This story makes reference to a once-legal prescription diet pill, officially known as a biphetamine, which is no longer on the market. It had many street names like black beauty, but in the South it was called a black molly. In recent years certain designer drugs, also called Molly, have appeared on the rave scene. They are different compounds than the old diet pill.
[Many thanks to my volunteer editor LadyVer, whose helpful investment of time made this a much better story.]
* * *
The year is 1996. Late at night. In a small, lonely, off-campus apartment. The last week of school before finals. A term paper was due the next day.
Andrew Vinson was drowning in despair and self-loathing. Despite numerous promises to never let this happen again ... there he was, like so many times before: his mind as blank as the screen he was staring at, cursing himself for not starting the project sooner. The deadline for an extremely important term paper was approaching like a large, ruthless, predatory animal.
The class: English 436, Studies in Modern American Literature. An upper division course, primarily for junior and senior undergraduate students seeking a B.A. in English. The assignment: a final project of at least twenty pages on one of the authors studied in the class.
Andrew was a mathematics major. What the hell was he doing in an English class as a senior? He thought it'd be fun when he chose it as an elective. He'd always liked reading, fiction in particular. Maybe exercise some right brain muscles that had atrophied over the last few years while he buried himself in differential calculus and impossibly complex theorems. His math advisor had warned him to take something easier.
Too late now. This class was the only thing standing in the way of his getting a degree. The finals for his other courses would be a breeze. Why did he do something risky like this in the last semester before graduation?
There was no final exam for the English class; the term paper would be more than half of his grade. Professor Darden was very strict about punctuality and deadlines. If the paper wasn't delivered by the beginning of the last class at 8:00 AM, the lecture hall doors would be locked—and his grade would be zero. Not even straight A's up to that point would help.
He had chosen the author William Faulkner. The table was littered with paperbacks and library books. Andrew had the two that were on the required reading list:
Absalom, Absalom!
and
The Sound and the Fury
. Plus about a dozen others, well-known and obscure, novels and short stories, as well as Cowley's
Portable Faulkner
.
Andrew was from a rural area of Massachusetts. There was no shortage of New England colleges and universities for him to choose from, but his parents pushed strongly for him to attend a school in a different part of the country and in a large city. He had been exposed to several Faulkner short stories in high school, and they were one of the reasons he selected a university in the South rather than on the West Coast.
Andrew's paperbacks had so many yellow highlights and red underlines as to be meaningless. Post-Its bristled from the pages of every book. A stack of note cards was full of scribblings and random thoughts. All that was missing was an insightful topic. One that could be fashioned into a term paper at least good enough to let him squeak by with a passing grade. But the private scolding he had gotten from Professor Darden after his midterm project haunted his thoughts.
Andrew had been the only one who didn't get his graded paper handed back to him in class. Professor Darden had asked him to come see him in his office afterward.
"Mr. Vinson, what grade did you think you got on your midterm assignment?"
"Uh ... maybe a B?"
"No, you got a D minus. Actually a 'gentleman's D minus, if there is such a thing. You really deserved an F, but I thought you might get discouraged and drop the course. Not something a senior should be doing in his last semester.
"Mr. Vinson, this isn't a book club. There are no special favors or relaxed standards for math majors in my class.
"Your attendance has been steady, but your classroom participation has been particularly uninspiring. You need to do more than just read the books. Wouldn't you agree?
"You must do a
lot
better than this on the final project, otherwise you
will
get an F. Which in your case means you won't graduate, unless you have some other credits I don't know about. I've done it twice before to other students, so don't think I won't follow through on the threat. Both of them had to waste their time and money in summer school so they could finish. And attend a sad little winter graduation ceremony later on."
Andrew had been overcome with flop sweat that day listening to Professor Darden. Those feelings were welling up again: fear, confusion, shame, panic. Like when you're about to be fired from your job. Or handcuffed by the police. A half-assed term paper wouldn't cut it.
The refrigerator was filled with Cokes. He had a bag of strong dark roast coffee and water on the boil. Even some caffeine pills. But what he really needed was a "study aid": some speed to keep him awake all night and maybe get the ideas rolling. Like a black molly. They had become scarce on the underground market in recent years. He had nursed a small supply of them until they ran out last semester. Andrew had called everyone he knew to find just one diet pill. No one had any, not even the sketchiest "friend of a friend" types who seemed like people who should have been in jail long ago.
He glanced at the bank envelope that contained $250 from his grandmother's graduation check he had cashed earlier that day. Andrew would need that and a lot more if he didn't come through. He'd be on his own for summer school tuition, rent, and other living expenses. She was coming to the commencement ceremony; it would be humiliating to tell her to cancel the trip. What if she wanted the money back?
Actually he wouldn't have hesitated to spend the whole $250 on a black molly right then. Just one to get him through the next eight hours. A heavy rain began falling, perfectly matching his mood.
Despair was interacting with fatigue, a delirium of exhaustion that no amount of caffeine could conquer. And from which no useful academic ideas would flow. Tomorrow morning at 8:00 would find him asleep, head on the desk, and drooling—without a single word having been written. And his future unnecessarily shot to hell.
Andrew was startled upright by his ringing phone. It was after 11:00. Who would be calling this late? He thought about not answering. He let it ring—over ten times. In his delusion he thought it might be Professor Darden saying he could take an extra day to finish. Andrew finally reached for the phone.
* * *
Earlier that afternoon, in another part of town.
