RED PHOSPHORUS

by DYLAN BROWN

Uncle Loden gutted the moldy innards of the Airstream, put cardboard in the windows. He did hang the painting of the old man on his knees.

“Found it at the thrift store,” he said.

“I fucking love art,” I said.

“That old man is cooking!”

I thought the old man was some kind of medieval drug wizard. Loden didn’t have to say it but I knew he thought of me as one of the kids in the back. I helped in whatever ways I could: lifting cold medicine from the CVS and Rite Aid on Canyon Way, big hauls of ammonia jugs, red phosphorous from the firework plant in southern Nevada.

The plan was good: park our shit outside Coachella, supply all the kids with enough synthetic crystal to turn their brains soupy. On my way back to the trailer with a few thousand dollars was when they got me. You don’t think a family member could turn you in, definitely not one who told your mom he wouldn’t let anything happen to you.

I’m learning a lot these days. For example, much scientific progress happens by accident. Did you know acid was uncovered by a Swiss chemist looking for how to treat post-partum bleeding? When I’m out I’ll be the old man, I’ll make a drug, maybe by accident, one that makes it so no one turns on you, it makes you lovable, the kind of person other people want to love and never give up on.