Nina the Pusher

Nina may seem like the grandmother next door, but there is another side to her.

Nina is a hard-core, in your face, straight-up pusher.

Oxycodone? Heroine? Opioids?

Bigger.

Grisham. King. Clancy.

It started about 30 years ago. Back then, it was the small stuff, mostly newspaper articles:

A heartwarming Erma Bombeck story.

A cautionary tale on the dangers of sun exposure. (Should have read that one thoroughly.)

A feature on the 10 most profitable college majors. (Like creative writing?)

Over the years, the articles kept coming. Then, about 15 years ago, when Nina retired, she upped her game.

It was no longer, “Psst, want to try some weed?”

It was a big bag of meth delivered to my front porch.

Nina had become a die-hard book pusher. Now that she had more time on her hands, she was reading like a fiend, and eager to distribute.

“Hi, Mom, how’s your day?” 

“Better than Anna’s,” she said, shaking her head. “No one believes her about the murder.”

“Who did Anna murder?”

“Nobody, she witnessed a murder.” Nina sighed. “Woman in the Window, you should read it.”

“I’m kind of busy…”

The following day it appeared on my kitchen counter.

Nina called an hour later. “Have you started it?” 

“Not yet, I still need to finish Darkest Fear.”

“Remember, Darkest Fear is due by Thursday.”

Nina wasn’t just a book pusher; she was a library book pusher. This meant that not only did I have to finish the book, but I had to do so in a timely manner, otherwise I could kiss 25 cents a day goodbye.

I wasn’t the only one Nina was dealing to: My husband, my daughters and my friends were all regular customers. Nina was no small time peddler.

On Wednesdays, Nina cruised Ventura County in her minivan, collecting the goods.

At the Thousand Oaks library, she headed straight for the circulation desk, where the requested book was on hold. 

The exchange was quick; one laminated library card for 438 pages of compelling family drama.

She slipped the stash into her reusable canvas tote. 

Nina hit one more library and then she was en route to both drop off and pick up.

When she texted that she was 20 minutes away, I had 62 pages left in Darkest Fear.

I still didn’t know… Was Jeremy Myron’s son? Would the FBI find the kidnappers in time? Would Myron and Emily reconcile?

I tried to read faster, but my left eye was twitching and the words were blurring.

Sure, I could pretend I finished it, but Nina would be asking questions and vague answers wouldn’t cut it.

I once told Nina that I had finished a book I hadn’t even started.

Without saying a word, she returned to the library and renewed the book.

I found it later, in my bed.

As I frantically skimmed the pages of Darkest Fear, I could feel Nina getting closer.

Then, with 37 pages to go… 

A van door shut.

The musty scent of paper and ink wafted through the front window.

The light tapping of sensible shoes approached.

I closed the book.

I took a deep breath.

Knock, knock, knock…