The Junkie Tales Read online

My body hardened, almost to an embarrassing level, and I shifted in my seat. Don’t think about it.

  Ten days.

  Fuck.

  If I tried, I could smell the bitter scent of smack on her.

  “Please join me in welcoming Geraldine.” Sam glanced around the room, his eyes falling on me for the briefest of seconds. I slid farther down in the uncomfortable metal seat. It creaked in protest calling the unwanted attention of the other addicts in the room.

  Geraldine glanced over, and winked.

  Double fuck.

  ******

  An hour later, Sam closed the meeting with the sobriety prayer. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change….”

  I mumbled along with the prayer, hating sobriety and myself. I’d been clean for two months now, thanks to a daily dose of methadone. Two months too long. The memories heroin had kept buried deep inside skirted my conscious mind.

  The prayer ended. I stood shaking off the numbing effects of heat, stale coffee, and sordid stories of life as an addict. I needed a cigarette, and I wouldn’t have said no to beer either. But N.A. frowned on that so I headed up the stairs to smoke, my boots echoing in the empty stairwell.

  At the top, I pushed through the church doors, careful not to disturb the old Latino women lighting candles for the dead in the archway. Keep one burning for me.

  Once outside, I pulled a pair of black sunglasses over my dilated pupils and lit a cigarette, sucking a stream of smoke deep into my lungs. Sunlight filtered through the smog hanging over Hollywood Boulevard. The temperature hovered around eighty degrees, but I shivered against the Santa Ana winds, the demon winds as natives say.

  Slowly the basement addicts slipped by, careful to avoid my gaze. I was, in recovery terms, poisonous, biding my time until I could use again. Bill stopped in front of me, mopping streams of sweat from his wide forehead with a yellow-stained hanky. “I’m here for you, you know,” Bill said.

  “Thanks,” I said and meant it.

  A sucker was born every minute.

  “Give yourself a chance, son.” His hand touched my shoulder. I flinched. Bill continued, “Take things one day at a time—”

  “Excuse me.” Beautiful, blonde Geraldine squeezed passed, her hip brushing my groin. The spark that burned through me this time wasn’t unpleasant. I grinned, stepping back an inch.

  She waved to the cigarette in my hand. “Can I borrow one of those?” Hell, why not? I pulled out a half-empty pack, shaking out a bent cigarette. “Thanks,” she said, taking it from my fingertips. The soft edges of hers brushed my calloused ones. I flicked my lighter. The flame wavered against the winds, flipping back and forth until it finally went out.

  I lit it again. This time the flame stayed true. She took a long drag, smoke curling inward towards her pink-lined lips. Her eyes flashed over me, quickly, dismissively, as if she knew everything about me by the tilt of my chin and the shine of boots. Worse, what she saw was somehow lacking. I grinned. I was used to being overlooked. In fact, I relied on it. Like a cockroach, a junkie-grifter’s survival depended on slipping into the shadows.

  Geraldine blew out a stream of smoke. It hung in the air for the briefest of seconds before the heated winds swept it away. Bill smiled at her, a genuine smile of ignorance, desire, and hope. A mark’s smile. The poor bastard. I’d seen that smile before, in the mirror a time or two. Somewhere in Bill’s brain, he must’ve understood she was out of his league, dangerous even, but the twitching in his penis overrode that caution.

  Bill turned to her. “Was today your first meeting?”

  Geraldine bit her bottom lip. The beauty mark quivered slightly, enough that I questioned its origin. Press-on moles? Do they sell those? In my musing I’d missed her answer.

  Bill was saying, “If you need a sponsor, I’m available.”

  I bet you are, Billy-boy. Too bad, N.A. had strict rules about fraternization with the junkie enemy too. Not that anyone besides Sam paid much attention. Hell, two weeks ago I’d been blown in the loo by a soccer-mom Ritalin addict. But Bill was a N.A. man, from his pressed suit jacket to his cheap-standard issued haircut.

  “That would be great,” Geraldine said, a small tear gathering prettily in her eye. I gave a mental golf-clap. She sniffed. “Sometimes I just don’t know where to turn. My ex-boyfriend...He...I’m so scared. He left me with no money or place to go....”

  BRAV-fucking-O.

  She was good. I’d give her that. In a matter of an hour, she’d picked the easiest mark and had roped him in. Not so fast, girlie, I thought. Bill was my sponsor and in some twisted way I felt like I owed him. Besides, the guy had two kids at home and worked as a manager at a fast food joint. How much more shit did he deserve? Before he could fuck everything up by offering her money or a place to stay, I moved into her line of sight.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out what looked like a hundred. “Here.” I pressed it into her hand.

  Her green eyes glared down at the money, but her tone remained neutral. “Thank you, sugar.”

  “No problem.” I smirked. “Your being in recovery is thanks enough.”

  Bill beamed his approval. “Ben, you’ve come a long way and I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks. That means a lot.” I let him pat me on the back. My eyes fixed on Geraldine’s face. What I saw there wasn’t pretty. Had looks actually been able to kill I’d be coffin bait. I winked and turned my attention to Bill. “Do you mind giving me a ride to the clinic?”

  “Of course not.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “I’m about a block up. I’ll pull around and pick you up.” Nodding in Geraldine’s direction, Bill headed off, huffing and puffing his way to his ugly green mini-van.

  Geraldine’s smile turned violent. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Ben.”

  “Well, Ben.” Her talon-like nails twisted the monopoly money I’d slipped to her. She tossed the bits of shredded counterfeit cash at me. “Can’t say it’s been a pleasure.”

  I laughed and brushed away the fake paper. “Can’t win ‘em all.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Picking up her bag and dropping her cigarette at my feet, she flashed me a devious smile before disappearing down the street.

  Fuck. I was already half in love.

  Slut. Bitch. Whore. 2.0

  “Whore.” My hand slapped against the wooden bar overturning the shot glass pyramid in front of me. They smashed against the bar sending a shower of glass and whiskey everywhere. All eyes in the dark bar shot to me, glares of judgment and disgust, like an anorexic girl with a birthday cake. I grinned, wiping a splash of amber liquid from my forehead. “Sorry,” I said.

  Yip.

  “What the fuck?” Steroid-boy, sitting two seats away, kicked back his bar stool. “Did you call my lady a whore?”

  Even as I expected him to turn green and rip his flannel shirt off at any moment, much to my disappointment, he didn’t. Instead, he strutted toward me, his eyes small and mean. I bet he kicked puppies for breakfast.

  I smiled, glancing at his ‘lady’. “No, I…yip…didn’t…cocksucker…” I stopped, taking a deep breath and trying to control myself. “She looks like a lovely…whore…lady.”

  Yip.

  Big Man shoved me. Since he was a good eighty pounds heavier and six-inches taller, the force of the blow knocked me from my seat. I tried to catch my balance, but my traitorous legs tangled and I slammed against the peanut-shell carpeted floor. Muted pain crawled along my spine.

  “Fuck,” I said, picking shells from my black mop of hair. The concrete smelled vaguely of work boots and decaying hops, with just a hint of peanut-buttery goodness. My stomach clenched but not from the stench.

  The Jolly Green Hulk stood above me flexing his overly developed muscles. My eyes went to his knee and I considered ending this right now. One well placed kick and lover-boy would be crying like a little girl. Before I had quit medical school due to my disease, it had taught me the frailty of t
he human anatomy, if not the human condition. I pictured his tears and the shame he’d feel. I knew shame well. It was a longtime friend.

  Yip.

  He leaned down, grabbing my shoulders and pulled me roughly to my feet. “What’s wrong with you, freak?”

  Did this guy have all night? “Listen, man, I’m…bitch, anus-ring, fucker…sorry. Please don’t...” The muscles in my face tensed and my right eye began to twitch uncontrollably. “Ass-munch, butt plug...hurt me.”

  What the hell was wrong with me? I pondered while Steroid-boy pounded his meaty fist into my kidney. Was it worth pissing blood for the next week? There had to be a better way, one without pain and humiliation. The throbbing was distant, numbed by candy-coated memories.

  “Excuse me.” Amber, my long-time lover, picked her way through the crowd of voyeurs. Or vultures to be precise. I was different and therefore someone to destroy in their blood-shot eyes. No mercy. No forgiveness for my weakness. “Move it,” she screamed, smacking into a man twice her size.

  Our eyes locked, hers pale blue and vacant, mine bruised and bleeding. The fear, hunger, and pain I saw in her hit me harder than any punch. For the first time in a very long time, I felt fear. Please, I begged. Not now. Not like this.

  I wanted to take Amber into my arms and whisper promises I wouldn’t and couldn’t keep. Time was running out. Amber had crossed the line between addiction and disease. One day soon I would lose her. I’d come home to our apartment and find her dead, a dull, bent needle stuck in her hardened vein.

  She was beautiful once, until the needle took control, now, she was a yellowing photograph, faint and fading with each day.

  Yip.

  A blow to the side of my head sent me spiraling onto the bar. “Fucker,” I said and meant it. White-hot rage flooded my system. I wanted to hurt him, to make up for every beating I’d taken at the hands of some inconsiderate, ignorant asshole. My hand jerked reflexively, slapping me in the face.

  Yip.

  “Look, the retard is hitting himself,” Jolly Mean said. The crowd pointed, laughing as I repeated the tic like a demented Three Stooges episode. Woop. Woop. Woop.

  The jerking stopped and I wiped a trail of blood from my nose. “I’m going to kick…ah..ah..ah...cunt…ah…your ass.”

  I threw myself at him.

  “STOP IT!” Amber screeched, placing her body between us. “What is wrong with you?” She shoved at Stero-Green.

  “Me? It’s this freak. He started it,” he whined, pointing at me. “He called my girlfriend a slut.”

  “Whore,” I said. “I said whore...slut.”

  Amber closed her eyes. “He didn’t mean it. He has Tourettes.”

  “What?” the giant asked, scratching his head.

  “TOURETTES, you idiot.” Amber caressed my cheek, her fingers came away stained with blood. “It’s a disorder that makes people tic, and sometimes those tics cause them to swear uncontrollably.”

  The Jolly-Roid-Hulk shrank before my eyes as did the throng of onlookers. The stink of shame filled the room. Political correctness made it a crime to abuse the disabled and since I was outed, my continued beating held little appeal for the bloodthirsty lot.

  Yip.

  “Come on, baby. Let’s get you cleaned up and go home.” Amber took my hand, helping me to the door. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

  “S’okay…bitch...,” I slurred, pressing the sleeve of my dirty sweatshirt to my bloody face. “I had…fuck me…everything…cocksucker…under control.”

  Yip.

  With shaking limbs, we headed out of the bar and down the street.

  ******

  “Twenty,” Amber said, pressing a wad of bills into the dealer’s hand.

  I watched, dispassionately, scanning the streets. The dealer, who resembled both Dean Martin and the Grim Reaper, stuck a hand into his pants. He pulled out a balloon filled with powder and handed it to Amber without a word.

  “Thanks.” She stuck the balloon into her bra.

  Taking my hand, Amber pulled me up the street, my mind locked on the dope pressed against her breasts. We had a love-hate relationship, a co-dependant need for each other that held stronger than any blood tie could.

  Fifteen minutes later, I held Amber in my arms, her head lying gently across my chest. Her breath slowed, her heart beating in time with my own slow rhythm. I loaded another hypodermic needle, one for Amber, and one for me. Amber’s smile grew. My heartbeat increased.

  “So how much did we get?” I asked, warming the heroin under the flame of a Zippo lighter.

  Amber lifted her purse onto her lap. She pulled out wallet after wallet from the depths of her bag. Thick wads of dollar bills and bent plastic credit cards were piled high on her scar-riddled thighs. A regular heroin Houdini.

  “Enough,” she whispered. “Those people are going to be surprised when it comes time to pay their tabs tonight.”

  “Good.” I rubbed my busted nose. I thought of their laughing, jeering faces as Roid-boy punched me. I felt nothing but satisfaction at robbing them blind. They deserved each pilfered dollar, each stolen wallet, each moment of panic and shame when they realized they’d been scammed.

  I tied a tourniquet around Amber’s thin arm, wrapping it tighter until a corroded vein swelled. Her tongue darted out, wetting her dry lips. Our eyes met. I smiled, and plunged the needle beneath her skin, through muscle, and into a tangle of petrified vein. Amber’s eyes grew hazy and unfocused. Her heart slowed, as did her breathing.

  “No. Not like this,” I begged. “Please no.”

  Amber’s red lips turned blue. As if sensing death, the streets below our window stilled. Tears gathered in my eyes. A lump formed in my throat growing heavier with each second. I was losing her. We’d both known it was only a matter of time, but knowing meant little. I wasn’t ready for goodbyes.

  “I love you,” I whispered against her mouth.

  A blast of carbon dioxide exploded from Amber’s bluish lips. Her eyes fluttered open. She stared into my eyes. Her finger brushed away a tear on my cheek. I wrapped her in my own track-riddled arms and held her tight.

  People called us junkies, considered us diseased, a plight on society, not deserving of mercy. And maybe they were right.

  But not tonight.

  Waiting

  The average citizen in Los Angeles spends over sixty-two minutes a day waiting, for the bus, to see a doctor, in line at Starbucks. Now double that number for a junkie. That equals out to roughly 1,900,920 minutes of the 22,075,200 minutes of my life spent waiting on plastic benches, for dealers willing to work on credit, or other junkies with enough for two.

  Waiting in jail cells and rehab clinics.

  Waiting to use again.

  No wonder I had hemorrhoids.

  Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

  Now I lay me down to sleep.

  I lay shaking on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. My body racked with chills, my blood boiling underneath my skin. I pull myself to the toilet basin.

  “Please…”

  My stomach clenches, ripping and tugging at my intestines. Bile spews from my mouth hitting the porcelain toilet with a wet smack. Spent, I slump down, resting on the floor.

  “Adriana?” You tap softly on the door. “Are you alright?”

  “Go away,” I whisper.

  The door opens. You step inside the bathroom. The echo of your boots against the linoleum explodes like firecrackers inside my fragile mind. You see me, and your face falls. Disappointment? Disgust? Whatever you feel, you hold back the words.

  You lift me from the dirty floor, wiping away the blood and bile circling my mouth. For a second, I feel safe, cherished even. But it doesn’t last.

  It never lasts.

  My head falls back against your chest. I close my eyes and wonder why you stay. I have nothing to offer. No hopes or dreams to share. My life is controlled by a habit, a mindless need. I touch my matted hair, and run a finger along my cheek and its pitted skin. Be
auty, like youth, slipped by, stolen by doubt, insecurity, and self-hate that no amount of makeup can cover.

  What do you want from me?

  With sudden clarity, I hated you and your self-righteous ways. I’ll quit when I want.

  Next week. Maybe.

  I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

  The anger leaves me as quickly as comes; sapping what little energy I have left. Tears pour from my eyes, soaking your shirt. I can smell the disease, the bitter scent of toxins leaking from my body.

  “You’ll make it.” You look so sincere, as if you believe it, as if you didn’t speak the same words a month ago. Two months. A year ago.

  I say nothing.

  “I saw Jonah today,” you say.

  Jonah. My heart constricts at the sound of his name.

  “He asked about you.”

  “What did you tell him?” I ask, fear and need clogging my throat.

  You swipe at my tears with your fingertips. “That mommy couldn’t see him yet, but that you loved him with all your heart.”

  “I do, you know.”

  You nod. “I know.”

  “What a mess I’ve made.”

  “And you’re making up for it with each day you’re clean.”

  “Three days clean doesn’t make up for seven years of fucking up,” I say.

  You smile, part bitterness and humor. “It’s a start, and that’s what matters.”

  “A start.”