Andrea Bargnani tried to look inconspicuous as he loitered on the street corner in a bad part of Brooklyn. A hoodie was drawn close to his face, but he couldn’t hide his immense height, and passersby were staring at him. At least, that’s how it felt.
A police car rolled by. Andrea fidgeted with his phone nervously until it had passed, feeling the effects of withdrawal assault his body and mind. He had been clean for months, but it was all ending now. Or, at least, that was the plan. Where was his dealer anyway?
“Hey! Big A! Nice to see you again.”
Andrea was startled by the voice, but recognizing the familiar voice prevented him from sprinting off in the opposite direction as he had been planning if things went south. “Jesus Christ! Don’t scare me like that. I’m already on edge, man. You got the stuff?”
“Sure do,” the dealer replied, taking a full grocery bag out of his backpack. “Only the finest Canadian, man.”
Handing over a handful of hundred-dollar bills, Andrea soon had the product in his arms. Opening up the bag, he saw boxes upon boxes of Primo Pasta. Underneath the boxes were some jars of Primo tomato sauce. He looked up to thank his dealer, but the man was already hustling down the sidewalk.
Given the visible police presence in the area, Andrea thought that wasn’t a bad idea. Tucking the bag underneath his oversized down parka, he scurried back to his car, which was parked five blocks away, and imagined what it would feel like to again have Primo pasta and sauce excite his tongue.