Can anyone follow the weird dialogue in this?

Please comment on my untitled short story.
SKIP DOWN SIX PARAGRAPHS -- TOM IS CALLING HIS SISTER-IN-LAW TO ARRANGE A DRUG DEAL, ONLY, HE'S AT THE OFFICE AT WORK AND IS UNDERSTANDABLY PARANOID.
THE DIALOGUE IS STRAINED, WHICH I HOPE COLORS THE FRANTIC/DESPERATE MOOD OF THE PROTAGONIST. DOES THIS WORK? SHOULD I JUST HAVE A STANDARD PARAGRAPH SHIFT FOR EACH SPEAKER, ADHERING TO THE DE FACTO ACCEPTED STANDARD?
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I'm sitting here at work, in front of my computer, I'm trying to compile this new version of the program... then I'll download it to the test fixture to see if the keyboard and display works any better. I've actually got a great job. I'm a "software design engineer", if you look at my business card, that's what it says I am. The truth is, I'm living kind of a double life. It's almost 2 on an icy, windblown Thursday afternoon, in frigid February. Tomorrow's Friday -- the end of another week. I'm so exhausted I can't even think.


How did things get this way? I was up way too late last night -- I hate it -- I remember, just lying there, it's 2 a.m., my heart is pounding, I try to relax, I've got to get up for work in four hours. Now here I am, at work, in this little blue cubicle, sitting in front of this big computer. The project is behind. We are making a scale that will weigh trucks on the highway -- see if they're overweight. It's the stupidest project you could imagine. There's a little screen, and four buttons on the front of the panel. We are supposed to make this thing really cheap. So cheap that, if anything goes wrong with it, they just unplug it, toss it in the trash, and plug-in another one! No one will ever be happy using this thing. And we're behind schedule.

I've made a change to the software which will make it easier for the user to set up the scale for the first time. So I compile this code, and then, download it to the test jig, right here in my office, to see if it will work. That's not so bad. But the paperwork! I gotta fill out a form, describing the nature of the change I'm making: who authorized the change, what modules are affected by the change, and on, and on. Getting these forms filled out properly will take 10 times longer than writing the code, but, and this is the kicker: we have to estimate how long it will take to make the change to the software. Nobody seems to care how long it will take to fill out forms necessary to legitimize the change. I guess you're supposed to do this at home, or at lunchtime, or something.

My normal dealer is, for some unknown reason, out of commission. So, I've been buying off my wife's half-sister, she's basically a crack whore. I want to wait until my normal guys are up and operating per usual, but, I sure would like to do a little tonight. I'm so tired. I'm going to walk down to the cafeteria and get one of those great big, trash cans full of coffee. Maybe that hot girl with the curly hair and the thick glasses will be working in the cafeteria.

Nope, it's the old Biddy, the one that's always making comments. Can you imagine, selling coffee to your employees? I mean, with work this stupid, they ought to give us speed or something, to keep us awake while we are working. "Yup, that's all", if I wanted something else, I'd have something else, "$1.62, yes, right, OK... you too". Jesus Christ. I've got to get out of here. I was kind of shaking, getting my change back, I never used to do that. I have, got to get out of here. There's that phone, that payphone, I'll just call her again, see what's going on. They always make those mini-phone booths so that you can't set your drink down conveniently, beside the phone -- it's sloped, so my coffee will slide right off. Why? I don't get these people. I wonder if they can trace my call, using this phone card? I paid for the minutes on the phone card, using a credit card in my name. Then I call a number from this little pay phone at the office -- the number might very easily be being watched. Could they trace that back, look up the number, and figure out it's me? Oh, who cares?

"Olivia?", God, she's there, "it's me, Tom, Tom, you know, Susan and Tom?", she sounds dead or something, probably asleep. "I was thinking," she knows who I am, "I was thinking of stopping over", silence. She says nothing, "can you help me out, this afternoon?", some people are walking down the hallway, coming my way. I turn and face the wall. I'm nodding my head now, as if listening to someone on the phone. Why is this phone here, to begin with? I've always wondered, why this phone is here. I mean, I can call home, or anywhere I want, using the phone in my office. I have seen some of the production workers on this phone. Maybe they can't use their phone, or don't have a phone to use. I've also heard this phone ring. What does it matter? There's giggling on the line now, "Olivia, are you there?", those people, are just standing around the corner. Why don't they go somewhere, go into the cafeteria. It's three guys, one guy is a salesman from Intel or somewhere, he his talking about solutions. They don't even know I'm here.

"I didn't know who you were, Tom", she is giggling on the phone, "are you coming over?", she is such an airhead.

"Can you...", she knows what I want, she knows I can't talk, at least, she should know. Jesus, I can't wait 'till my regular guys get back in business again. She'll take some out of the bag, then I'll have to give her some -- do some with her, and then, she'll want something for doing it. PLUS, she'll make money off the deal.

"Come on over, right now. Antonio is back", she says it like he's an old flame or something. That just means it will be that much more dangerous, going to her house. "Are you coming?", she's demanding now, after waiting half a second for my answer to the first question.

I'm walking back to the office now, back to my cubicle. The coffee tastes raunchy to me -- they charge the same amount, no matter how long it's been sitting there. I can't wait until five. I've got to talk with Mike, fake sick again, get out early. I could just go out the door right now, just leave my computer on. It won't look weird till tonight. Or, was there a meeting? Shiitake, what to do? Screw it, I'll just come in early, be there before Mike comes in. What about my coat? Screw it, they'll think I'm here somewhere. I'm going downstairs to the outside now, out, man it's cold... where did I park? Maybe I should go back, what if there's a meeting ? This is Thursday... is there a meeting ? No, not on Thursday... I'm pretty sure. Man it's cold, cold in my car. Have I got my... got my wallet... my ATM card, what if, Sue calls? I'll call her, from Olivia's... she'll be pissed... whatever.

Come on heat. My window's fogging up. It sure is convenient, it's almost on the way home, makes for a fun drive home, right? OK, should I call? No, just go right to her house. Oh, wait, I'll need money. Damn, I should've transferred money! Why didn't I think of that? What can I get? Oh wait, today is payday -- this will all work out fine.

Pin number, PIN NUMBER? Why do they have Braille on a drive up ATM machine? Now that seems strange. Probably, they make the keyboard/screen unit to be compatible with all machines, drive up or otherwise. Ding, ding, ding, I love the sound of the ATM machine dispensing 20s.

Looks like nobody's here... maybe I can park up past the oil tank, I don't want my number plate showing. "Hey!", I yell, through the open passenger window, she's started down the steps, she looks good, she looks positive, "... so what we do?", I say, she's at the window now. I asked the question, but I know what's going to happen, my mind envisions the scenario: I give her the money, she goes and gets it. I know the routine. She needs a ride this time.

It seems that we are going round and round, "where is it? Where are we going?", I'm trying to hold back being too insistent. She's just singing/humming, what is it? What Do You Do with a Drunken Sailor, her legs bouncing to the beat.

She grabs my arm and yells out, "right here, pull in right here!" She starts feverishly searching through her purse. Now she's checking in the mirror -- she turns my rearview mirror so she can see herself. She looks like hell. "Gimme the money, quick... what'd you want?... a nickel? Yeah okay, 300... hurry up,... okay ", suddenly, she's alive again, her eyes are wide open, she has one leg out of the partially opened passenger-side door, both hands still outstretched toward me. "You've got to go...", she says hurriedly, wiggling backward, further out of the car, "drive around the block, you shouldn't be here...", an alarm goes off in my mind while she speaks, DON'T GIVE UP YOUR MONEY, the sign is flashing in my mind, but she can't get anything on credit. "Just park up there, by those cars, in front of those cars... go, GO!", she blurts out. I pause, for a moment, a rolled up wad of money in my hand, she says nothing; only, implores with her whole body; eyes bigger, her body, taller; her shoulders, pumped out; as if 100 psi more air was just pumped into her.

I shake my head, very subtly, looking as though I've already been ripped off, I slap the wad into her hand, look deadly into her eyes, doing my own imploring, for what good it'll do, "In-and-out, don't be all day in there... I'll come to the door", I threaten, impotently. She's gone, vanished -- with my money. I get a sick feeling in my stomach, only a trace of cheap perfume remains of my $300. "She'll be back, she WILL be back", I try to convince myself.

Backing out of this narrow little driveway, separating the broken down three-story tenements, I notice several small, swarthy children, interrupted from play, all looking at me with the same expression. They wonder where I come from, what it's like where I live. Pairs of sneakers, tied together, hang like decorations on the telephone wires above, as I pull off cautiously, marking the position of this particular apartment building -- three in from the corner, deep red, with rickety gray, wooden fire escape. I am painfully aware of my whiteness -- I'm driving a car with out-of-state plates -- what's my story, what am I doing here? Creeping slowly up the side street, I consider my response to that hypothetical question asked by a police officer, what am I doing here? I feel a little sick now. My own children, safely playing in their one acre, wooded lot; all modern, spacious homes similarly set back from the cul-de-sac, a modest 75 feet. But this, this is the zone . The police already know what someone like me is doing here. I have circled halfway round the block now, and, for an instant think something's wrong with my car when I am startled by the the tremendous bass beat, booming frighteningly from a chopped up, dark tint windowed Acura with huge chrome rims, rolling past me, its black inhabitants look suspiciously at this suit clad, white guy in their neighborhood, one begins laughing. "Okay, okay, were all right here, park in front of the Subaru", I speak these directions now, out loud, to myself, much like many years before, as a kid -- whistling in the darkness, walking a path through the dark woods alone, afraid of the night, and its teeth. At night, in the dark, when trying to follow a path through the woods, while contra-intuitive, the trick is, to look up, to see where the opening is -- the way the path goes.

Parked now, I pull up my emergency brake handle, knowing full well, it doesn't work, the action serving as a mined charade for a nonexistent audience. I fumble with a map in the glove box -- I'm a lost engineer, that's what I'm doing here. Looking for I-495, trying to get back home. It seems so plausible, why am I so worried? How much time has passed? My clock reads 3:14, has she been in there a long time? I continue to look at the map, whirling it around, right side up now. I feel something moving in my intestines, my hands feel clammy, the map seems to stick uncomfortably to my fingers -- how long can I look at this without causing suspicion? I'm about to put the map back in the glove box and try opening the hood of my car, see how nonchalant that might look, when I see her skipping nervously down the stairs, looking as suspicious as hell. She sees me and begins the double time trot, as if she has just lit some dynamite with a short fuse.

"Go, go, go", she nearly screams while opening the door, "the pigs are due here any minute", she is truly frightened. I think I hear a siren in the distance.

"Relax...", I say in my best Rodney Dangerfield, "... we're fine...", I affirm with pretend insouciance, "didja get it?", I blurt out, exposing my true sentiment.

She literally throws a plastic bag in my lap with disgust, "I'm really crazy to be doing this, go!", she's almost in tears.

The theoretically one quarter ounce bag lands in my lap like a sack of cement. This is the time that one is most likely to be arrested, yet, strangely I'm calm. Driving with a knee, I round the corner, heading for downtown, using my teeth to untie the knot in the plastic baggy. In no time, I'm unwinding the bag. Immediately, the smell of a volatile fuel, like kerosene delights my nostrils. "Mafia Coke", an old friend used to call it -- cocaine that is "washed" with kerosene. My heart skips a beat and then rebounds a-new with a deep bass boom which I feel in my throat then my nostrils clear out with a crackle. My wallet is out now, turned inside out in my lap, my Visa card clenched in my teeth. "Roll a hose", I command, throwing a dollar bill at Olivia. Looking into the bag of cocaine, I'm delighted to see its composition is of shiny chunks, broken off a larger piece not that long ago. Using a skillful maneuver, a role the bag down over my fingers, ready to sprinkle out what will fall through the opening I allow using my fingertips, into my leather wallet's outside, to the ground up with my credit card -- all while driving with my knee and shifting.

All of a sudden, I hear a briefly interrupted siren segment, a single "bloop", used by the police to get your attention, when they're right behind you. "Oh Jesus, I'm wanted... say I'm Laura", Olivia blurts out, allowing her hair to fall into her face. She means that I am to tell the police officer that she is her sister. This is great news -- not only do I have an open bag of cocaine in the middle of downtown, I'm harboring a fugitive. "Bloop, bloop", the cop is now imploring. I pull to the right hand side of the road, stopping, I feel sick again, my mouth has suddenly gone dry, as I begin to think of what I will say, calling home. And at work, what will they say? "He took a long lunch and got busted for coke", Howard will say, shaking his head. I imagine my six-year-old boy -- he won't get a story read to him tonight. Fighting back the urge to cry, I quickly stuff the opened baggy down in the door pocket between some other maps and a small paperback. Glancing up at the rearview, I see the police officer is still in his car -- talking on the radio.

"Good afternoon", he is a young, good-looking cop, Puerto Rican or Dominican, "you know why I've pulled you over today?". Of course I know, I'm the only white guy with out-of-state plates, riding around with a crack whore in the bad part of town, at two in the afternoon. I more or less shrug my shoulders. "You are proceeding illegally, on a one-way street", he says, incredulously. Jesus. A one-way street! I can't believe the ridiculousness of it. He didn't follow me -- I was driving down a one-way! Maybe there's hope. He leans down looking across, at Olivia. She's frozen, looking straight down, her dirty black hair hanging down, all around. Just then, a canine unit pulls up, blocking me in. I feel sick. "Have you been drinking today, sir?", he leans this question in the window, sampling the air inside the car.

"Drinking?", I should be drinking, probably, "no. No sir, not drinking, nothing." Normally, the guy who just scored, at three in the afternoon, trying to get out of town, has been drinking -- this is an advantage. He has a brief discussion with the driver of the other police car, then comes back.

"Step out of the car please, sir", I am not surprised to hear the officer ask.

It's the old routine, I was always told, to have a story and keep it straight. He escorts me around behind my car and begins questioning me: Have I been drinking? Are there any drugs in the car? Where am I going? I can see that the other policemen is now talking to Olivia while he searches through the car. I am trying to be calm, or plausibly outraged, answering more or less honestly. He is looking down on the driver side floor and in the door pocket. I try to stay nonchalant, but inside there's a battle going on. I'm feeling sick again now, down deep in my bowels, I most surely am going to be arrested. What is she saying to the other cop? I think about running -- the idea comes into my head, no matter how ridiculous it really is. I'm on his turf, he's got my car and my license -- I'm screwed.

He leaves me there, behind my car for a moment while he has another discussion with the other officer, just out of my earshot. He tells me to get back in and wait in my car. He still has my license, the registration and so forth, I feel like throwing up. I get back in my car and he and the other officer get in his car, he's on the radio. I speak to Olivia, out of the side of my mouth, "what did you tell them?". I don't dare to look for my coke -- surely they have it now, maybe they're testing it, right there in their car, so they can phrase the arrest verbiage properly.

"Nothin', nothin'... calm down", now she's all cool -- she doesn't care, I'm the one getting busted. What am I doing? I'm a computer scientist, for God's sake, what I doing here, with her, like this. What will my mother think? I might as well forget my job, this is going to look bad. I'm really angry. Mad at myself, mad at Olivia, she is so hot, for sure they are watching her house, what an idiot I have been! Why couldn't I just wait until my regular dealer is operational? All this, for drugs! I'm a loser, I don't deserve to have a wife and kids -- or a great job. I glance up at the rearview mirror. The two cops are laughing, busting a gut! Why? Why would this be funny? After what seems like a long time, both doors in the police car behind me open, the two cops get out, still chuckling. Here we go, off to get processed and locked up. Who should I make my one phone call to? I hate myself!

"Have a good day, sir", says the original officer, handing me back my paperwork -- no ticket, no handcuffs, no jail time. I do a double take. Did I hear him right? He's handing me my license. I take it, and nod, unable to speak. I'm shaking, I can feel my pulse throbbing in my neck, my lower back cramps up. I start the car.

As the two officers drive away in their respective cars, I too, pull nervously into traffic, "how do I get on the highway?... North or South, I don't care." The sign for Interstate 95, as if in answer, appears just ahead, northbound, I reach down, into the door pocket, there's my bag of coke, right in plain sight! I am so happy to be getting back on the highway, "crank us out a couple of rails!", I yell at Olivia, handing her the bag and my wallet. "You were great...", I complement her, "I don't know what you did, but thank you! I don't even know where we're going -- but I don't care!"

The hooting and hollering died down and it became quiet in my car. "They think I'm a hooker.", Olivia sobbed quietly. There was a solemn silence as we did our lines. And then, we both burst out laughing. I don't know what she told them, but they must've thought that she was the best I could afford. It seemed kind of sad, but their judgment of us -- their hilarious condemnation, allowed us the freedom to get high again, another day.