The Junkie Tales Page 6

The refrigerator. Opening the antiquated door, a blast of stale Freon filtered air overwhelmed the aroma of bleach. Damn, the refrigerator was on the fritz again. The asthmatic motor choked out a last few gasps. The temperature outside lingered at eighty degrees. The temperature inside the fridge nearly doubled that. Good thing there was nothing but a bag of lemons and a jar of pickles inside.

  Pickles didn’t spoil, right?

  Shaking my head, I lifted the lemons from the fiery depths of the fridge and set them on top the pitted counter. I opened the silverware drawer. Deep gouges deepened as I withdrew a knife.

  “Julienne the lemon by slicing down and away,” the TV woman said, doing just that. The thin slices of lemon fell in a perfect, pulpy procession like tiny soldiers lining up for battle.

  Taking a swing at my lemon, I hacked it in half. The twap of steel meeting wood was somehow satisfying, but not nearly as much as the burst of lemony lifeblood that squirted from the fatal wound.

  “Grab a long-handled spoon...,” TV woman continued.

  I did, lifting it from the drawer. The edges were bent and bits of debris flaked off as I ran it under the faucet.

  “This gives the dish its taste,” she said, tapping out a pinch of a brownish spice from a container.

  I repeated the process ripping open a bindle and dumping the contents in.

  “Getting a good measurement is important.” She leveled off a measuring cup. “Too much and you’ll be sorry.”

  Not as sorry as if you use too little.

  “Next, you want to add the lemon.” She threw the slices into the bowl.

  Squeezing the fruit in my hand, I smiled as drips of sticky acid slid through my fingers. Acid burned my skin. I licked my lips imagining the bitter bite in the back of my throat.

  “Now make sure you have the flame set for 320 degrees in order to achieve proper caramelization.” On screen smoke billowed from underneath the rapidly heating pan.

  I turned on my own flame, watching as the blue light flickered. Hypnotically, it danced in the oxygen-filled room, coming to life. I touched the metal to the flame and waited.

  And waited...

  “Bubbles will form at the edges and work there way in.” TV woman nodded. “That is when you’ll know caramelization is about to occur.”

  Looking down, I saw the surface tension grow. Miniscule bubbles formed growing larger as the seconds ticked by.

  “Good,” TV woman said, taking the dish from the flame.

  “Good,” I echoed.

  TV woman picked up a cotton-like cloth. “Since this is health cooking, we want to remove the excess fat and grease.” She pressed the cloth to the chicken. “Don’t be afraid, dab at those extra calories.”

  Hateful skinny bitch.

  “See that grease?” she asked, pulling the cotton away. A congealed grease spot sat dead center.

  Shaking my head, I grabbed my own cotton enjoying the feel of the soft fibers under my fingertips.

  “We are almost finished, three steps to go…”

  It felt more like twelve to me.

  “It is time to clarify our main dish. Slowly drain the impurities.” She dipped a turkey baster into the liquid, drawing it up.

  Taking her lead, I stabbed my tip into the liquid. The suction shot it straight up. Heat poured from the plastic.

  “Do you feel that, girls?” TV woman asked her eyes bright. “That is the sense of satisfaction cooking brings. When I’m feeling down, I whip something up and all my worries fly out of the window.”

  Crazy skinny bitch.

  “For this step you should wash the skin,” she said, holding up the lemon rind. Its dotted, yellow skin looked greenish under the studio lights like my face when I venture to the mall. “Soap and water will do. Grate the zest over the top of the meat for extra flavor.”

  I flicked on the faucet and cleaned it as best I could. A spec of dirt could lead to serious illness. The skin felt lumpy and coarse as the soap lathered over it. I scrubbed at a bruised spot, taking care not to harm it further.

  “Now for the last step.” TV woman stabbed a knife into the flesh, ripping through skin, muscle, and almost into the bone of the chicken.

  The metal bent as I slipped it in, slowly sliding along the natural path until it reached its final destination. Blood seeped from the wound, dripping down my fingertips as I pulled the utensil from skin.

  Dinner was served...

  “Now for the final test,” TV woman popped a piece of Morgh-Saffron Chicken into her wide, soulless mouth. Licking ass-fattened lips, she smiled directly into the camera. “Perfect. This can be an acquired taste so make sure to have plenty of Doogh to wash away that bitter aftertaste.”

  The rushing of blood in my ears washed away her words. At the back of my throat, I felt the rise of bitter acid. It tasted vaguely of lemons. “Perfect,” I whispered, drifting off into a Persian White heroin haze. The needle still clutched in my lemony fresh hands.

  Dope.

  Sick.

  Love.

  I searched for the nearest bathroom, pressing through the station thick with mid-afternoon commuters. Where the fuck was it? The packet clutched in my palm promised relief from the talons tearing up my spine.

  Restrooms. A large sign overhead pointed to the right.

  I peered over the crowd and saw nothing but a rack of cheap tourist trinkets. Bile crawled up my esophagus. Oh, God, please.

  There.

  Ten feet away.

  The white outline of a little blue briefcased man.

  I darted through the door and past the dirty cracked men’s room mirror. My eyes avoided the reflective surface. A red and white sign on the wall said, ‘Employees must wash hands before returning to work’. I wondered if they did, or if it mattered.

  I headed for the last stall, shoving my fingertips into the pocket of my jeans. Sweat beaded on my upper lip. I twisted the lock on the graffiti-marred door and pulled a bag from my pocket. It held the tools of my trade—cotton, a burnt spoon, and the junkie’s grail—a brightly orange-capped needle, ready for use. I went to work, wiping a trail of dope sick sweat from my forehead.

  I unbuckled my belt, sliding the leather strap through my jeans. The leather made a small popping sound as it passed through each loop. I tugged the belt free and wrapped it around the flesh of my upper arm. An array of faint blue lines surfaced. Fingers trembling, I traced my scarred veins for what seemed like hours searching for the perfect junction. I finally found it, weak and corroded but usable. I grasped the spike and slid it in. The needle bent against the pressure. Pain slashed through my arm racing along forgotten nerve endings and into my heroin-glazed brain. Over the years, I learned to enjoy the pain, the sickness. What that says, I didn’t know, but there it was.

  I pulled back the plunger, watching satisfied as dark red blood filled the chamber. Blood mixing with smack. Excitement built. I depressed the plunger. A rush of euphoria hit as heroin attacked my putrefied vein.

  I sank to the grimy floor, wetness seeping into my clothes. A cockroach scurried across the tiled floor. I could almost hear the faint click of its antenna, feel its paranoia. The bitter taste of heroin bubbled in the back of my throat. The beat of my heart decelerated. My breathing stilled.

  Her name formed on my lips.

  Waste Management

  I jumped when the payphone next to me rang. What was I doing here? I wasn’t this desperate, was I? Standing outside a 7/11 on East Colfax at 4am answered that question.

  “Hey, girl,” a razor-thin man said. “What you want, baby-doll?”

  What did I want? A house in the suburbs. A Lexus with vanity plates. A bindle of dope to ward off the sick feeling the pit of my stomach. Any of those would do.

  “I’m fine.” I turned from him, hoping he’d get the hint and leave. He didn’t and fear mixed with the churning acid in my esophagus.

  “You waiting on your old man?” The guy stood a foot away. The harsh scent of whiskey and tobacco rose from his breath, invadin
g my personal space. My skin crawled, not from the menace of the man, but six hours without a hit.

  How I needed a hit.

  The man waved his fingers in front of my averted eyes. “Yo, I’m talking to you. You waiting for your man?”

  I refused to look up. “Yeah.”

  He moved closer. I backed up a step. “I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he said.

  He’s lying. It was there in his eyes. Cold, bleak, dead eyes. I swallowed hard washing away dread and the desire for smack.

  His finger caressed my cheek leaving a smear of street residue along my white skin. “Let’s go party. I got what you need.”

  “No.”

  His face went hard, cold, and mean. A face craved from years of cruelty to the innocent and weak.

  A bottom feeder.

  Just like me.

  “Ain’t no bitch gonna tell me no.” He grabbed my scar-riddled arm and twisted. Bones snarled underneath my skin. I bit my lip. Pain shot up my damaged nerve endings bringing wetness to my eyes. Tears? When was the last time I cried? Weeks ago? Months? Years? Again, I wondered, what the fuck was I doing here?

  The man pushed me toward the alleyway. I stumbled, tripping over my dirty black combat boots. Their frayed laces unraveling quickly, much like my life. The man slammed me against a blue dumpster, a metallic sign rattled in response.

  It read: Waste Management.

  I gave a small laugh.

  The man’s fingers clawed at my shirt, his knee pushed itself between my thighs. I struggled under his grip, fighting the inevitable.

  “No...please...”

  Was that my voice? It sounded removed like a soundtrack. The credits kept rolling but the people had left the theater.

  “Shut up.” His fist smashed into my cheekbone. Stars exploded behind my eyes, blinding me. My sweatshirt tore under his assault exposing track-marked skin.

  Not that my imperfection mattered to him.

  His greasy hands greedily roamed over my flesh, bruising my pale skin. Slipping lower, his fingers tugged at the button on my jeans.

  “No.”

  His small hard dick pressed against my stomach.

  A slight smile came to my lips.

  His hand slipped inside my jeans.

  Then his eyes shot wide.

  White orbs rolled back inside his head and he slumped forward, unconscious. His body smashed mine against the hard bricks behind us.

  “What took you so long?” I glanced around the man’s shoulder to my lover, who stood behind the man, a stun gun gripped in his thin arms. Sharp steel barbs lodged into the bad man’s neck and a thin trail of blood leaked down the collar of his shirt.

  “I was busy.” My lover shrugged and held up a plastic baggie. “Besides, you had everything under control.”

  It was my turn to shrug. “All in a days work.”

  My lover rolled the guy over, searching his pockets for dope, cash, or anything we could pawn for a few bucks.

  A quick fix.

  I glanced down at our victim. His face was pale, breathing labored. The middle finger on his left hand twitched, flexing in a hypnotic thump.

  I smiled and kicked him in the head. “No means no, asshole.”

  Sex with a Shooting Star

  In a city of stars, Jodie outshone them all while I spent much of my time avoiding the afterburn. But that’s what a man in love does, right? On nights like tonight I wasn’t so sure.

  I brushed a lock of hair from Jodie’s cheek, running my fingertips across the edge of her lips. Her head rested on my naked stomach, as her fingers traced circles across the fading ink wrapped around my bicep.

  Satisfaction hummed inside me. Was this love? I didn’t know but whatever it was I didn’t want it to end. Stupid and naive, I believed it never would.

  Jodie sighed, her fingers slipping lower to caress my navel with a manicured nail. “I love being with you.”

  “Me too.” It sounded lame, even to my ears, but I’d lost all powers of charm twenty minutes ago. All I wanted to do right now was fall asleep with her body pressed to mine. Her scent and warmth curled around me slowly pulling me into sleep.

  “This last year has been incredible,” she whispered.

  What was it with women and pillow talk? “Yeah, it’s been great.” I yawned, closing my eyes, hoping she’d take the hint.

  She didn’t. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  I cracked one eye open trying to focus. “Now?” She bit her lip, and I felt like an ass. “Sorry, what is it?” I stroked her arms. They were chalk-white with thin veins like broken links on the internet, fading from blue to purple with a single touch. Broken capillaries. Small bruises. I wondered how they’d gotten there. My fingers traced her throbbing artery as if following a map to her heart.

  I felt her indrawn breath and a rush of fear ripped through me. Was I about to get the ‘just friends’ speech? Or worse, the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ brush off? Was our fairytale relationship about to become much too real?

  “Don’t hate me—,” she began. Tears dribbled from her eyes, hanging from mascara-thickened lashes. They fell silently, puddled against my skin, leaving thick, black stains. Each droplet smoldered against my flesh like a flickering flame.

  “Whatever it is,” I touched her chin forcing her eyes to mine, “we’ll work it out.”

  “It’s not that simple.” She slipped from bed and swayed to the balcony. Her blonde hair shimmered in the moonlight, reminding me of the day we met, outside a downtown club.

  I hadn’t been looking for love, not that night. But she’d found me. Jodie Dean, Hollywood’s girl next door. For years she’d made America laugh, a rising star in a world filled with broken dreams. I remembered how she made me laugh, keeping my demons at bay with a smile.

  That night she asked with a smile, “Got a cigarette?” Instantly, I recognized her. Recognized her face. Her smile.

  Out of habit, I reached in my pocket for a cigarette pack, and with true regret, came out empty-handed. For the first time in years I wished I still smoked. I wished I still did many things. Deadly, dark, dangerous things.

  I shrugged an apology, and she grinned. A cute, girlish grin filled with mischief. The black thoughts that plagued me scattered under her innocent smile. I think I fell for her then.

  “Good. I don’t smoke.” She laughed, warming the space between us. “Not tonight at least.”

  It was my turn to smile. With a one in a million chance to capture a shooting star I asked Jodie Dean to coffee. I never regretted that decision.

  Until tonight.

  Watching her tremble in the darkness, my heart slammed in my chest. I climbed from the bed, dread making each step nearly impossible. “Tell me.”

  “There’re things you don’t know about me.” Her voice broke. “Bad things.”

  “I know all I need to.” Fool that I was believed each word. “About you. About us.”

  “Do you?” she questioned, her face twisted with anger. “What is it you think you know?” She shook her head, her hair swirling around her bare shoulders. When I stayed silent she added, “You don’t know me. No one does.”

  She was wrong. She was my fantasy come to life, an unscripted lover. A friend I trusted with my life. In a city filled with users willing to crush your soul to get ahead, she wanted nothing but my heart. I knew her, perhaps better than I knew myself.

  We’d only known each a short time, but in that time I’d learned so much. Like what Jodie liked in her coffee— two creams and a packet of sweet-n-low. What made her laugh—Jay Leno and tequila, and what made her cry—cheesy Danielle Steele novels. What else did I need to know, other than we belonged together? That without her each breath I took hurt.

  “If you’re trying to get rid of me,” I said, “just fucking, say it.”

  She flinched as if my words physically punished her. “I don’t want to hurt you. It’s not....”

  ...you, it’s me, echoed through my brain.

&n
bsp; Bitch. A surprising pain shot through my chest, centered on the broken pieces of my heart. As much as I tried to protect myself, to not fall in love with a face worshiped by millions, I’d failed. I loved Jodie Dean. Forever. But that realization did little to combat what I felt right now.

  “Whatever.” I grabbed my Levi’s from the floor. “I’m out of here.”

  “Wait. Please, don’t hate me, whatever happens....” She sank to the ground, sobbing. Fat, fake tears. Hollywood tears.

  Enraged, I headed for the door ignoring her affected tears. Hate her? How I wished I could. A part of me wanted to curl up and die, fade into the woodwork like a termite. How could she do this to me, to us? Was she fucking someone else? Was it that action star, People’s 32nd Sexiest Bachelor? Or maybe, her manager, Pete? Bile rose in my throat, but I managed to choke it down.

  I threw open the door looking at her tear-stained face for one last time. Her eyes met mine, sending a jolt of fresh pain through my heart. Slowly, her gaze lowered to the floor, leaving me standing alone in my misery. I closed my eyes and walked out the door.

  In the hallway outside of her apartment, I jabbed my finger into the elevator button. The door opened with a ding and for the barest of seconds, I glanced back at her door.

  Get in the elevator. Forget her, my mind screamed. Nevertheless, I hesitated, staring at the brass-plated number on her front door like it held some answer. For what seemed like hours, I stood waiting for her to come rushing out, to beg me not to go.