The Story of Tinkerbell

Tinkerbell Gets Made

May, 1999

I met the guy in a patch of rutted dirt by an onion farm. The hand-off took less than thirty seconds, and when his little Honda tore back onto the empty country road like he was late for his wedding, I knew something was wrong.

I looked at what he had given me: a little sausage-shaped package wrapped in a blue latex party balloon. When I pinched it, the stuff inside didn't feel right, so I tore it open.

It wasn't heroin, it was weed. Pretty good weed—green, spicy, and sticky—but still.

When I got home, I called my contact. "Uh, this isn't what it was supposed to be, and I'm not risking my ass for a forty dollar bag."

"Yeah, they didn't want to give you the other stuff yet, not until you'd proven yourself."

I twisted the phone cord between my fingers. "I'm not running this in there. No fucking way. I get busted, I'll be facing years of time, and for what?"

He was silent for a moment. My heart hammered, and my parents' bird screeched cuss words in the back room.

"Okay," he sighed. "It's cool. I understand. Let me make some calls."

The first thing next morning, I parked behind a closed hamburger stand, a place at the end of the road out of town. Red and white paint peeled off its wooden siding, and crows fluttered around the dumpsters, fighting over scraps of trash. I sat in my car and looked out over the surrounding cornfields.

A dark green Honda with tinted windows and custom rims pulled up beside me, and a guy got out, peering through my windshield. It was a new guy this time, mid-height and stocky, his dark hair cropped close. He jerked his chin in greeting.

I climbed out of my car. He slipped the stuff into my palm, his eyes wandering over my face and tits before settling on the track marks on my arms. He gave me a wry grin. "You okay? You got everything you need?"

He had a tear tattooed on his cheek, the mark of a killer, but I liked his smile. I imagined for a moment telling him no, I was lost and lonely, dopesick and broke, and didn't have anything I needed. I'd get in his car, and he'd get me blasted and fuck me in the backseat. Then maybe he'd discover I'm funny, that I'm good company. He'd take me with him on his next run down to Juarez. We'd turn up the stereo and tell jokes the whole way, eat asada tacos at all the best food trucks, and he'd help wean me off the dope because Thou Shalt Not Shoot the Stash is one of the prime commandments of drug running.

We'd save our money and retire before we lost the game. We'd buy a farm in Michoacán and grow old together.

The blustery wind blew through my short hair, carrying a greasy, sour smell from the dumpsters. I smiled. "Yeah, I've got everything I need."

He grinned wider. "What's your name?"

I chewed the inside of my cheek, but for some reason I told him. "Gracie."

This made him laugh. "Your haircut is cute, you look like that fairy, what's her name, Tinkerbell." He turned away, walked back to his car. "I'll see you later, Tink."

I watched him drive off, wondering if I'd just been given my gangster name.

I did a shot to calm my nerves, my hands shaking so badly that I missed the vein twice, stinging lumps blooming under my skin of my arm. I started the car and drove eastwards, sticking my hand out the window to cup the cool morning air. I sang along with Miguel Aceves Mejia as the sun spread golden over the desert hills, the dope tickling my spine with warm fingers.

The prison rose out of the wheat fields like a jumble of tombstones. I parked in the wide, crowded lot, resting my forehead on the steering wheel for a moment. Then I put my hand down my shorts and stashed the package, slipping it in like a lumpy and unlubricated sex toy.