“You don’t have to do this,” she said.
“Yes, I do. I’ll also cover any bank charges.”
Summer looked relieved. I said, “Let me buy you dinner today.”
“Okay,” she said as she went back to her desk to get her purse and keys. “Remember I’m vegan,” she added.
Of course, I thought. “What do vegans eat?” I texted Gravy. He replied, “Try oysters. They don’t have a central nervous system.”
“Huh?”
Gravy answered, “They don’t feel pain like other animals so you may get away with it. I’m not sure that the strict vegans buy that explanation, but living on the Gulf with all our seafood has some of the local ones willing to make an exception.”
After spending a good part of her afternoon covering her bad checks, Summer had a friend drop her off at the office at six o’clock. She wore a bright orange sundress, make-up, and looked spectacular. I asked if she would like to eat at the Atlas Oyster House.
“Sure, I love oysters,” she said.
We sat on the Atlas deck that overlooked Pitts Slip, a marina outside the Port of Pensacola that opened to Pensacola Bay. In the distance, the traffic had backed up on the Three-Mile Bridge. Flashing lights signaled an accident at about the midpoint.
A light breeze came off the water, and the temperature had dropped to the high seventies. The place wasn’t crowded but had a respectable number of patrons.
Summer pulled at her brunette hair as she talked, twirling it around her finger. I couldn’t tell if it was a nervous habit or just a habit. She had originally moved to Pensacola from Michigan with her Navy aviator boyfriend. When I asked where in Michigan, she held up her palm, which resembled the state, and pointed to a spot a half-inch below her index finger. Summer said, “I grew up here.”
Her boyfriend had earned his wings and was transferred to Corpus Christi. Summer decided to stay. “I wasn’t cut out to be a Navy wife. Playing second to his naval career wasn’t for me.”
She had a soft voice and a wicked smile. The waiter immediately became infatuated with her, which meant we had no trouble with service. Our beer mugs were never empty.
Summer had worked for the newspaper since mid-April. The first time I met her, she walked into the office and said she loved the paper and wanted to join the staff. Mal and Roxie liked her, so I hired her for twelve dollars an hour. If those two didn’t like her, Summer wouldn’t have had a chance. Yoste, on the other hand, was my hire, which somewhat explained his difficulties.
After two dozen oysters and half as many beers, Summer began to tell me why she loved the paper and put up with my bullshit.
“I’ve never worked at such a cool place, where what we do matters,” she said in a voice that was maybe a little tipsy.
“You’re a good fit,” I replied. “You brought some order to the business side of the paper.”
Summer straightened up and said, “Well, I should. I majored in accounting and had half a semester to go on my MBA when I moved here with the asshole.”
“I’m sorry about the check issue today,” I said, “but I appreciate how you handled it.”
She leaned towards me. “Well, I used to be a dope dealer.”
Yes, she had a slight buzz going. She threw the line at me as if it were a nerf ball, wondering if I would catch or drop it. I tried not to show my surprise.
“I don’t do it anymore, but selling pot paid for college,” Summer said flashing a sly smile. “No one ever suspected a wholesome coed of being a big dealer at Eastern Michigan.”
She explained how she had run her business, never letting anyone buy on credit, and avoiding trouble with her suppliers. She made it sound like she had sold Girl Scout cookies.
“When I was in high school I smoked pot and sold really small amounts,” she said. “When my supplier learned I had been accepted to Eastern Michigan, she told me how much money I could really make and offered to give me six ounces at a time.”
I looked around to see if anyone was listening to our conversation. Summer lowered her voice a fraction. “I would sell that in about ten days, keep about seven or eight hundred dollars, and return the rest of the cut to my supplier, who would give me another six ounces. I did that through undergrad and grad school.”
I asked, “Did it impact your studies?”
“No, although developing the self-control to not smoke all my stuff was the hardest part. The dealing itself wasn’t that difficult. It took maybe fifteen minutes to put everything into dime bags for the week, and you need organizational skills to work around people’s schedules and make deliveries.”
“How did you find customers?”
She laughed. “It was a college in icy Michigan. Everybody smoked weed. The most money I made was when I was an RA in the residence hall. People would literally come knocking on my door for drugs, and there were parties in the building every night. I was always in demand.”
“And you made enough to cover your college expenses?” I asked.
Summer nodded. “My tuition was covered by my scholarship. I paid for, like, almost all of my expenses through dealing. I used it to feed me, go out, cover my car payments, and buy all my clothing, books, and supplies.”
“Do you miss the money?”
“No, I miss the excitement, which is probably why I was attracted to the Pensacola Insider. You give me my excitement fix every day.”
“You seem to really like the Insider team,” I said.
“I do. Mal is so cool. She’s well-read and very organized,” Summer said.
“She really is the brains of the paper,” I said.
“She and Teddy are a great couple,” she remarked.
