Unwelcome Smuggler

He scratched his temple with the handgun and shifted the weight of his backpack. It looked heavy. I watched a tiny drop of sweat trickle around his eyebrow. One slid down my own face at the same time. June sun beat down on the hilltops of western Massachusetts. I didn’t love it. My skin was burning. I shaded my face with one hand, slowly, because of the gun. 

Just behind me, the fusion drive of my brand new two-man flier hummed softly, comfortingly. Behind the drone, the countryside hills rolled away, seemingly forever. Nothing’s forever though.

“So… like… what’s to stop me from just killing you, taking those goodies, and keeping my money?” he asked. The weight and heft of his Boston accent made my head spin a little. 

My arm grew tired so I lowered it. Slowly. The sun hit and I blinked. A few times. 

I blink a lot. Especially when I’m stressed. And I’m usually stressed when the local head honcho gets airs and starts waving his laser cannon around. 

My first drop had gone more or less how I’d pictured it up to that point.

I didn’t know his name. I had taken to calling him Slouch in my head. He slouched from the ground up. He’d clearly been a sloucher his whole life. One slouch away from melting into the ground. And he was doughy. And when the wind switched I could smell him. Musty. The smell of a slouch.

All more or less how my Uncle Chester had described him.

Including the gun. We worried he might try something like this, Uncle Chester and I. At least he’d come alone. 

I stared straight into Slouch’s eyes and blinked. And he stared back and tried not to.

Slowly, that laser pistol swung around to point at me again. 

A shot from that would melt through my flesh and bones in nanoseconds and have heat left over to bore a steamy ten foot hole in the next hill over.

Just like we figured it would go…

***

I’d bought the drone with cash. 

I sold my studio apartment in Harlem “as is,” meaning it reeked of weed and cat piss, then gone to the bank to get the cash.

The cash from the apartment sale fit neatly into my backpack, though the weight had surprised me. The teller had given me one of the looks I get sometimes. The one when I’m doing a crazy thing. No one carries cash, because no one takes cash. And there I was withdrawing millions and millions of actual, physical, anachronistic dollars. And blinking too much. And not making eye contact. Anachronistic. I like that word. And anachronism. It’s an old favorite. I said it under my breath once or twice, let the feel of it roll around on my teeth.

“Mawrp?” my cat called from her carrier. “Mawrp?”

She wasn’t used to the carrier. She wanted the apartment back. I kind of did too. No. I really did. I wanted my life back. But. No one wanted us there, in New York. Well. She would have been fine, probably. Stray cats can do well in the city. Better than a lot of people, I guess. Cats know how to be alone in a crowd. I thought I did, too. The crowd had started giving me more and more funny looks lately. Natural born kids are rare these days. Natural born and neurodivergent? Not many of us at all. Maybe just me.

So I just had Mindy. The cat. And she had me.

“You must really like Trump’s face, huh?” the teller said. “You a collector or something?”

I looked at them then. Seething. I did not like Trump’s face. Nor did I like this pudgy, sweaty, youthful teller with their wafer-thin mustache and their too-thin tie and their squirminess. Their name tag said Ainsley. I didn’t like it. It felt like an ugly word.

Not speaking, because it’s best not to speak, usually. I followed the teller’s hurried, terrified glances down to the counter. A little green Trump grinned up at us from the top of the stack of crisp $1,000 bills. 

“Oh,” I said, “Yeah. I c-c-collect. Anachronisms.”

The teller stared at me for another moment. I pictured, for a split second, what Ainsley would look like on the front line of a rally. Frothing at the mouth. Chanting about how I shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce. Or work near their kids. Or their parents. Or even breathe the same air. I imagine Ainsley wished they could call and report me to someone. Anyone. But. I wasn’t doing anything illegal. Just weird. And creepy. So instead, they shrugged and finished counting in silence. I didn’t try to speak again. I don’t mind speaking, but other people seem to mind when I do it.

***

The drone dealer had told me a price for the two-man flier as he launched into a breathless gush of how it would change my life. The “bachelor’s coupe,” he’d called it with a smarmy grin. Just between us boys, we both know how many fine, fine looking lovers you’ll woo in this bad jackson. Heh heh. Am I right, son? Carving up the air, landing at the helipad of the party, stepping out with that fine, fine passenger on your arm. Letting the autopilot hang it on the building for you while you take a sip of the refreshments. Then later, getting driven home by the AI pilot while I found more (scandalous pause) interesting things to do in the passenger seat. Or the spacious cargo bay.

A cool cup of water sat in front of me. I sipped it, for something to do other than listen to him yammer about the sex-appeal of this drone. I knew I didn’t have a lot of sex appeal, but I also knew that if I wanted it, I probably couldn’t just buy it like this. His whole story rested on the premise of a party. Also, it didn’t have THAT much cargo space. Just enough for what Uncle Chester and I had in mind. 

“Annnnd… aside from the killer look of the thing,” the dealer said slowly, grasping for a new tack, “the autopilot is tippy-top notch. Guaranteed smooth flight, in and out of the busiest skies. Perfect synchronicity with all other air traffic. No sweat.”

           It was odd, letting him talk himself out. He kept pitching the thing I’d already decided to buy, and I didn’t know how to stop him. 

           “Mawrp?” Mindy asked. 

           He glanced down at her carrying crate and opened his mouth to ask the question. When his eyes got back to mine… he shut his mouth. I did too good a job of making eye contact, I think. He was looking away more than I was and that’s usually a bad sign. 

Fine. I took that opportunity to name my price. I opened the backpack and he leaned back in his chair as if I’d stuffed a thousand cottonmouth snakes boiling around in there. Cottonmouths kill quickly. They’re easy to spot. Large triangular heads, you know? We learned about them in school growing up. 

           But I didn’t have cottonmouths. I had a backpack full of anachronisms with Donald J. Trump’s face on them. And some clothes, stuffed down at the bottom. Having the cash on top had made more sense, since I was going to use it before I needed to change clothes.

           “Do we have a d-deal?” I asked, like you’re supposed to and looked him directly in the eye, like you’re supposed to. Then I blinked hard, twice, and ruined it. Shit.

           “Uhm… I just need to check a few things,” he said, “with my manager.”

           “That’s fine,” I said, leaning back as if I were comfortable in the chair. “I cleared my day for this.”

           Hazy morning sunlight flicked across his face, glinting on his glasses. Probably fake. Real glasses cost more than eye surgery. Anachronisms were hip. Some of us were anyway. He had a too-thin tie on as well. I started to wonder if he and the bank teller were friends. He left to chat with his manager.

“Mawrp,” Mindy said. 

I looked around the office. Spartan. Minimalist. Digital. All lit up displays and glistening faux metal. Except for the fake plants. A row of them by the window, on a bed of fake dirt. I took Mindy out of her cage and placed her on the plants. She defecated and peed.

A few minutes later, I flew out of the dealership in a shiny new drone with Mindy and an empty backpack. I left the passenger seat in the parking lot. They’d called to tell me that. I told them to keep it and to please never call me again. Then I hung up and flew. 

***

Flying is nice because it’s quiet. It’s not lonely, when you have Mindy crawling around the cabin. I had flown in blissful silence for a time. I worked on the ship. You’re not supposed to tinker with drones while they’re flying, but I’m good with computers and wiring. They’re logical. I disabled the government trackers and a few other flight speed and maneuverability restrictions that I didn’t think we’d need. The engine purred as I worked.

Fusion. Limitless power. The miracle of flight, accessible to the wealthy masses, but new to the market. Still a little pricey, but not more than a studio apartment in Harlem. When I was done, I put on some old, old country music. I like country. It's the repetition, I think. Mindy likes country, now, too. She hadn’t loved it at first, but I started playing it softly while we slept in the apartment and it grew on her. We like things that make us feel safe, and the things we listen to while we’re safe make us feel safe. She slept on my lap all the way.

***

We landed at my Uncle Chester’s commercial greenhouse. He greeted us beaming, like he always does. I like Uncle Chester. His real name is Charles, but he thinks Chester is more fun to say. I kind of get that. 

“How the hell did you afford that thing?” he asked, gawking at the drone as its turbines quieted back down. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt, as always, and the jeans were pulled over the tops of his big boots, as always. 

“I sold my apartment,” I said. “And then Mindy and I negotiated with real cash.”

“Ah,” he said, in that voice that tells me that I said or did something a little strange, but not so strange that I’m going to get in trouble for the strangeness.

“Right,” he said. “And kid… I’m sorry, again, that you’re having to go through all this. I’m sure that things will settle down and–”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I said, too quickly. “It’s not your fault. It was… time to go.”

“Yeah, sure… but… the way people down there are… I just… it’s… We’re glad to have you here, safe and sound.”

A few moments of silence filled in before my synapses connected. 

“Thank you,” I said, “for taking me in.” 

“Of course,” he said, relieved, I think. “And thank you for your brilliant… plan.”

“Mawrp,” Mindy said.

“No problem,” I said. “But I guess we should thank the New York State Legislature, too.”

Two new laws had passed. Anti-nature laws, as the liberals called them. Protective Reform, said the other side. One law said I couldn’t reproduce, which I felt indifferent about in practice, but incensed about in principle. And the other law... Well. The other law created a business opportunity for smart people. People like Uncle Chester. And me I guess.

“Should we get started?” I asked. “I don’t want to be late.”

“You don’t want to come inside first, put your things down?”

“I don’t have much,” I said, “just Mindy and my backpack and they’re both coming with me.”

“Ok, son,” he said, “Ok.”

He usually called me “son” when he was sad about something he didn’t think I’d understand. I did. I followed him to the warehouse and we loaded up the drone.

***

So I stood there with my silver and black drone behind me, glistening with all that sex-appeal. The back hatch yawned open and a mid-sized pallet of dried mushrooms, marijuana, and LSD rested in the small cargo bay. The hills of Massachusetts rolled away behind it and the summer sun beat down.

And Slouch was having second thoughts. Greedy thoughts.

“Like, with this much to move I can build an empire. I think maybe I don’t need ya. I think maybe nobody does.”

“Mawrp,” Mindy said from the cockpit. She sounded suspicious and angry. Not mellow. I think she had a point.

“Maybe you’re not the right fit for us, either,” I said. “Long term. I’ll discuss it with my uncle.”

“Mawrp,” Mindy said, approvingly.

Slouch stared at me. Then looked past me into the drone. Mindy peeked at us from the dashboard, her eyes glinting in the shadows. Spooky. I liked it.

“You brought a f&$%ing cat to a drug deal?” Slouch asked. 

“Yes,” I said. “And I can show you.” Mindy hissed. I hadn’t heard her do that before. “Not the cat. I don’t think she likes you. I can show you a reason not to kill me.” 

I didn’t like him either, but I managed not to say that out loud. Instead, I put one hand on either side of the pallet and grunted as I lifted it up and put it down beside me. I saw his expression when I did this, disbelief. I enjoyed that a lot.

“Do you see this c-clock?” I pointed up to the a big touchscreen that I hung so it faced the rear door. It was meant for the passenger’s entertainment in-flight, but Mindy and I didn’t need it. I had rewired it and put the big clock on it. Less than 5 minutes remained on the timer.

He saw it.

“So what? It’s a clock. What about the stupid clock?”

“Do you see the wires?” I asked, scrounging for patience.

“Yeah, bro, I see the f&$%ing wires,” he spat, “what’s your f&$%ing point?”

“I destabilized the fusion reaction in this drone,” I said. “It will go critical in 5 minutes. In 6 minutes, we will both die and most of this hill will turn into a plasma liquid. Most of Massachusetts will disappear.”

He stared at me.

“Coincidentally, 6 minutes is also how quickly a grown adult can die from a Cottonmouth’s poison, if the bite is in the right place. The wrong one, I mean. The throat, specifically.”

His mouth had dropped open, so I stopped speaking. I was nervous. 

“Are you f&$%ing serious?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“You’d kill a whole state over a drug deal?”

“No,” I said, giving him a confused look. “That would be cruel. And wasteful. Would you do that?”

“No!” Slouch protested. “But–”

“Oh good!” I interrupted him in my too-loud voice. “Then please put the money here in the cargo bay.” I stepped back out of the way.

Slouch glared at me for a long moment. Then he shoved the gun in the front of his pants and crept up to the drone, suspicious and timid, slug-like. He shuffled off his large backpack in the tail of the drone. He studied the clock for a long moment, but then stepped away. I opened the backpack and calmly began to count the cash. Real cash. Physical cash. As agreed. Anachronisms. Another stack of Trumps.

“F&$%ing wild, using real money for this,” he said. “Bank teller looked at me like I was f&$%ing autis– crazy or something.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure they did. Please, don’t talk.”

I kept counting. The timer ticked down.

“You’re not gonna… turn it off?” he asked, gesturing at the timer with his pistol.

“Obviously not. Not till we leave the ground. Can you please not talk while I count?”

He stopped talking. The timer ticked down. It hit the 3 minute mark before he interrupted again.

“Hey, man–”

“Done,” I blurted, grateful. It was all there. I hated him. Really hated him. But that’s business. You work with people you don’t like. Usually. Except for Uncle Chester. I was lucky.

I stepped into the cargo bay. He stared up at me.

“I’ll call you if I need more,” he said.

“Good,” I said and clicked the button to raise the door. The clock read 45-seconds. “Goodbye.” He stared at the timer as the door shut. I sat down in the pilot seat, fired up the engine and the autopilot took off.  

“Mawrp?” asked Mindy, hopping into my lap. She purred. Then engine purred. I watched the hills and houses fall away through the windshield.

The clock ran out.

“It’s called a bluff, Mindy,” I said, stroking her fur. “The clock isn’t wired to anything.”

“Mawrp?”

“Because people are scared,” I said. “That’s why they work.”

“Mawrp.”

~ END ~