The Death of the Neighborhood Drug Dealer

I live in a small town. A unique, well-defined, little community in the shadow of a booming metropolis. First ring suburb, aging, middle class. Houses close together, all alike, one right after the other. You don’t even have to be paying attention, and sometimes, you can hear your neighbors discussing the death of the neighborhood drug dealer.
I’m sure every town, big or small, has its version of a drug problem. I watch the news each night and shake my head when I hear about the drive-by shootings that accompany the drug trade in the big city. And I’ve heard horror stories of 50% or more of a Nebraska small town’s population being hooked on meth. But there is something particularly uncomfortable about knowing your neighbor deals drugs across the street from where you live.
He lived in a dumpy mini-Tudor home, on the side of the street where the houses are pitched side-by-side up on a hill. The houses where you rarely see the neighbors leave for work in the morning because they exit via an alley in back.
His house looked shabby and sad, and hid behind the overgrown limbs of dying trees and shrubs that needed water and a good trim. The steep steps up to the front door were crumbling cement, and the railing looked as if it would come off the posts in your hand if you tried to use it for support. Thistles and other weeds grew out of the spotty bits of grass. It was the one house on the block that not one child visited on Halloween night.
If it hadn’t been for the non-stop traffic that stopped in front of the house for five-minute visits each day, we never would have suspected that our neighbor was selling drugs. You can’t have that many BMW, Audi and Mercedes Benz owners driving into the neighborhood without something being up.
The clinching moment, and the first time we actually saw the man, was early one fall morning. As I made my way to the kitchen to pour my first cup of coffee for the day, I saw my husband, arms crossed, looking outside the large picture window in our living room, exposing his underwear-clad self to the entire neighborhood. An expression of mock outrage at his indecency barely passed my lips when he said, “I don’t think anyone is paying attention to me.”
I joined him at the window, more modest in my robe, and saw a surreal scene in the street in front of our house and the yard of the drug dealer. FBI, ATF, county sheriffs, city police, weapons drawn, ready to descend on the dealer’s house. The surrounding neighbors had been told to either stay inside or leave quickly via the alley. We watched as the officers moved carefully up the crumbling steps and surrounded the house. Within minutes, a small, fragile man came out, handcuffed between two officers, guns ready to shoot in case he bolted.
Which was not likely. As I looked at my neighbor, I couldn’t tell his age, but I could tell he hadn’t seen sunshine, fresh air, a decent meal or a shower for weeks. His skin looked dewey and gray, as if smoke from cigarettes and dope clung to it. He moved slowly and tentatively, and the officers on either side used their free hands to help the man as he walked. The entire crew climbed down the front steps and moved to one of the five police cars parked on the streets and drove off to find some wise judge to dispense some much needed justice.
And five days later, the luxury cars began arriving again. He was back in business.
A year or so later, neighbors from the problematic rental property on the block (the duplex run by the Tough Woman with the Yellow Hair) began bringing Corning Ware dishes filled with casseroles down to the drug dealer’s house. Rumor was, he had cancer and though he still did a little business on the side, things were pretty quiet. He was just waiting to die.
Two days before his eventual death, another ruckus took place outside of his house. A couple drove up in a navy Ford Taurus. The woman seemed to be on a mission. Her frayed cut-off jeans and jeweled turquoise tank top didn’t cover much of her very large body, and her exposed flab and bleach blond ponytail bounced up the crumbling steps with determination. The man apparently was along to provide some muscle, though how much was questionable since he couldn’t have been more than 150 pounds. His skinny arms sported a variety of faded tattoos and his wife beater shirt was partially tucked into a pair of filthy jeans that were falling off his waist.
Five minutes after arriving, the couple came out, slamming the front door. The woman, visibly filled with rage, yelled at the top of her lungs to no one in particular but of interest to those of us watching, “If you people feel sorry for this old shit because he’s dying of cancer, don’t! He’s a liar and a thief and a drug dealer.” And they got in their car and sped off.
The house stood empty for a number of months after the man finally died. Doug, the realtor who lives next door to us, bought the house and worked for almost a year to fix it up. He cut back the overgrown trees and shrubs and let the sun shine on the house for the first time in years. Inside, he cleaned every inch of the place and removed years of smoke and sickness and decay. He painted the walls and upgraded the kitchen and refinished the beautiful hardwood floors. And then he rented it to a darling young couple with a two-year-old little girl and another baby on the way.
I live in a small town.