He closed his eyes and prayed.
Lori was the first one to call it God’s Breath. The stimulant had a half of dozen street names but was most often called TF12; TF stood for Timothy Fender, the 12 was the number of hours that the user would be high…more than high. TF12 is a synthetic opioid created by an eighteen-year-old genius, Timothy Fender, in his father’s garage. He knows more about pharmaceuticals and chemistry than Stephen Hawking knows about quantum physics. What a fucking waste of genius.
Fender had met Lori at a mutual friend’s 4/20 party. She had asked him if he wanted to drag some weed. That was all it took. Not the weed, he didn’t get high. Protecting his genius-level brain cells was invariably the priority. It was that she had asked him. He was a nerd, and he knew it. He didn’t try to disguise it either. Two inches beyond six feet, weighing in at one hundred and three pounds, he wasn’t an attractive physical specimen. His long black hair was always greasy and seldom combed. Pimples had not learned the news of his eighteenth birthday, and new ones popped up frequently as if he was still a budding pubescent. His wardrobe comprised of black tee-shirts and black jeans, a 1990’s goth holdover.
Twenty-five people had been at the party, twenty-six counting Timothy Fender. Twenty-four didn’t seem to know Fender existed. A covered-in-black wallflower. When Lori made her offer to share a joint, his synapse fired releasing something described as, in non-technical terms, a crush. The crush was so immediate and powerful that he had almost accepted her invitation to blaze. But a fear of lost control was even greater than the unexpected crush leading to his polite “No, thanks´. But she didn’t seem to care, nor did she criticize him for declining. And later, when he spoke about the mechanics of marijuana, cause and effect of the euphoric trip, she had listened. He knew he sounded like a nerd. A nerd who was utterly out of place at a 4/20 party. But she didn’t care. And so, he talked…and talked.
Seven months later he had developed the formulation for TF12. From some unknown, deep, sick region of his Einsteinium mind, he wanted Lori to try if first. She did.
Three weeks afterward, she was addicted to TF12. “Timothy Fender, you will be a friggin millionaire!” Lori told him, sitting on one of the wood cable reels that purported to be furniture in the garage/laboratory of the same Timothy Fender. Her prediction wasn’t wholly accurate, but over the next three months he had manufactured and sold enough TF12 to put almost eighty-thousand dollars in and old suitcase. He was happy. Lori was high. And TF12 was winning the attention of the police. And the coroner’s office.
On the anniversary of their first meeting, April 20, Lori instructed Timothy that TF12 was too scientific sounding. “It needs a new name.” She told him with her eyes closed and on her way to carelessness. “God’s Breath. That’s its name. God’s Breath-it will blow your mind and suck your worries away.” Timothy wondered what “worries” Lori had.
“Do you think it’s a sin to call it God’s Breath?” He asked her.
“I don’t think so.” She laughed. “But I will tell you when I get to hell.”
Lori closed her eyes.
Going Numb by J Hirtle
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