”
    There was a passion and a kind of laughter in his eyes when he said it and I knew it was true.
    â€œMy father was a helluva guy. I only wish he were still alive.”
    I said I felt the same way about my parents and that I was lucky they were both in good health. I told him I only had one sister, who I sometimes heard from, who lived in a small country town in western Massachusetts. Sure enough the dealer had been there. “I love Massachusetts almost as much as Connecticut. I’ve traveled in Massachusetts a lot.” That remark led to a conversation about towns in Massachusetts where we’d both spent time, from Falmouth and West Harwichport in the Cape, to Lenox and Lee in the Berkshires.
    We talked about a lot of things that day and I didn’t mind not using the computer much, though it meant falling further behind at work. I remember wanting to tell him about Birdwoman and how I’d finally told her I liked her paintings and was planning maybe to try and buy one from her, but I didn’t. Just didn’t get around to talking about it, but I could have.
    Dash made a lot of calls on his cell later that day, all about his lawsuit over the gig in Missouri, but he kept his voice under control and he washed the dishes after his usual dinner of cheese ravioli. I was even going to suggest we fire one up and smoke together when he walked back into the living room and said, “I’m going to Maggie’s.”
    She has a place? I almost said.
    â€œI’ve been missing her real bad and I need to be there. Don’t wait up for me or anything. I’ll probably end up staying there.”
    â€œOK, bro,” I said.

    Dealers are probably the most vulnerable people on earth. I had trouble sleeping that night while I waited for Dash. Somewhere around 2 a.m. I realized he wasn’t coming back. Nor did he return the next two days. I tried to keep from worrying about him but I couldn’t help it, the way he threw himself at her, or at what he imagined her to be. He was like a child that way, always chasing his dream. Whether it was imagining he was a better ballplayer than he was or that Maggie was a better person than she was, a person with whom he would finally find love. It’s not like I didn’t do the same thing to a degree, but I already was thinking a lot less about my ex (who I now realized I no longer wanted back) and saw myself quitting drugs in the near future, whereas Dash was the type who would always “love” someone and never give up and so would need to take drugs forever.
    On the third day he came back in his old electric blue convertible to take his things. He was moving in with her. “I’ve never loved anyone like this,” he said.
    â€œHow big is her place?” I asked.
    â€œWe only need room for a bed,” he said, laughing. Then he told me a couple of dirty jokes—he never ran out of jokes. When he said goodbye, he said, “Don’t worry. I’ll see you at basketball and we’ll still take our trips together”—meaning to the electrician’s. “I’ll always be grateful, bro. Your