Schweck: A Short Story

“Here, try this,” offered Victor. He held a small bowl with a reddish pepper-looking powder that barely dusted the white enamel.

“What is it?” asked Christian hesitantly.

“Just try it, don’t be a weenie. Fill a spoon with it and then put it on your tongue. You’ll be soaring through the clouds in no time.”

Christian did as he was told. He tasted a unique flavor, like lemon juice and table pepper. It was potent and the boy’s mouth began to water. He began losing feeling in his tongue while he felt saliva seeping out the corners of his mouth. He grimaced at the embarrassing thought of explaining the drool to Victor. Christian would do anything to avoid looking like a fool.

Involuntary tears formed in Christian’s eyes as he looked at Victor, who was leaning back in the middle of his ancient couch arms stretched wide behind him, reaching in each direction, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. He began laughing, almost uncontrollably, the Adidas logo on his white tee bouncing in and out as he leaned forward to catch his breath.

“How’re you feeling?” Victor squeaked through peals of laughter. “You just downed more Szechuan pepper than I’ve ever seen. You’re tongue’s gonna be numb for a while, but one thing you ain’t gonna get is high. I’ve gotta take a leak, turn on the Xbox, I’m ready for some Black-Ops. Also, grab the vodka in the kitchen, let’s do a few shots. My mom will never notice.”

The boy hated being duped, but he liked Victor. He was three years older, a junior in high school. He had given Christian his first cigarette, first beer, first joint. The boy felt special around him. He enjoyed the thrill of feeling both rebellious and grown up and Victor could provide that more quickly than anyone else the boy knew.

While Victor peed, Christian grabbed a fifth of Popov sitting on the counter next to a rack of spices. He saw a bottle of unground Szechuan pepper and nonchalantly slipped it into his pants pocket. His mom hated his baggy pants, but the extra fabric could conceal just about anything, including a small bottle of Chinese spice.

After a few rounds of video games, some throat-burning shots, and several of Victor’s playful, but painful, clouts to the upper arm, Christian was spent. His apartment was across the Quaking Aspens complex. He checked for his spicy treasure, slipped on his jacket, and Victor sent him away with one more smarting blow, this time on the left side of his chest. “Just a badge for you to remember me by,” Victor countered to the boy’s exclamation of, “Ouch!”

Quaking Aspens was a large apartment complex full of a curious mixture of people. Many were down on their luck, living there for only a few months at a time taking advantage of moving-in specials that usually amounted to one or two months of reduced rent. Others were starting their adult lives and were financially located somewhere in between living with their parents and having enough to put down 10% for a house. The boy didn’t quite fit into either of those categories. His mother, Amber, was a widow and had turned to alcohol after the death of his father, but managed to hold her job of swing-shift produce manager at Safeway. Her income was just enough to pay the monthly bills as long as there were no unexpected expenses. They were able to eat fairly well given her ability to take home questionable produce free-of-charge despite the practice going against corporate policy.

Despite her drinking habits and the unflattering work uniform of a red polo shirt, black slacks, an apron, and the black baseball cap she wore five days a week, the boy’s mother was undeniably attractive. Five-foot-seven and physically fit, blonde with dazzling blue eyes. Her eyes had possessed a magical sparkle that had perished shortly after her husband. Now they were more often blood shot and at the corners where small wrinkles used to make her eyes seem like they were smiling themselves had taken on a hint of sadness even during rare happy times. She continued to wear the engagement ring Christian’s father had given her, which she said she did to fend off horny male customers, but anyone who knew her could tell she was desperately clinging to whatever was left of him.

Despite the sparkle’s death, Christian’s mother was known throughout his middle school as Ms. Milf. A moniker he absolutely despised, but felt powerless to change. He combatted it by doing his best to keep his mother away from the school, but despite his best effort, he was still harassed about it relentlessly.

The boy entered his apartment and saw his mother sitting on the sofa. She was watching TV, holding a glass of clear liquid on the rocks. She didn’t really have a drink of choice, and despite her financial situation she had an extensive liquor collection so the boy never really knew what she was drinking.

“Hey Chris, where’ve you been?” asked his mother, “It’s my day off, I thought we were gonna make it a movie night. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s all good,” replied the boy. He had forgotten it was Wednesday and his mom was off work. She used to fill the time during mid-week off days to volunteer at the boy’s school, but that practice had ended during the first week of middle school when an eighth grader had asked the boy if he could have ten minutes in the utility closet with her. The boy carefully word-smithed his way into convincing his mother that Mrs. Davis, his homeroom teacher at the time, didn’t really need parent help. “I’ve got lots of homework to do,” the boy added, “I’m late because I decided to try out for the school play.”  

“That’s great! I didn’t know you were into acting,” his mother desperately wanted to be more involved in his life, but her work schedule meant she missed connecting with him most evenings. “Maybe I can help out with the production when it starts.”

“No, I don’t think it’s for me. I thought there’d be a lot of girls there, but there aren’t, and anyways I don’t think the drama teacher needs help. I’m gonna go do my homework.”

“Well, thought I’d offer,” Amber sank back into the couch, took a long pull from her glass, ran her fingers through her blonde hair, and let her boy leave the room.

In his bedroom, Christian got right to work. He removed the Szechuan pepper from his pocket and set about filling sandwich bags with what he assumed was about a gram of the powder, but in actuality was far less. He figured he could sell the baggies for five bucks a pop. He’d call it schweck and would promise his buyers the instant feeling of numbness. He was sure it’d work.

After filling the bags, he ate a couple of apples, kissed his mom goodnight, and went to bed. He couldn’t wait for school tomorrow.

Mr. Benson was Christian’s favorite teacher by far. He taught social studies and Christian loved his sense of humor. He had a way of making even the most boring, insignificant incidents in American history seem wildly interesting. Christian had been governor of his colony in a simulation unit and had done a masterful job organizing his classmates into roles that would best suit “Providence Plantation” while making wise trades that would keep peace with Native Americans and the other colonies. When the class was assigned its first research paper, Christian had asked how long the paper should be to which Mr. Benson replied, “It should be like a mini-skirt. Long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to be interesting.” Christian had gone red in the face, but appreciated the joke.

Mr. Benson also loved fundraisers and donating to charitable causes. It seemed like there was always a reason to raise money for something. The current project was Coins4Kids. The goal was to have people donate change in order to fund research to help kids with some kind of cancer, Christian couldn’t remember what type. Mr. Benson had set it up so each of his six classes were competing against each other. Coin amounts counted for positive points for each class, but other classes could put dollar bills in the boxes which acted as negative points. It was close at this point, but Christian’s sixth-period class was sixth out of six. The winning class had been promised a pizza party, which Christian wanted more than just about anything else he could think of.

It didn’t take long before word got out about Christian’s schweck. After selling 20 bags of the stuff, his only regret was not charging ten dollars for each one. All 30 bags were gone by lunchtime and Christian was left with $150, all in five-dollar-bills, in his gigantic pocket.  

The first thing Christian did in history class was to place six five-dollar-bills into each of the other classes’ Coins4Kids collection boxes. The second thing he did was turn around and see a red-faced Ms. Martinez, the school’s assistant principal, standing directly behind him. “Christian Cavanaugh?” she asked flatly before commanding, “You’re coming with me.”

Ms. Martinez had a small office next to the principal’s. She was a small woman, but had a fiery personality. She had long curly black hair that would flirt with the small of her back if she didn’t always keep it in a thick braid. At five-foot-one and 97 pounds she wasn’t a physical force, but could level any tween and wannabe teen with her famous scowl and furious look of unforgivable disappointment. Christian was seated upon a hard wooden stool trying to avoid eye contact by looking at an inspirational poster with a picture taken looking up into some tall trees. Below the picture the word “Grow” was written in large green letters, below that were words that were printed too small for Christian to read. His ears and cheeks felt hot, his stomach was upset, and he was trying to keep his emotions in check. He knew his mother was at home and he wasn’t sure what her reaction to this would be, but he knew it wouldn’t be good.

“So, why do you think I pulled you out of class?” asked Ms. Martinez. Christian hated being asked questions that would solidify his guilt, so he responded by simply shrugging his shoulders. She reached into her desk drawer and removed a bag of schweck. “Maybe this will help jog your memory,” she said holding the bag between Christian’s eyes and the Grow poster. He turned his gaze to the floor and shrugged once more. “You can tell me what’s in these bags, or we can get the cops in here and have a nice little chat. Your choice. What’s it going to be?”

“It’s schweck,” replied Christian as he continued to look at the pink dots organized in even arrays upon the green institutional carpet. “It’s nothing, really.”

“I’ve never heard of it, but it sounds like drugs to me. I’m calling the police.”

“No, please, it’s a Chinese spice. It’s Szechuan pepper, that’s all it is. I sold it to people for five dollars because it makes your tongue numb.”

“And how many people bought it?”

“Thirty.”

“So you made about $150 on this stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s see the money. You’re going to be giving it back just after you call your mom and explain everything.”

“I don’t have the money anymore. I donated it all to charity. I wanted to win the pizza party in Mr. Benson’s class. That’s the only reason I sold it in the first place.”

“Well, that’s definitely not going to happen. You’re staying here until after school, then we’ll have a conference with your mom and Mr. Benson. We’ll decide what to do about all this during that meeting.”

After school Mr. Benson decided to give the pizza party to the top finisher of the five other classes. He assured Christian he would not tell his class about the incident, but also told him he made an incredibly poor choice for such a smart kid. He told Christian that his trust had been lost and until it was restored, he would not be allowed to help out with fundraisers. Amber showed up flustered, she had not ever been called to school for something like this before and didn’t know what to make of it. At first she had been angry with Ms. Martinez, but then started to blame herself and her parenting for Christian’s mistake. Ms. Martinez decided that two days of in-school-suspension would be an appropriate consequence during which time Christian would write an essay about the evils of drug use. She decided the money Christian had collected could be sent to the Coins4Kids charity, since those who bought it weren’t up to any good either.

Despondently, Christian began his essay as soon as he got home. He worked through most of his mom’s shift before falling asleep. He was awoken by her opening the apartment door. He listened as she turned on the TV and poured herself a drink. He could hear the ice clinking on the sides of her glass. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes he pulled himself up, stumbled to the living room, and without saying a word sat on the couch next to his mother. They sat silently for a long time. Slowly, he looked into his mother’s eyes and she into his, sadness traveling between them. As Christian leaned in to hug her, he felt the warmth of her neck and he thought about what he’d done that day and his friendship with Victor and letting down Mr. Benson and of his dad and as his mother reached a gentle arm around his shoulder he could feel her love for him and he couldn’t stop a tiny tear from falling off his 14-year-old cheek into her drink.