First Street

CHAPTER ONE
-------------------------------------------------

Pass it this way dude. Times like these, those were pretty much the only words we ever spoke. We were best friends, who damn near everyday, got off from our bullshit jobs and smoked weed - or in any other number of ways intoxicated ourselves. His name was Elijah Billick, short and stocky with blond hair and blue eyes. He was kind of the group instigator; he loved not only to start shit, he could talk and back it up.
I'm Hunter Streetman, the divorced on who can never seem to find a decent girl. But who cares right? I have fun, even if I get laid only just enough to keep from killing myself. Like Slater said in Dazed and Confused, "Quality over quantity man". Bullshit. Life is always better in the movies. Even if the guy's life sucks, fuck it, it's all gravy in two hours, you know? He either gets the girl (or gets her back), he always gets to keep the money, he's the only one who can aim a gun worth a damn, and he never, under any circumstances, gets killed by the maniac with the knife.
But enough of that already, this isn't about being in the movies, or even making movies for that matter. If that's what you're looking for, put this down and go find a copy of "Get Shorty". This is about me and my friend Elijah and the decision we made on Friday night.

It all started innoccently enough Friday afternoon. I got off work and went straight home to call Elijah. We were never exactly famous for our record-long phone conversations.
"Hey man" I said, still yanking the tie loose from my neck.
"How's it going?" was Elijah's long-winded response.
"What's up tonight"?
"You know what's up, get over here", he said as he hung up the phone.
That's all it every really took, because yes, I did know exactly what was up. I was about to go to Elijah's house and do the exact same bullshit that I always did. Get high. Not to say that I had a boring life or anything, because I didn't. I just thought it could be alot better.

Maybe I should start by telling you a little about myself. I'm twenty-six years-old, average height and build. About as average a guy as you can get. When it comes to looks, I'm no Brad Pitt, but at the same time, I'm no Screech from "Saved By The Bell" either. As far as work goes, I did sales for the corporate conglomerate, CTS, Inc. The CTS stood for CopyTech Solutions, which basically meant that I sold copy machines. I never said it was a glamorous job, and I really only tell you about it at all to let you know a little of the personal history. But enough of that, let's get back to the cool stuff.

My life was getting better for me. I got divorced about a year before this all started, and now I was seeing this really great girl. She was the kind that could actually make you forget about any other girl, especially the bitch ex-wife. Keep in mind, all this took place before me and this girl got married, but just to let you know, we did.
We had recently decided to move in together, which was a really big step for me. I had only "lived" with one other girl - the bitch ex-wife. We stayed in a decent, two bedroom apartment on the south side of town. Conveniently located, it allowed us easy access to the places we frequented (bars). It sat hillside and it really provided some of my favorite times; sitting and watching the sun set - or rise - depending on whether Kaitlyn and I had just gotten back from work, or an all-nighter with friends. Wait, I'm getting sidetracked again. Let me get back to this one Friday night, the night I almost fucked all of this up.

Like I said before, I knew exactly what was up. We were going to sit around Elijah's house, - in the basement room we called "The Lair", pretty dorky huh - get high and talk about how we were going to get famous. Only this time, I had an idea to take it way beyond shit talking.

CHAPTER TWO
-------------------------------------------------

Kerry Edwards - whose Reaganesque, lifelong Republican parents were now eternally regretting their poor lack in namemanship - was a living, breathing portrait of the American Dream. He had gone to work at CTS, Inc. at the age of eighteen as a runner/mail clerk. Also read as office bitch. Need a memo carried to someone's office? Call Edwards. Got to get that check to the closing out of state? Call Edwards. Remember, this was way before e-mail and the Internet single-handedly pretty much erased this esteemed, entry-level position.
Three years later, at the age of twenty-one, he somehow managed to catch the eye of the CEO of CTS as "a young man with the ambition and drive of Seabiscuit". Seriously, how is it that the biggest dumbasses get positions like CEO by comparing someone's work potential to a goddamned racehorse? Edwards was promoted to a sales position, where apparently, he had proven his Seabiscuit-ness, because now after twenty-two years with the company, Kerry Edwards sat in the CEO's office.

I had never actually met the man before, but from what I could tell from his bio on the company website, he had what seemed to me a pretty cool life. Yearly salary averaging seven figures for the past several years and he now had a whole army of his own office bitches. And he had no idea how badly I wanted to become one of them. Unlike most high-powered, overly rich corporate whores, Edwards was not a womanizer. He'd been married to the same woman - his high school sweetheart, I guess people really have those after all - for twenty years. Elizabeth Edwards (another name his parents could do without), was a cookie cutter wife. She had worked as a legal secretary while her new husband was trying to climb the latter to corporate success. Now that she no longer had to work, she spent her days working her ass off to maintain an appearance that would keep her husband happy and faithful. Judging from the picture on the website, it was paying off. Elizabeth, at thirty-nine years of age, was what Eminem and his gang - do they still have those? -would refer to as a "fine-ass bitch". The more I read from his bio and old articles and interviews, the more I liked Kerry Edwards and the way that he viewed the corporate world. He firmly believed, as do I, that customer service was the key to a successful company. And, rather than bring in people to fill high-level positions, he preferred to promote people to the top from within. I admit, he was the perfect boss. I almost felt bad about how I was going to fuck him over.

CHAPTER THREE
-------------------------------------------------

For the past six months, I had been the lead salesman on the Deerfield Project team. Usually it doesn't really take a whole lot of time to finalize a sale for some copy machines, but Deefield Systems was not just any other account. After graduating from the University of Texas twenty years ago with a degree in engineering, Jim Deerfield had helped develop a microchip whose patent was quickly bought up by Madrid Technologies. With his share of the purchase, Jim Deerfield had started Deerfield Systems. After beginning as a small-time tech firm - then what to Jim's sparkling eyes should appear - Deerfield Systems had become the nation's leading developer of all things geeky: PDAs, cellphones, laptops - all the bells and whistles, pocket protector not included.
Mr. Bill-Gates-in-training was quickly on everyone's "must know" list. He rubbed shoulders with all the big players: Politicians and their wives (and mistresses), actors, writers, critics, you name it and Jim Deefield hung out with it. Even - as I was going to find out soon enough - some very cut-throat, killer-for-hire, bad guys.

CHAPTER FOUR
-------------------------------------------------

I've never figured out how I got the nickname, but ever since I can remember, I've been referred to as First Street. I guess with the lastname Streetman, my parents figured it would be kind of cute to call their firstborn "First Street". Get it? But since there was never a "second street" or "third avenue", it really doesn't make much sense. Of course, as far as nicknames go, it could have been a hell of alot worse. Doesn't it piss you off when they call the fat kid "Tiny"? Thanks for never failing to point out the fact that I'm a lard ass, dickweed.