When I was a kid my uncle Joe gave my family a truck, who in turn gave it to me. It was a 1983 Toyota Pickup. Blue. I drove that truck for quite awhile before I destroyed it.

At the time, I lived in a two bedroom apartment with Jeff and Charles. I had money for rent sometimes. Jeff had money for rent sometimes. Charles never did. Me and Jeff were seventeen and eighteen. Charles was thrirtyish. He sold drugs, stole from us, and his girlfriend hated him.

I was skinny, real light skinned with freckles all over my face, shoulders, and arms. I had brown-red straight hair halfway down my back. I smoked a lot of pot and wore a lot of age old worn out clothes.

Jeff was skinny too, but not like me. I looked frail next to him, or anyone for that matter. He wore leather jackets and tight jeans and bullet belts and had long real frizzy blond hair. He listened to Poison. White Snake. Judas Priest. King Diamond. He drank Jack Daniels and smoked pot and drove a little Honda two seater or something. He was from California.

Charles was bigger than both of us. He was black, wore jeans and hoodies most the time. He listened to gangster rap. He sold a lot of pot, and some crack. Sometimes he had a gun, but I think he borrowed it because most the time he didn't. He was pretty friendly to our faces, but fucked us over quite a bit. He had a friend named Divo.

Me and Jeff worked at a local grocery store, making minimum wage or a bit above. I worked in produce and my boss was an alcoholic. Jeff was a cashier, and he stocked the shelves sometimes. We both got high before work, at work, and after work. Charles never paid rent but he gave us plenty of pot.

One time Jeff got off work an hour earlier than me. We had come in together in his Honda, so I asked him to wait up for me. He said he would. He went outside and starting talking to some drifters. A few minutes later a guy came in and bought several 40's of Old English or some other reputable malt liquor. Jeff had given him money. Thirty minutes later Jeff came in and made getting off work sound better than it had been a few minutes prior. We had beer, plenty of it. He left again, after giving me some simple directions to a small house right around the corner.

Twenty minutes later he was back; covered in blood, and wielding a box cutter. Eyes wide open and pupils still shrinking - like a couple quarts of oil draining down two bathroom sinks. He wasn't talking. I led him quickly to the receiving section of the grocery store. He was holding the box cutter with his arm perpendicular to his body, stiff like day old pasta. He nearly bumped me with that thing a few times, all covered in stranger blood too. He wasn't trying to hurt me, just not very responsive was all. Jeff had gotten in a fight.