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thirty f

A Big Tip

F or the first time in years, life was simple. I cleaned and straightened the apartment every morning after Mike left for work. He’d arrive home around four o’clock, lay out a few lines of coke for us, and pour a shot of tequila for me and a scotch for him. We’d sit on the balcony and watch the sunset.

Despite all the positives in my life, I knew I was an addict. I’d been smoking pot, drinking alcohol, and snorting coke every day for years. I thought about quitting, but that would put a damper on my latest addiction, Mike Ambrose.

On sunny days I sat by the pool and read Your Erroneous Zones by Wayne Dyer. The book promised to point the way to self-reliance and to give readers tools to free themselves from negative thinking. I wasn’t ready to lose my addictions, but I wanted to avoid falling into more self-destructive patterns.

I kept a journal, using my own shorthand to keep my thoughts and feelings private. Instead of lifting the barriers to my happiness, my writing reminded me of the past I’d hoped to leave behind.

When am I going to get it—the only people helped by self-help books are the authors.

After just a few weeks, Your Erroneous Zones and my journal found a permanent home in the trash.

w

Scoring pot was easy in South Florida. We got stuck with cheap Mexican a few times but soon found street dealers with decent Colombian smoke. Mike wanted to get back into dealing but had yet to make contacts. We were also running low on cocaine.

“Dude at work told me we could score at one o’ the dance clubs. Whadda ya say, Ava? Wanna put on your dancin’ shoes?”

I wanted to be done with the bar scene, but we needed drugs and money. I hadn’t realized how much of Mike’s lifestyle was dependent upon his dealing.

“Sure, Mike, just not every night, okay?”

“And miss sunsets with my baby? ’Course not.”

We found the Breakwater, a club with a Philly connection. Mike used his contacts to score the first night. He was back in business, and we were back in blow. Life was good.

After a month at the boatyard, Mike burst into the apartment. “Hey, Ava, c’mere!”

I panicked. “Are you okay?”

“Check out my tip for the day!”

Mike fanned out ten one-hundred-dollar bills on the kitchen table.

“Your tip? For what?”

“These guys had a yacht stuck in the Caribbean near the Bahamas and wanted somebody to fly out and fix it. The boss asked if I’d be interested. Said I’m his top mechanic.” Mike’s smile covered half his face.

“You know you’re the best,” I said, stroking his ego.

“They had a twin-engine plane and flew me to Bimini. Took less than an hour to get there. Got me onto this yacht called Smooth Sailin’ and I fixed it. Piece o’ cake, but I didn’t let on how easy it was. We flew back, they paid my boss in cash, and tipped me.”

“Congratulations,” I said, “I bet your boss gives you a raise.”

“Screw that. Gary, the guy in charge of boats, asked if I’d come work for him. Said the Smooth Sailin’ s only one o’ their boats.”

Mike was ambitious and always looking out for himself, but something didn’t feel right. He had a good job and his boss appreciated him. He knew nothing about Gary or his fleet of boats.

“Did you talk salary?” I asked.

“Hell, no. If they tipped me a grand for one afternoon, I ain’t gonna worry about salary.”

“What kind of business are they in?” I was afraid to hear the answer.

“The guys are from Detroit—Ben’s the head of the operation. Then there’s Gary, Vinnie, and Chuck. Not the mob, just a bunch o’ young dudes who struck it rich. They got what they call an enterprise.”

“Sounds like drug smuggling to me,” I said.

“Just grass. They’re bringin’ it up from Colombia.”

“I thought we learned our lesson with Colombia,” I said.

“This is big-time. No more sticking condoms up our butts. They got a freighter loaded with thirty tons of grass, which they unload onto the Smooth Sailin’ and other yachts, all in international water. The yachts come into Fort Lauderdale and offload onto trucks. From there it goes to safe houses, then all over the country. And once they learned I had a pilot’s license, they were sold on me.”

“You could get busted,” I warned.

“No way. I’m just the mechanic and the pilot. I got nothin’ to do with the smuggling.”

I thought about the self-destructive patterns Dyer wrote about in Your Erroneous Zones . I had a bad feeling I was about to fall back into one of mine.