Permafrost

      Jack, riding shotgun, pulls out a plastic bag from his jeans. I back out of the driveway. He digs the side of a nickel into the bag and removes it; a small lump of white dust. Still driving. I feel the dust hit my skin at the crevice where my thumb and pointer-finger meet. I drive to the public park. Untouched blankets of snow. We idle there for a while, heat blasting out the vents in the car. We wait for someone to call us for drugs.

      We will go into their house. They will offer us their couch and maybe some whiskey. Later, if they are nice, they will let us use their kitchen and eat their food. If they don’t have food, Jack and I will drive to the Asian grocery store for some rice and quail. Then we will cook it for everyone in the house. Maybe we will stay there all day until the bars open. When the bars open, we will try to make some more money. When the bars close, we will go to an after-party. When the after-party ends, we will sleep in the driveway or on the street.

 

 

Elizabeth Michael is an MA candidate at Northern Michigan University where she serves as associate editor for Passages North and instructs English composition.

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