Slim woke up in the van just like always. Seein’as he didn’pay rent, gas for the van was his one biggest cost, and seein’as he didn’own much outside a’one phone and the clothes on his back, Slim’s van was his personal treasure.

That there van was Slim’s mown lawn, his rack a’rifles, his Rolex, his weddin’ring. Man drove a van with an Amazon paintjob, except, thing was, it actually read “Amazov.” Just in case Bezos and the lawyers caught up to him.

Three days a week Amazov was parked in the Wendy’s, two days a week he stuck it down the in Shake Shak, two up in the Carl’s Jr. Folk never batted an eye at some Amazon van doing long hours in a lot, so our man Slim parked for free.

Now those there long spells a’parkin’, they were all deals with the food-joint managers so as to let Slim get some sleep, which he did 12-to-12, startin’ late. Sleep, or else check his phone kinna’thing. Other half of that there bargain was the managers got a 10-percenter on all Slim deliveries. Midday to Midnight, New Year to December 31st and set to keep on rollin’ till Slim off an’died.

So why even order by Slim Delivers? Why not, I dunno, FedEx it? Go get your shit for yourself even?

Startin’ fact: Slim was always parked somewhere in the intersection. Meant as long as what you wanted was a five mile drive from where the highways crossed then he was mos’off the fastest.

Next up. Slim was off the books. Real, deep-level off the books. All the man had was a license and a registration to the trailer his folks had died on when it burned. So there was nothing Slim wouldn’ care t’deliver. Couldn’t scare the man off. Scientific fact, by the by, that there ain’even one Wendy’s manager alive who isn’up on some high-end amphetamine.

Final part of how he pulled it off . . . well, see . . . Slim—who’s gonna be the hero for the day, if y’all can live with us callin’ this working stiff a hero—well Slim had one other thing going for his services aside from cheap and fast and totally a-moral. The thing was that folk liked him.

When it was pills, Slim dropped off pills in the cool, fast, no-bullshit mode that lets’ya get a fix back to the bathroom fast. When it was heavy shit, Slim weren’t averse to givin’a man a han’ with a nailed-shut carton or a cocoon a’ black tape. And when you could handle some company an’ up an’ said—Hey, Slim, grab yaself a beer why dontcha’, well Slim grabbed that beer and smalltalked a load a’happy nothin’ just as long as you could like it. Man fo’all seasons.

So there you have it, one of those fellas who had his life one hundred percent fixed—straight job, a few good friends, no debts, no worries. An’all he had to do was trade off any chance at a girl a’his own—I mean, what kind a’girl wants a life where you wash yo’ass in a handbasin? But I can tell you now that our man Slim (and it ain’t just a name) our man Slim was a man who made his peace with what he’d traded way back when. Already twenty-nine now. Man with a plan, and the plan was an ISA that was meant to let him take it easy all through his eighties and onward. Wasn’gonna make it that far, not on a French fry diet, but every man needs direction.

So that’s all, huh? Guy makes some bad calls on the whole meanin’a life thing, but then inside his whole bad call framework—inside a’that, he carves out a place for hisself and he lives right there between the food joints. But if y’ever read a tale that starts with a happy main man in it, then you know already how the story has’ta head the way a’hellfire an’hurricanes. So, here’s Slim’s hurricane.

Starts with a pill.

Slim woke up in the van, bare feet out the window just the way he liked his summer days. Dust on the windshield let the sun in sandy yellow, an’from the way the roads were breathin’, from the speed a’cars goin’ by a’hundred yards off, from all them little things that only Slim knew how t’hear, he had it down as just past eleven.

Cold, skinny fries from a pack in the glovebox, swig a’Powerade and then Slim was up for his messages. Mostly regulars, bookin’a delivery in for the hour after twelve. A trucker who’d want a half Papa John’s delivered where he sat in the Shake Shak. One of those snuck in underneath the jacket jobs that only Slim was allowed to get away with. Manager at Shake Shak needed Slim bad fo’a side gal’s meth.

But there was another number on top’a the classics. New number, from one of those prefabs two miles West-South-West a’the smaller set’a pumps. Only three minutes old when Slim saw it, text read:

—Sendin out to all you carrier dudes. First 1 back gessa deal. Fifty for a supermarket run 4 me. TXT Now!!!!—

And Slim did. Few messages in he got the agreement an’Slim set off for the WinCo. All the while he was drivin’ there his customer was sendin’in more’an more items for the shop. Bag a’cookie dough, Fritos, Cheez Whiz, make it two a’cookie dough, them Jap noodle things, pizza nachos but like the froze ones.

It was all your classic munchies. Four litres a’Coca-Cola an’one’a them mixer machines if its goin’ less than twenty bucks. Slim rolled inna WinCo lot and he did the shop fast.

Not even twenty-five minutes from the time he got the text, Slim’s Amazov pulls up outside a’them prefabs. First ever order Slim made in the neighbourhood, and in case you only ever saw those houses from the freeway you maybe haven’t got a grip just how wide the plots are down there, how every house is its own mansion inside’a chain-link fencin’. Chain link fencin’, but the houses are beauts. Big, wide. ’Merican. Slim was outside a pastel blue place with a lawn that belonged in a suburb. That’s the feel the developers were sellin’. Like ya’place here was jus’a start’a top-end suburb that wasn’ quite built yet—the first house’a many, an’if there weren’t a school district, even a goddamn busstop, fact was that in a while there’d be a buffer a’more houses. Then a man wouldn’ need a chain fence for safety. Mayhaps there’d be a 7-11 someday when your kids inherit.

Here in the now though, Slim parked by the mailbox and texted up that he was there. ’Afore he’s even done wit’the text he sees his customer comin’. Sideburns, silk dressin’ gown, body like a liner gone to seed, shit let’s call this guy the Linesman, Slim never learned the name, tho’ down the line he found out that it’d never been the Linesman’s house t’begin with. Linesman saunters down his front path in sandals, ’afore he even has the gate open dude’s axxed Slim if he can unpack the shit inside an’has he got the bill an’all?

No worries. Slim already has the Linesman down as a real good tipper—you wanna ask me how? Well, Slim’d know, right? You go an’ask. Linesman leaves the fence gate unlocked an’throws Slim chit chat cues ’bout the roads and what’s that paint job on his van an’all. Two of em a’walkin’ up the front path chattin’ shit. This Linesman is the sort a’friendly that comes ’afore a good, well-planned round’a drunk.

So there are Slim an’ his Linesman inside. Case of re-morgagin’ goin’ on up this there house. One van’s worth a’furniture, long stretches a’carpet inbetween the items. Drinks in the kitchen’s all lined up by the sill, TV blarin’out from the room next door while the Linesman’s countin’off every name from that there bill, talkin’ football, talkin’ comparative milkshake experiences all round upper-state an’findin’ out Slim could happen’a be an expert on the matter. Though all through this chit-chat our man’s jus’ coverin’ for a bad feel he’s got goin’on. Somethin’bout the way the light plays off the walls, Sim feels like he’s landed in a TV show on a set where the colour contrast’s kinda fucked. Linesan’s face this special kinna orange.

Wild night comin, huh? Says Slim. Smile he gets back off the Linesman’s got Federal Offence writ all over it. Linesman says, would up an’Invite-cha if I could, man—but it’s a kina’a reunion, see? An’ Slim, who’s good at stuff, switches tack inta’ the last time he met good ol’ Al an’ what went down back then. Whole anecdote pulled off to fill the pause there, an’by this point all the stuff’s unpacked an’ Linesman’s fumblin’ for the bill in cash plus a good 33-percenter for our man.

Like he shaves with a waxin’ kit, that’s how the Linesan’s face looks. Raw kinn’a red. Palms a loada bucks inna Slim’s hand, then he turns aroun’ for a piece a paper of the table, folds it up an’ slips summat in.

There’s the pill.

An’if you never been in there in a room with a type like the Linesman then you won’ know, an’if you have I hardly need tell ya how he asks Slim how Slim likes to party, then he drops a chemical kinna’ name that’s probable made up, then goes with a, you try one a these Slim. ’An how Slim says, yeah, when work’s done I will and then the whole conversation’s done an’ Slim has the pill inside a’nenvelope made up out a’ folded-up phone-bill paper. Slim wit’ a mental note to flush that shit away next chance he gets. Our Slim ain’t no fool, at least not when the pressure’s off he ain’t.

But today is the day, the first ever day, that Amazov gets pulled up by a cop, an’Slim don’t know ’bout that pressure. Downside of ya’life deep off the books there. Secon’a man turns up in a uniform you reckon it’s the feds and the CIA all at once. Slim’s been outta governed world so long he don’t even know that the CIA is all secret Russians anyway.

So here’s how it goes, Amazov pulls out away from the plot wit’ the houses on it, guns along the feeder road a half-mile, then up comes the sirens, just like the cop’s been waitin’ inna driveway in the prefabs, waitn’ on Slim dirivin’ out, an’Slim’s all—where that fucker come from anyway? An’then he clocks. The pill. Some bullshit excuse to come check up his ride, then the cops gonna finn’a pill, then goddamn use it as a grounds t’go back an fuck the Linesman. Fuck Slim too. Don’tcha need a license for drivin’ an’all? He’s thinkin’ jailtime, that’s what Slim’s thinkin’.

Pulls up, don’t even look for the officer comin’ his way. Slim’s only thinks—hey, hide it, or swalla’it. Hide it or swalla. An’ jus’ afore he’s set to drop it down the seat side Slim sees outta corner’an eye that the oficer is black, is a black man, an’then he don’t even have time to tell hisself how he ain’t never had no problems wit’a black folk hisself, ’cos he already ate the pill like some antsy fool.

“S’up Slim! Howya like me now bitch!”

Slim turns his head and sees notta cocked and levelled handgun, notta badge out on display. He sees Good’ol Al. In uniform. Al in a uniform. Good’ol Al is apparently a police now.

“License, registration, bitch! Nah, I’m kiddin’ man. Not even here for Bezos or anythin’. Jus’sawya drivin’ roun’an thought to show you my new look. Likeit? Bectcha ass! Delivery roun’here or what?”

“Droppin’ off some crack,” says Slim, too weak for better jokes.

“You jus’ make sure you don’t have a taillight out or whatever next time you’re at it partner! They my boys now an’all but I can tellya. Summa those sons down the district station ain’tso sympathetic. Hey—the station! Still got shit to do man! Catcha roun’ Slim!”

An’ Al makes it back to the wagon while Slim’s still blinkin’. Off goes the policeman, siren wailin’, firin’ his pistol straight up in the sky outta one window for the love of a new ride, an’ his love of Merica. Slim jus’ leans back inna chair an’ thinks how at leas’ the pill ain’t kicked in yet. Shuts his eyes.

Shuts’em.

Nex’ time them eyes open up our hero’s inna White Castle wit’a thing like a burger, ’cept there ain’t no White Castle on his intersection, so Slim’s leanin’ forward at the food, brow not so much as an inch fromma meat, mutterin’aloud “Ain’t no white White Castle onna innerinnersection.” Jus’assif he were narratin’ alla sudden an’I was the one out there in the food joint instead. Slim talkin’at’a burger but it ain’t a burger, the fuck is it?

That food? That construction? Ain’t’offa any sorta menu. Issa bacon, bacon, cream cheese. Issa burger, but only maybe. Someone maybe painted a sidea’it inna liquid butter. Reckons thems onion rings inside’a’it as well, but it’s hard to count the patties.

Voice sayin’ “Slim, you wanna leave now?” and then he’s walkin’. Walkin’ walkin’ but it’s hard ’ard hard wit’ these white walls an’ floors to know whas’a wall and what ain’t, an’if you’re slippy you could see a wall like that an’saunter right down through it.

But in time he get’s back t’his meal, except now it’s another joint, maybe issa Papa John’s now. Same food onna table, only flatter an now it’s like the grease is steamin’ offit inna Slim’s slim lungs. Grease, grease; suicide, thinks Slim, an even if the words don’t make no sense of what Slim’s doin’ wit’a pizza now he’s all suddenly aware a’how the Linesman in the mansion’s blown his brains out, corpse inna couch, how his head’s exploded off and a half-hour on his bloated gut releases half-digested cookie dough an’nachos out his ass so that the headless man is sittin’inna multicolour throne’a shit. Shotgun in his lap.

Then Slim’s walkin’ tarmac, lookin’ for his van here where it’s dark. He’s thinkin’bout trees, Slim. How he’d like to drive the few miles North to where there’s trees an’lie unna’a leaves sometime.

An’finally Slim wakes up in the van. But this time it is midnight.

Slim, he sleeps midnight to midday. But here he is at midnight, wide awake an’maybe sober, thinkin’a the trees. Van’s open window lets in air. Cool night air. Slim breathes a long breath out an’smiles. Fool thinks his hellfire’s over. He sets off to drive Northward.

Amazov turns inna parkin’ lot, arcs a way aroun’a parked pickups, Slim’s tires kissin the night-cool asphalt.

Amazov pull up the exit ramp an’joinsa road behind another van. Slim looks an’he sees that the van reads FredEx.

Fred. Ex.

Fred.

Ex.

An Slim don’ know there’s a word for doppelgangers, but he all at once knows what one means. See thas’ maybe why we made words. So as to take the fear out a’what we know.

So’as you can say: motherfuckr pointin’ an M83 in ma’ face.

Fill your head up wit’ that thought a’the “mother fucker” anna “M83” an’not the I’mma gonna die bit.

Like we say t’ kids, nah, you’re jus’ sick son, so as they can use the word “sick” to get away from the pain.

But Slim ain’ got no word for a doppelganger, ain’t got no word to take the edge offa shock, he can only see that the driver of FredEx mus’be a man jus’like Slim is, jus’Slims personal ghost—a man who sleeps 12-to-12, startin’ midday instead, an’mirrors everythin’ Slim does, mirrors it forever.

An it’s fear—that’s what it is inside a’ Slim now.

His full instinct it’sa fear that our Slim’s gonna meet a guy an’see how wrong that FredEx man’s life is. See how wrong Slim hisself is in turn.

An all he’ll have left t’do is pick onna guy’s—oh, I dunno, his shoes, his favrit’ song, whateva.

Gonna have to finn’another reason to despise him. A fake reason.

Slim’s gonna haveta get to lookin’ what the difference between’a two’a them is, even if him an’ FredEx ain’got no real deep-down differences at all, an’all this guy FredEx is is a holy terror sent to show our hero that he’s livin’ wrong. Been livin’ wrong forever.

An’still Slim needs’a see him. Needsa see a face. Drives his Amazov right up almost the tailgate a’ FredEx. Right up behin’till the FredEx driver honks him off, then he follows FredEx downa exit lane inta’White Castle. The White Castle that don’t even exist. White Castle, parkin’ lot at half past minnight. Slim’s double, he gets out the car.

To be continued . . .