"I..." The words he so wanted to share would not come out. He wanted to tell the woman that he was not dangerous, was not a sex freak, that if he had the money he would buy Brandon and his sister a pop, a candy bar, unfiltered Camels, a box of Tide, whatever they wanted.

But there were no words. He silently slithered away and out of the Launderette.

"Yes, Mister Lister, I'm sorry it took so long but I didn't want to be seen anymore."

Now that he had the full story, Mr. Lister offered some empathy. "Each one of us who is here, myself included, have had to deal with stigma. I realize it hurts now, but there will come a day, and a place where the stigma is all behind you. With..." he emphasized. "...one exception. Up here." He pointed to his temple. "We can't forget everything, but we can work to live beyond it."

Whitey nodded but it was a false gesture. 'Forget' Mr. Lister had said. 'We can't forget everything.' Bullshit. There was a way to forget.

Pot, it makes you forget.

What he wouldn't give for a fat sack of Columbian Gold.

5.

It was an act of sheer will. Whitey made his new pack of smokes last 3 days.

Then he was screwed.

He appealed to each of his fellow residents. He had enough money, if they could just go to the store and buy them for him, he would be grateful, even offering two cigarettes for their trouble.

But rules were rules. The intent of the Transitions program was to reintegrate people into society, not hide them from it. If Whitey wanted smokes, HE would have to get them himself.

He tried bumming, but that too was forbidden. "You need to learn to stand up for yer-self Whitey." Slim had offered sagely. "Now don't be thinkin' I'm running ya roughshod, I'm just doing some straight shootin'."

'Fuck you.' Whitey thought. "Thank you Slim" he had said. The stupid sheep-fucker had started to wear on his nerves.

The issue remained unresolved. Then one evening while Whitey was moping in the courtyard a voice caught him by surprise.

"I know where you can get smokes."

It was the voice of 'Spigot,' another member in the program. Spigot had earned his nickname for his inability to go more than 20 minutes without taking a piss. Rumor had it that he had once been a passenger with a couple of buddies on a road trip. When they tired of his constant pit stops, they decided to refuse his pleas and kept motoring. Spigot responded by pissing out the back window, and most of the urine splashed back inside. For the rest of the trip, if he asked, they stopped.

Whitey came to life. "Smokes! Where?"

Spigot walked up close. They were alone in the courtyard. "Now I ain't got nothing to gain by this and a hell of a lot to lose. Do you understand?"

Whitey assured that he understood.

Spigot seemed satisfied and continued. "There's a guy I know who lives near here. He makes pretty good bank buying cigarettes from an Indian reservation in South Dakota and then selling them here cheap. He also sells a lot of other things that ain't quite on the legal side."

Whitey thought he had a good idea what those 'other things' might be. Now he was really interested.

"Here's the thing though. These cigarettes are only supposed to be sold on the reservation, so if you show up with a pack that has a picture of Crazy Horse on a totem pole, old man Lister is gonna know you didn't take no day trip to Sioux Falls."

Whitey could see the problem. "So how do you get around it?"

Spigot flipped up the flip top of a battered box of Winston's. "Repackaging. Get yourself an empty pack, flip tops is best, and just stuff 'em with your new supply. Your Pocahontas puffers will now have the USA cancer-stick seal of approval."

Whitey was in, he was way in. He lusted for a cigarette badly, considered asking Spigot for one, then wisely withdrew. He didn't want to press his luck. "So when can I get some?"

"We" Spigot corrected. "We can get some tomorrow. You got 30 cents?" Whitey nodded. "Okay, tomorrow we sign out like we're going to the Red Owl, together. 'cept we ain't going to the Red Owl. We're going to another place." He said the words mysteriously.

"Now maybe you should be pawing through the dumpster over there to find yourself a good flip top. I saw Catfish throw one in there earlier and had my eye on it myself. But with you being the new guy and all..." He left the rest of his thoughts dangle while Whitey went off dumpster diving.

6.

He knew the place the moment he saw it. The same brick house that the Bird had visited so very long ago to buy him his first half ounce of bud. The same house that he himself had subsequently come for additional supplies of reefer, weed, bob, pot. It was a house where code words were used but names were not. A house that sported colorful porch lights year round. A house with people coming and going all day. A house that, surprisingly, was completely invisible to local law enforcement.

It was thee house. The house where you got things.

"I know this place."

Spigot wheeled on him accusingly. "If you knew this place, what did you need my help for?"

"I just didn't know they sold cigarettes."

Spigot looked at him oddly and then quizzed: "Okay, so what's the door code?"

Without hesitation: "Bob."

"Bob?" That ain't no code word. You're full of shit."

"C'mon, I'll show you." Whitey strode confidently to the door, leaving Spigot three steps behind. He deferred from the bell and knocked directly on the glass. Spigot shifted his weight from foot to foot, worrying about the consequence of bringing this stupid kid into the picture.

The door opened, all of three inches. Whitey took the initiative. "I'm looking for bob."

"My man!" The door opened wide. "Long time no see! C'mon in, quick, both of you."

The dealer led them through the living room and into the kitchen. As they moved about the house Whitey could detect the underlying aroma of burnt grass, the scent was maddening. They each took a seat at the kitchen table.

"I didn't know you knew bob." The dealer was looking at Spigot who was looking at Whitey and then back at the dealer.

Whitey broke the silence. "Actually, we're here for a different friend." At this the dealers eyes sparkled like ice crystals. "We're looking for..." He turned to Spigot.

Spigot sputtered and then got his tongue. "Oh...Sam. We're looking for Sam."

The dealers loss of enthusiasm was evident. A couple of 30 cent packs of cigarettes. Sakes... for just a moment he thought he was going to make a real deal. Not a Sam or a Bob, but a big deal.

"No problem." He reached over and opened a dishwasher that hadn't seen a dish in some 10 years. He pulled out the top rack which was stuffed with cartons of 'spirit wind' cigarettes. "One each?"

The packs were put on the table as was the money. The cigarettes would be carried out. The money; would remain on the table until the visitors were gone. They exited the kitchen and re-crossed the living room.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to see Bob? His brother Roberto is in town." The dealer was looking directly at Whitey; even a small score would help the crummy 60 cent take.

"No, but I hope to see him again sometime. Tell him that I'm flat broke."

"Will do, he'll be waiting for you. Really good to see you again." The dealer ushered them out and involuntarily checked the window.

All clear.

He was sincerely glad to see the kid again, as sincere as any dope dealer could be. The kid had been a good steady customer, and after his bust, didn't squeal a word. They must have really grilled him hard in jail: 'who is your dealer' 'where did you get it' 'we want names' 'give us an address'. He had heard the kid broke down, had some kind of psychotic episode, but never once did an officer come pounding on the door with a search warrant. The kid had kept his mouth shut. Good for you kid, you deserve something special. I won't forget.

The two men left the house, this time with Whitey slightly in the lead. He frantically ripped at the Spirit Wind package, dragged out a stick, and lit up. The effect was immediate and satisfying. He held the grit between his lips and then fumbled though his pockets for the flip top.

"We can do that over at the park." Spigot offered, grateful to add his importance in this adventure. "It's a good thing I knew Sam." his importance now mired in puffery. They took the first bench at Johnson Park, made the swap between packs, and then returned to the Transitions building.

"You get you some smokes Whitey!" As animated as he was, Slim could have made one hell of a TV weatherman, that, or a door greeter at Walmart. Whitey showed him the Winston flip top box. "Well I'll be a condom in a Crackerjack box! You switched brands!"

Whitey winced at the recognition. He mumbled something about menthol crystallizing his lungs, and headed off toward his room. "Focus group in 10 minutes Whitey." Slim hollered after him. "I'm fixing to hear all 'bout your adventure in the big bad world. Hee-haw!"

Whitey saw red.

The cowboy's laughter sent blistering red hate erupting in his brain. He was a heartbeat away from whipping around and laying into the dork with both barrels.

The hate came out of nowhere and it came from everywhere. Ever since he had returned to the Elm he had been ravaged. The townspeople had made their impressions clear. Mr. Lister had fed him bullshit about forgetting. Spigot was a self serving moron. And now this goddamned Howdy Doody on a stick couldn't wait to get him into the group where he might trip up and get busted.

He paced his room and seethed. Every person he had seen since he got back either treated him like shit, or was a fucking retard.

That is, with one exception: 'My man! Long time no see!'

Whitey clutched at this singular concept. He forced his brain to think good thoughts of what could be, would be. He focused on this and slowly gathered his composure.

A knock on the door. "Whitey! Round up time! Bring your branding iron!"

'I'll brand your fucking skull' he thought. "On my way!" He voiced.

Chapter 2.

1.

November 10 marked the one month anniversary of Whitey's participation in the Transitions program. The day was like any other; meals, meetings and monotony. Like any other; save for one thing. Whitey got his first paycheck; an incredible $67.13.

He was ecstatic.

The men, who chose to work (and that meant all of them), earned minimum wage working a few hours each night. The work was menial. They counted out bolts, nuts, metallic clips and plastic fasteners and then deposited them into the correct segment of a plastic parts container.

The 3-M plant that farmed out the work had exacting standards. If a customer in Helena, Montana complained about missing parts in their order, the arrangement with the Transitions program could be terminated.

This the men knew. Thus accuracy meant pay, pay meant cigarettes, and cigarettes meant everything. It was a great model for quality assurance.

Whitey immediately bundled up and boldly hit the log book. "Bank and Red Owl" he scribbled in. His confidence in going public was fueled in three ways. 1. The promise of having so much cold hard cash in his pocket. 2. The return to his brand of choice, Kool Filter kings, and 3, and most compelling, concealment.

A brutal Canadian cold front had descended over the region and only a fool would go out in such weather without facial protection. Whitey had rummaged through the community cold weather box and had unearthed a full ski mask. He could make his rounds incognito, perhaps only lifting the face-cover slightly should he get an odd look from a teller or cashier.

He made good time. Few people were out and those that were, including a couple of women, were dressed much like him.

The bank teller, seeing the check was issued by 3-M, didn't even hesitate. Whitey had his cash and was gone. It was much the same at the Red Owl where he got two packs of Kools (flip tops) and a new disposable lighter. He hesitated only as he approached the check stand, wondering if there would be a scene like the time before. But the checker was efficient, even commenting about the cold weather and how wise it was for him to be wearing a full ski mask. He thanked her, ('Edna,' her name badge said) pocketed his purchase and was out the door.

Based upon his experiences with the bank and the store he could have almost qualified as a real person. For a moment he even felt like a real person. But then he saw it.

During all of his previous outings he had kept his face to the ground, attempting to conceal his identity as much as possible. Now though, with the proven success of the mask, he was at liberty to take in his surroundings. He looked at the store fronts, thinning now and being taken over by squat nondescript structures that fell somewhere between commercial and residential. At the next corner he would turn south, taking him back to the Transitions building. But the image in the distance stopped him cold.

It was a cross; a large metal cross atop a rectangular bell tower. The bell tower was perched on a sloped roof. And below that roof he knew what lay: St. Mark's church and one Father Milliken.

At the corner of Elderberry and Front streets he relived his nightmare. The small boy, lured to the telescope, his pants and underwear being removed, the sudden pain in his anus followed by thrust after savage thrust. He heard the words 'you must see it! When you see heaven it will stop!' He saw himself on the floor, weeping in agony, heard the thunder of his father and the defiant shouts of the priest. And then the--- What happened after that? It didn't matter. What happened was enough; more than enough to scar a thousand boys for a thousand lifetimes.

The cold got him moving again. He returned to Transitions, signed himself back in, and went directly to his room. He knew what he had to do and he knew what he had to forget.

Tomorrow would be Saturday. And with that in mind, he decided on how to do both.

2.

The men were grousing about the cold and basking in their new found wealth as they met for Saturday afternoon focus group. The meeting went like all the others, participants talking about their ambitions (all phony), Slim taking the stage at every opportunity and Mr. Lister impatiently deflecting his wisecracks. Sobriety dates, serenity prayer, restitution, blame, acceptance, and then a new thing. Church.

"I'd like to go to Saturday night mass and confession tonight." Whitey shared quietly. I would go on Sunday, but you know..." The men did know. Sunday would mean more people, a lot more people who would point, stare and talk.

"That's very good Whitey. We know that a strong spiritual base is part of recovery. Would any of the rest of you like to go with him tonight?"