It says Ive arrived in town with no cash, no product, and no contacts.
Its time to turn over a new, cannabinoid-free leaf.
What could possibly go wrong?
I awake in my RV from a past life, and to a text from my incarcerated uncle.
My uncle wants to talk over a payphone, and I decide Ill indulge him just this once.
Hes family, I suppose.
Uncles straight to business.
The line goes dead before I can even say goodbye.
Somehow, the only question I can think to ask is whether shed like a free sample.
Old habits die hard, I guess.
The streets are littered with a comical amount of drug paraphernalia.
Bongs and beer cans crunch underfoot, along with the occasional crack pipe.
Its as if the entire universe has been built for one thing.
Cash for Trash, says the machine in front of me.
The front of the machine, optimistically inscribed, reads Keep Hyland Point beautiful!.
I shall, Cash for Trash machine.
Soon enough, Ive turned every syringe and cigarette stub in the vicinity into a cool $20.
I stroll along the coast then pick my way through the streets, leaving a pristine landscape behind me.
I dont even have any!
Why am I like this?
I start avoiding the red-eyed gaze of passers by as I transform their hometown into something livable.
He even asks me what Im up to, and I garble out something about agriculture.
Apart from the conversation, he sells more treasure: a trash grabber, for only 25 bucks!
The afternoons work had already netted me a hundred dollars or so, but the grabber is transformative.
I merrily work my way through the streets, losing all track of time.
This life isnt so bad, I think.
Then I realise Im past curfew.
Id seen the signs, but paid them little heed.
Surely the law wouldnt mistake me for some street tough?
They sprint over the moment they see me, though, paying no heed to my complaints.
Before I know it Ive been arrested, fined $100, and marched back to my…RV.
Good job they didnt look inside, but the injustice of it shakes my newfound serenity.
And they think theyre the ones keeping the streets clean.
Im spotted, but this time I run, eventually losing them by ducking into a dumpster.
Is this what its come to?
Am I the self-same trash Ive dedicated myself to taking out?
They go, and I slink over to a motel I ran past earlier.
I knock on the door to the managers office, but when she comes out… again.
I can offer a free sample, but I cant ask for a room.
I head back out, back to picking, back to dodging the cops.
Im lucky theres only a minimal police presence.
Eventually I notice my phone has been stuck at 4am for the past several hours.
Its more than my phone thats wrong, though, its the world.
Again, text appears before my eyes, this time reading go to sleep to progress to tomorrow.
I am cursed, cursed to live in a world where Ill never get to see a sunrise.
Theres nothing for it.
That means money, but also despair.
Hyland Point will never be beautiful.
Does anyone even care?
The priest comes out, patient and expectant, waiting for me to unload my soul.
I ask him if wants a free sample.
He goes back inside.
My mind turns to those dead drops, of the hundreds of dollars just sitting around town.
Why not, I think?
The moneys already been made.
Better I take it than let it lie there.
Im stealing from the drug dealers, thats it.
Like Robin Hood, or something.
This town has one last legal way to make money.
I bet every last dollar on a blackjack hand, hit on my 17, and go bust.
