Dysfunctional Dealers

I’m pacing the floors going back an forth, wearing out the soles of my Doc Martens. The anticipation is killing me! “Where the fuck is she?” I ask. Waiting is the hardest part. I get myself all worked up over pleasure that turns into pain, that turns into longing. Here I am, peeking out the window every few minutes. Sometimes these fuckers play games, when I’ve already sold my Xbox 360.

   Communists have more class than my dealer. She’s a trashy transplant from Beechview, currently residing in Andy Warhol’s old neighborhood. Some would say garbage can, for which I concur. This trash can move a sought after product.

   Her domestic life makes mine appear to be picture perfect in comparison. There’s always a belligerent argument, debate, over this or that. Roaches in the Cheerios, subhuman living. Her spouse however, holds all the aces, since the orange bottles are stamped with his name. She’s just there to do all the dirty work.

   When she attempted to leave him, he suckered her back in through the pleasures of chemistry. After a week of bliss she was hooked, both mentally and physically. Her fate was now in his hands.

   Submission was required for the twist of a bottle cap. Go along to get along, you’ll get a treat. Sometimes it worked out, other times it didn’t. Two despots under one roof is a struggle for power. A daily endeavor.

   We’d make a call one day without any problems. Jumping for joy! Life is meaningful! Later on in the week if they were fighting, we were fucked. Perspiration on our foreheads, at war with reality, suffering indignantly. Everything banked on their dysfunctional relationship.

   These are the wealthiest people we’ve come to know. The orange bottle is synonymous with prosperity. You’d be right to think of reservations at The Le Mont restaurant instead of filthy sweat pants, and cheap tv dinners. Money can’t buy class.

   “Is she gonna show? I ask. “Its been an hour now, I’m anxious!”

   “Stop already, will ya?” replies my exasperated lover. “All you’re doing is making it worse!”

   Like it could get any worse than this. I feel lethargy creeping into my calves, working its way up. I’m reaching the point where I ask the question: define equilibrium?

   “She just sent me a text message!”


   “She says they’re fighting again!”

   Great. This may or may not seal our fate. Another night of twisting and turning on a mattress that feels like concrete.

It’s shit like this that gets people busted. It isn’t the efficiency of a job done well by the police department. It’s disgruntled consumers who need a fix, but figure it’s time for the supplier to feel their pain. That’s how it happens. I’m looking at the phone right now, contemplating my revenge.

   “She’s out front!” yells my significant other.

   Fuck yeah! Another day will pass where we enjoy life to the fullest. Unhindered by the atrocities of a callous planet. Sleeping in until noon. Waking up to a smile.



Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh with a chemical imbalance and lack of patience. He’s also a faithful volunteer at the Light Of Life Rescue Mission going on three years now, he believes in action. You can purchase his chapbook here: https://www.amazon.com/F-D-Approved-Poetry-Michael-Marrotti/dp/153907577X and if you need to reach him: michaelmarrotti@gmail.com


© Michael Marrotti


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