He’d been knifed. From what I could see, from what Max would show me, it was probably a small knife, like a chopping blade or something you’d use to core an apple. Small or large knife, it didn’t matter. It bled like a burst pipe.

Right on my floor, over the dust bushes by the entrance way, onto the wood and then into the cracks and under the wood, where, later, when this was all over, it would dry and make the wood buckle.

It spread down the hallway and I concluded the apartment was sloped, a reality my feet told me every time I walked to the bedroom. Blood demands your attention. Blood can bring things to the forefront.

“It’s fine.” Max squeezed his side and made red run through his fingers. He wasn’t fine. He was in shock. His white complexion was even paler than usual. And there was fear in his voice, something I had never heard from him, never considered even existed within him, and that told me he wasn’t alright. If Max was afraid, I should be too.

I helped him move from the open doorway where he’d been crouched and bleeding and led him to the couch. He stained the couch the moment he sat on it and I knew it was finished. For years I had tried to keep the couch free of oiled salad dressings, ketchup, sex. So much for that. The couch will be going when all this is over. When it’s over, I thought.

I lay Max on his side, the wound facing up and returned his cool hands to the spot from where most of the blood seemed to be coming. He let me position his hands. “Push,” I said. “Push back.” He pushed, but not very hard. I left him.

The door was still open and a neighbour passed in the hallway. Immediately, I was glad I had no communication with my neighbours. The man with the goatee passed, his eyes averted to the doors at the end of the corridor. By the time I looked out, he was gone. There was no one else in the hallway. I could see where the attack had occurred. An arrow of red ran along the carpet from my door to a faded spot halfway down the hall, tight against the wall. The wall was clean. I shut the door.

“I’m going to call 911,” I said. I went to the phone.

“No you don’t. You... don’t have to phone.” Max had a gravel voice, crusted pipes from a smoking habit begun as a teen. I’d known him then. It had not crossed my mind that he would bleed all over my apartment years later. I thought it was over. “I’m fine. I think it’s stopped bleeding,” he said.

It was my impression that wounds themselves never stop bleeding. Only surgery stops bleeding. Max probably needed surgery. He needed disinfectant and pain killers. He needed rest and thick stitches.

“I’m going to call 911,” I repeated. I turned the cordless phone on. I could hear the dial tone.

“Don’t do that.” He huffed when he spoke, like he had just run ten miles flat out. “Don’t do that, you moron. How’s that going to look, when I just sold you dope and now I’m bleeding everywhere?”

I turned off the phone. Max grimaced as he shifted himself on the couch. There did seem to be less blood.

“I don’t think that really matters at this point,” I said. “You’re bleeding and...”

“I’m quite aware what I’m doing.” Max took one of his soaked hands from his side. “You know what the worst part of all this is? It’s sticky. It’s sticky and cold and it stinks.”

I turned on the phone. I could smell something pungent.

“Just put the phone down for a moment... okay? Just put it down. Let’s think this through.” Max looked at me. He looked more like himself, the Max I knew, the Max I bought a quarter ounce from every few weeks, the Max who I knew as a kid, who grew up to become my drug dealer.

“Come over here and unzip my jacket.” He had his bomber coat on, gold, now stained too like everything else. I went over and undid it.

“You need to keep warm. You should leave....”

There was a bag inside the coat, a large shopping bag stuffed like a feather pillow. I knew what it was. I just never imagined anyone would carry so much with them, but then I guess you can’t email it to them. You’re a dealer. You deal in solid, non-transferable materials.

The amount was pornographic. I don’t know how he could walk around with that much marijuana on him and keep a straight face. If it was me, eventually, I’d have to show someone.

I took the bag out. It dripped on the carpet and I put it down next to the couch and went to the kitchen to get a tea towel. I wrapped the bag in the towel and cleaned it off the best I could. There were two bags, one inside another. The crop inside felt moist.

“Check it and see if it is okay.” Max tried to sit up.

“Jesus, this is nuts! You’ve been stabbed, man. This means shit.”

“Shut up!” Max found some fire. “Just shut up and open the bag. If that stuff is ruined then I’ll have more to worry about than just being stabbed. This will feel like Christmas...”

I was angry too. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Max shouldn’t be here. He’d made it clear that he didn’t want a friendship with me. Our relationship was strictly business. But, this was going beyond business. This was getting personal. He should have taken his blood and problems somewhere else.

I opened the bag, and then the one inside of that. I could see the green weed. It looked freshly cut. It looked good.

“It’s fine.” I said. I began to seal up the bags.

“Roll me one,” he said.

I laughed. What else could I do? We had climbed a fence into Alice’s Wonderland. I considered saying no.

“I’ll roll one from the stuff you just sold me.” I put the bag down and went for the bedroom.

“No thanks. That stuff is shit. Use this.” He lunged painfully and snatched the bag from the coffee table. He opened it.

“You’re getting it all bloody,” I said. I took the bag. He’d sold me garbage product? I was hurt.

“Take out some good buds. You’ll have to microwave them, ‘cause it’s still damp.”

In disbelief, I took out two large buds and closed the bag. I went to the kitchen and tore a wad of paper towel from the roll, put the buds on it and blasted them on high. It took about a minute. Toasty.

I returned to him, holding the scorched buds on the paper towel like jewels on a pillow. I placed them in front of him and sat down across the room. My face was in darkness.

“I can’t roll it. You’ll have to do it.” Max looked at me and I saw he wasn’t asking me. He was begging.

I said, “You sold me the second rate stuff.”

“Forget about it.”

“You sold me garbage.”

We had an understanding. Max didn’t say much whenever he came to me. Our friendship, the little there had been, that was over, that part was clear. We had never really been friends, only forced together by the fact I was involved with his sister. That was over now, too. When it had been under, it was hot. Rebecca was smart and cool, enjoyed sex outside and sought out unusual locations. She taught Max how to smoke, how to roll. I’d go out on a limb now and say she regrets it. It was clear early on, even when I first knew Max, that he was good at it. Is that something you can be good at, buying and selling marijuana, rolling and smoking it? Let me rephrase that. He understood it. He got it.

Rebecca’s hunger for unusual sex grew and she found the dope added an element of freedom. I never liked it. I like to be present, very aware when making love and the grass would invariably lead me off to other places. It would all be over before I realized it was over and Rebecca was snapping her bra. My head went, the sex went, and then Rebecca went and that left Max, still hanging around, a pesky little brother. I would stop over at the family home and Rebecca would be out, no forwarding address left and Max would be there. Maybe he felt sorry for me. It was clear I was hooked. We’d talk, drink beer if I brought it. We both liked Thelonious Monk and would listen to the live recordings. Max would have some weed and we’d smoke it. He wasn’t selling then. The dope was just a pastime, not a business. He was still learning about it.

This went on for a month or so and then Rebecca came home one night with another guy and that ended things. She was surprised to see me and I was surprised to see the other guy and I guess Max picked up on this.

“You’d better go.”

And so I went and I didn’t see Max or Rebecca for a long time. When I did run into Max again, he was selling. The magic had left him and it was a job now. A means to an end. He was still kind. I was sitting in the park, late at night, thinking about a script that I would never finish and he sat down with a companion on a bench near me. It was dark and I had no idea it was him but he picked me out. He was rolling and he shared. His companion was strung out. Heroin. Max never touched the stuff. He had too much respect for life.

“You need some hydro, you let me know.” Max called marijuana hydro. If the hydro was low, it was a brownout. If you had a full stash, then you were blind. Somehow, your marijuana supply got analogized with light. Darkness to flash points. If you really think about it, it’s not an entirely crazy concept.

That was my invitation back into grass and a few weeks later, alone, I took him up on it. I would place a call to his pager and he would phone me back, usually from a club or car somewhere in the city. His voice would be gruff and distant. He delivered, and I appreciated that. He came by the apartment, dropped an ounce or a half. He took cash, never counting it. Never. I assumed if there was a problem, he’d let me know. The conversation was minimal. How’s things? Good? What’s new? Nothing, really. How much you want? I gotta run. Sometimes I’d have the words in my mouth to ask him if he’d heard the new Monk release, how was Becky, was he going to sell dope all his life? There were questions I wouldn’t have minded hearing the answers to. But, it was clear he didn’t want that. It crossed a line he had drawn, or maybe I had drawn the first time I paged him for a buy. That part of our past was over. Things are always ending.

“You sold me the shit.”

I knew what the shit was. There had been a time when I bought from Max when the usual turned unusual. He was different when he arrived. At first I thought he was drunk, but his breath smelled of tobacco not booze, putting that drifting theory to rest. He was animated, his hands sketching as he spoke- spoke slowly, not the lightening pace I was used to deciphering. He had found something. Something inside of him was free.

“How much do you want?” He came strolling in, reaching into his coat only moments after I’d opened the door. I thought he was going to pull out his supply but he took out his cell phone and laid it on the coffee table. He took off his jacket. Skillfully, his stash went with the coat. It was there, hidden. Never show them all you got. That was the lesson I was witnessing.

“A half.” I went to my wallet and took out the bills. He was seated on the couch and this was new for me. Most transactions took place in a quick, vertical position. I took the chance to play host.

“You want a drink?”

Max reached into his coat and pulled out a small bag, unfurling it. “I’d take a beer, if you got it.” He began to count out the buds, putting them onto the glossy surface of one of the few magazines on the table. His math was expert. He’d perfected the art of estimation and balance. Each time, he could put together the exact amount you wanted simply by eye and feel. I knew, because I’d pulled out the weigh scale and checked. Always, it was just a shade less than what you requested, but not enough to quibble. Lesson number two: always leave them wanting more.

I gave him the beer. He pushed the heaped pile towards me. I went to the kitchen for a plastic bag. He pocketed the money.

“I’m going into business,” he said. He took a swig of his beer and lay back on the couch, surveying the room. It was clear he’d never noticed it before.

“I thought you already were in business.”

“Not this. Not this.” He drank again, deeply. “This has no future. I’ve never thought about the future before, but I do now.”

I came back out of the kitchen, put the buds into the baggie and stowed them in a drawer. I sat across from him, my face in darkness. I took the directors chair.

“What’s the deal?”

“Food. My buddy and I are going to make baked goods- cookies, pastries and stuff.”

I tried to imagine Max baking cookies but it wouldn’t come. I had to smile. “Explain this to me.”

It was clear Max was pleased. He looked relaxed, calm. He was enjoying this. It has been my experience that dealers enjoy very little. He wasn’t a dealer right now.

“Carl, that’s my friend. He’s got all these recipes, collected them, for baked goods. And I got all these contacts, little shops, supermarkets, because I deliver coffee to them. You get to know the people. Anyway, they said that if Carl and I make the goods, they’ll stock them.”

“You can make that happen? What do you know about baking?”

I saw him wince. “What’s to know? You hire people. And Carl knows the deal.” He didn’t appreciate me second guessing him so I let it go.

“Well, it sounds promising. I hope it works out for you.” I wondered if he would still deal on the side. I didn’t know anyone else to buy from.

He picked up a magazine and began leafing through it, not seeing at all. “It’s just the money. We got to find some coin. That’s the only thing, right now.”

“How much do you need?”

“Depends. We could probably get started working night and day with a couple ovens on twenty-five. I’d like to get fifty grand though. Then we could hire a staff and work on getting the stuff out there.”

“Baked goods?”

“Yeah. Baked goods. It’s legitimate, man. I can’t sell dope all my life. The stress is killing me.”

“You never seem stressed.”

“I can hide it.” He finished his beer, shut the magazine and put on his coat. He looked at me. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Sure. Thanks for the pot. Keep me posted.”

“I got a few leads.” He opened the door and walked slowly to the back exit. I could hear his cell ringing. He was gone.

He was here. Bleeding. He’d sold me garbage.

Right, I knew about the garbage. He’d told me about the garbage in the park. Max stocked two blends: one for himself, friends and best customers, one for those he didn’t trust, those he didn’t care if they got hit by a bus after he took their money. I’d always assumed I was sold the top grade. That was the impression he gave. Now, I had this awful taste in my mouth. I wasn’t who I thought I was.

“Relax. It’s nothing personal. I’ve had a hard time getting supplied.” He lifted his coat and checked the knife wound so I could not see. “I’ll give you some of your money back.”

That was not the point. I took the buds on the paper towel, crumbled them and organized. There were papers in the drawer. I rolled. He watched, disgusted.

“Jesus, where did you learn that?”

“Self taught.”

“You had a lousy teacher. At least put a filter in.”

“How do you do that?”

He grumbled and took one of the leaflets from the rolling packet. The blood on his hands was now dry and deftly, folding and bending, he constructed a small tube which he attached to the end of my sorry joint.

“Lighter?”

I pulled a packet of matches out of a pewter cup on the fireplace mantle and handed them to him. There was more grumbling.

“You’ll have to light it.” He handed me the joint and I did so, pulling in the smoke through the filter. It went smoothly. I handed it back to him. He clutched it expertly and took three long draws before he let the fumes slide between his lips. Visibly, I could see him relax, his body loosen. The hand pressing the wound let up. The bleeding appeared to have stopped. He drew again and then passed the flame back to me.

“That helps.”

I took a long drag and held it until my lungs ached. I was surprised how little the smoke scorched my throat. Max was right. I’d been a terrible teacher to myself.

“Does it help the pain?” I asked.

“There isn’t much pain at all. I can stand the pain. It’s the mess I hate. I’m sorry about your couch. I’ll buy you a new one.”

Somehow, hearing that made me feel a bit ashamed, as if all I was concerned about was the couch and getting the best weed. I passed him the remainder of the joint. I noticed the brownish red under my fingernails.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “ We need to get you fixed up.”

“I feel better now.” He pulled a clip from his shirt pocket and affixed it to the joint. He went again. “I feel more like myself. That fucker shook me up. I didn’t see it coming at all.”

“What happened?”

“I think someone’s pissed off.”

Again, I didn’t push it. It was professional. I put on a Monk CD and let it spin.

“What do we do now?”

“Just wait for a bit. Just let me settle for a moment. Then we’ll figure this out. I’m working on it.” He began to roll another joint, the materials laid out in front of him and a second wind seeming to return. I watched fascinated, saw my clumsy methods overstepped and rejected. It took him only a minute, the result was perfection. To others, it would seem ridiculous, but to the initiated he was the real thing.

He lit his own creation and seemed to enjoy it more as he pulled on it. His eyes were narrowing and there was a spark. He was on.

“Fear. Man, that’s what I tasted when I saw my own blood. It’s not that it’s so messy, which is more of an annoyance than anything, but that there’s so much of it. This guy who knifed me, he’s walking away, I didn’t even see his face, and all I’m thinking is, how much blood is there in me? How much is there in there, because I got to run out soon with all this pouring out. You start doing math when you get hurt like that. You’re trying to remember how much fluid makes a quart and then estimating how many quarts there might be in your body and then how that relates to how much there is on the floor. And you can’t think straight and you want to get somewhere quiet because you’re ashamed to be working this out, making a big mess everywhere. You want to figure it out in private. I didn’t mean to knock on your door.”

“No, it’s okay. You did the right thing.”

We were silent for a moment.

“It’s fear. That’s what it is. You fear the stuff you can’t control, and your own blood is one of them. Life is one of them. I’m starting to see that now.” He was rambling. “That’s what the real thrill of smoking pot is. It’s the fear, the paranoia. How close can you get to...?”

“Let’s call the ambulance...”

“Shhh. Just listen.” He focused on the lone window behind me and spoke as if he was rehearsing lines from a play. “I’m going to save you a lot of work, man. Paranoia is what you crave from smoking grass. It’s the fear. You want to see how high you can get, how much control you can relinquish, before you come down and regain the control. It’s the dare. How high, how paranoid can I get? And then you go through it and you realize it’s fine the next morning and you think about trying it again, going a little bit higher, a little more out of control. That’s the buzz. The fear.”

“Are you afraid now?” This skidded out of my mouth. I wished I hadn’t asked.

But Max took it in stride. “Am I afraid? I’m lying on my side, on a blood soaked couch with a hole in my abdomen. I’m high, I have 2 pounds of grass on me, a highschool education, no real assets, no money in the bank, no VISA card, a girlfriend strung out on heroin. I smoke a pack of Players a day, I carry a ventilator to stop my asthma and I have no idea what I’m going to be doing tomorrow, not to mention next year or the year after that when I look too old to behave like a teenager and I can’t do anything that would qualify as a man. Yeah, you might say I’m afraid. The terror is so real I’m about to pop.”

This angered him. He struggled to rise, pulling his shirt and jacket over the wound, as if to protect it. He didn’t get far. He rose off the couch, wobbled a bit, and fell. His eyes closed and I feared the worst.

“Max!” I came out of my corner like a shot and shook him in a miserable attempt to revive him. His eyes fluttered.

“I... I should get going...”

He was on the floor and I collected him, laid him up the best I could, struggling with his dead weight. He was cold. His skin was dry.

“Max... stay awake!” I yelled directly into his face and saw that he heard me, his eyes flickering, another small wince from the volume in his ears. “I’m going to call the ambulance,” I decided.

He grabbed me then, firm. The strength was there, hiding, withering, but it was there.

“Call Carl. Call Carl.”

There was a gurgle with these instructions and I wondered what part of his insides could be near the abdomen, what part might have been severed, allowing him to slowly drown in his own blood. I wanted to call Carl. I wanted to call someone else.

Max sat up a bit, returned his hand to the wound and pushed some more. He looked relatively alert.

“943-1100. Call Carl. He won’t pick up so just keep talking and tell him the bubble gum has popped. He’ll get that.” He sucked in air. “He’ll be there and he’ll pick up if you say that. Tell him.... tell him how to get here.”

“Then what?” The plan sounded drained. I didn’t feel up to accommodating a stranger in my apartment. I’d lost my good host skills.

“He’ll take me out of here. That’s what you want. He’ll know someone who can fix me up. No hospitals. No ambulances. No mess.”

“I don’t want you out of here.” He’d made me bitter now. The comment was ungracious. I had to stop myself from blasting him.

“I don’t want you out of here. I do want you out of here, only to get you somewhere where they can take care of you. I can’t do that anymore. Telling you to press hard on the wound isn’t doing a lot of good.”

Max smiled. He thought that was funny. He tried even to chuckle, but it hurt him and he returned to smiling. It was a weak smile. Genuine, but weak.

“You dork.” His eyes buzzed. “You really thought Rebecca was going to come home one night and see you and I there, and think twice about dumping you. She’d be jealous. Is that what you thought?”

He caught me off guard. “I don’t... I... I don’t know. Why are you asking me that?”

“It’s okay.” He lay back and rested his head on the cushion. “It’s okay.” He closed his eyes. “Call Carl.”

“Why did you ask me that?”

“Because I knew the answer. You knew that Rebecca was screwing someone else. You hung around just to see it for yourself. I’m glad I was there. I had a good time.”

I retreated to phone Carl but paused beside the kitchen. I went back to him. “Maybe I did. Maybe I just wanted to see how far I could push it.”

The smile. “You do understand.” He turned and looked straight at me.

I asked. “How are things with the new baking business?”

“Honestly, not so good.”

I stood, waiting for more but none came. He had closed his eyes and focused on the breathing. I went to call Carl.

I used the phone in the bedroom. The number was right and after six rings the machine came on. Carl was a man of few words. There was a beep.

“Carl...” I said, “Carl, you don’t know me. Pick up, please. I’m calling for Max. He says the bubble gum has popped. Do you hear that? The bubble gum has popped.” I felt like an idiot. “Pick up, please, Carl. He’s hurt. He’s really hurt. I don’t know what the fuck to do.” I felt like crying. I had to bite my lip to stop myself. I didn’t want to cry on tape.

I let the line sit but Carl didn’t pick up. The phone clicked dead and the dial tone returned. Quickly, I redialed and got a busy signal. I pressed redial and tried again. The machine came on again. I waited. When the tape clicked in I left a message for Carl to call me at the apartment. I told him Max had been stabbed. I told him he was hurt. I hung up.

It was all rather matter of fact. I hung up.

I waited for a few minutes to see if Carl would call right away, but the longer I waited, the more I knew he wasn’t going to call. He was out. He was asleep. He was detained. He wasn’t there. This wasn’t his time. It was mine.

It was all mine.

 

I don’t know when Max died, whether it was when I was on the phone or soon after he’d told me his dream was evaporating. When I returned to the living room, he was no longer breathing, his hands resting by his sides, no longer pressing. His eyes were not fully closed and somehow I found it in me to close them, something I’d probably seen in the movies. It was something to do. I wanted to do something. I thought about CPR but I had no idea how to do it.

It struck me then that his wound had never tried to heal, to clot. It had only let the blood drain. What looked to us like a wound that was repairing itself was really a body that was emptying. The bleeding had never stopped. It had simply run out of blood.

It was my turn to wince. I knew immediately this irony would not be lost on me for a long time.

It was over. I collected the pot in the house. I flushed my stash down the toilet. I took Max’s bag out to the garbage at the back of the building and stuffed it down in the bottom of one of the canisters. If someone found it, lucky for them.

I cleaned up the best I could.

It was over.

I dialed 911.