American Junkie Page 20

  Later that day Mick showed up. I didn’t really trust him, but what can you do? Good help was hard to find and I had been so busy lately I needed an assistant. It’s a lie what they say about the drug world, that it’s a savage place full of backstabbing sociopaths. Some parts are that way of course, at least I suspected there were, however I had never seen it. I’d found a niche that provided safety and security. No one was going to fire me, demote me, ship my job overseas, cut my hours or my pay. The drug business was impervious to economic forces and manipulations, it was recession and depression proof precisely because it was outside the other economy, the corrupt economy. There was no living from paycheck to paycheck, pinching pennies. There were no worries, as long as I took a few simple precautions. People would always need drugs. They didn’t need to be talked into it with some tits and ass on a billboard. They just needed them. It’d been that way since the beginning of time and it would be that way until the end.

  When the coast was clear, Mick told me who bought what that day and gave me the money. I returned enough for him to cop for the next day, and told him where to meet my supplier. I took some heroin in case I wanted to shoot up in the central line, placing the dope under my pillow. I probably wouldn’t, the pain cocktails were strong, and they’d been giving me Dilaudid every night that I’d been cooking up and shooting into the IV lock. The Dilaudid was clean, it dissolved into what looked like orange Kool-Aid. It didn’t last as long as heroin or methadone but had a nice rush. I was starting to enjoy my time off. This is the life, I thought. There was a kind of perfection to it. A heroin business run out of a hospital. The Ultimate Full Service Drugstore. Apocalypse Pharmacy.

  After visiting hours the lights were dimmed. My neighbor was still talking to no one, so I got up and walked around the floor. I asked the desk nurse for some single serving Tillamook cheddar cheese packages and saltine crackers. She sighed, put down her magazine, then got them from a locked room. I walked out to the center of the floor where the elevators were, and then away from them to the emergency exit and the stairwell, the side of the building that faced downtown. The stairwell was made of unpainted cement. It was dark and cold. Every once in a while a door would open or close a few floors above or below, then footsteps, echoing up and down the shaft. I sat down on the steps and ate, then lit up a cigarette. One wall, the side of the shaft that faced downtown was made of heavy sheets of steel with slats for ventilation and I stood up to blow the smoke out through the slats. Through the cracks, barely, I could see the lights of the city, shimmering in the distance. Something was happening down there. I finished the cigarette, dropped the butt through a crack and went back to my room. My neighbor had apparently fallen asleep.

  The feeling crept up on me. In the past, sometimes I’d been able to fight it off before it got to a certain point, before the wave crested, but this time I just let it take me. Why not? I was on vacation, right? I hadn’t been doing much coke for a few years because all my veins were gone and it screwed up my business, but now there was this central line in my jugular, this direct line to my heart, beckoning, whispering in my ear—it would be so easy.

  I slid the little plastic clamp over the central line, and unscrewed the connection to the IV lock. Picking up the phone I called Tami, a customer who lived close by. I changed out of my scrubs but kept the hospital robe on and put on a jacket over it and put up the collar of my jacket to hide the central line taped to my neck. I needn’t have bothered, the nurse at the desk didn’t even look up from her magazine. I rode the elevator down and got out on the ground floor. The hospital seemed deserted, the hallways went on and on into darkness. Every time I turned a corner I expected to see someone, a security guard, a doctor, a nurse, another patient, but there was no one, only the sound of my footsteps, echoing.

  Tami was waiting outside. She was a dancer down at the Champ Arcade, one of those peep show joints where you put money in the slot and the screen goes up. I handed her a piece of heroin and told her to head for the Ginza Tavern down on First Avenue next to Seattle Center.

  “Has Mick been taking care of you?” I asked, once we were in the car.

  “Yeah, he’s been okay. Not like you though. When are you coming back?”

  “I’m not sure. Soon. Don’t worry,” I said.

  She seemed relieved and started to drive. I adjusted the seat back and lit a cigarette. The colored lights of the city went by reflected on the windshield, stoplights, neon signs, streetlights, yellows, reds, greens, whites, all warped and elongated. Now there was no turning back, no changing the route or the destination, like I was floating right down the middle of a very wide river. Suddenly The Space Needle loomed in the sky behind the windshield. We must have been somewhere near Broad Street and Fifth. I watched the little shiny gold elevator move slowly up the center of The Needle. It’s beautiful, I thought to myself. The worlds biggest syringe. The little gold elevator was the plunger, and as it rose it gave the sky the worlds biggest shot of heroin.

  The Ginza was packed. Music blared from somewhere and people were waving around bottles of beer and shouting. The New Years Eve countdown was playing on a shitty little TV above the bar. I saw Lindy through the haze of smoke, in the corner where she always sat. On the way to her table the bartender tried to get my attention. I ignored him and made my way to the back. Lindy had been here at this corner table, selling coke for a long as I could remember. She had that look I’d seen of someone who has been doing coke for quite a long time—thin, with big intense eyes on a wrinkled skeletal face. Discreetly, I handed her sixty dollars under the table. She passed me four bags of coke, I slipped them into my pocket, and made my way back up toward the bar, then turned the other way.

  The back door opened to a shadowy loading dock, lit up by a floodlight. I walked down some concrete steps and across the alley to the back door of Dick’s hamburger stand and peered in the small window. The kitchen was empty. I opened the door, slipped into the bathroom and locked it. A bank of sinks on a counter with a long mirror above it lined the one wall, two toilet stalls and some urinals the other. There were puddles of piss on the floor and the trashcan was overflowing with paper towels. I fished my works out of my jacket pocket and lay them out on the counter, then dumped all four bags of coke into the spoon. I turned on the faucet in the sink and stuck my hand in there, then dripped some water off my fingertips into the spoon. I sucked up about a third of what was in the spoon, and injected it into the central line.

  First there was a sound in my ears, then my head buzzed, and the taste of acetone filled my mouth and I felt like I was suspended in a current of electricity. Suddenly I crumpled to the floor in a heap. My heart felt like it was going to fly apart, bouncing around in my chest like a caged animal trying to get out. I groaned, and it sounded strange, hollow, ringing, metallic, like I was in a tunnel, an echo chamber. I rolled onto my side. My vision zoomed in and out, lights were flashing in my eyes and my arms and legs were jerking out of control. This is it, I thought. I’m going to die. I’d been knocked to my knees before by a hit of coke, but never like this. Not even close.

  My cheek was being dragged back and forth on the floor through a puddle of piss. I tried to take slow deep breaths, staring at one point on the wall under the sink. Eventually the convulsions slowed. I wasn’t sure if I’d been on the floor for two minutes or five minutes or ten. My head was throbbing and buzzing. Grabbing the edge of the sink counter, I hauled myself up. I sucked up what was left of the coke into a couple syringes, capped them, gathered the rest of my stuff and shoved it all into my pocket. I staggered outside, then stumbled and wove my way across the alley, climbed back up the steps of the loading dock and in through the back door of The Ginza. I made it through the bar and out to Tami’s car. As she drove back to the hospital, her voice seemed far away. I felt like I had forgotten something, left something behind.

  Back at Harborview the hallways were still empty. I couldn’t hear my footsteps anymore, just a buzzing in my head. Out
of the corner of my eye I thought I saw things moving. The elevator ride up to the eighth floor seemed to take forever. Finally the doors opened. The nurses’ station was deserted. My room was dark and quiet. I put away the coke I had left, reattached my IV, slid back into bed, pulled the sheet over myself. It must have been around Midnight, fireworks were going off, an occasional boom or pop, somewhere in the distance.

  [OCTOBER 12, 1999]

  By my reckoning I had over four hundred ten milligram methadone pills stashed. At ten bucks a pop on the street they would net four grand. I could get myself a car when I got out, an apartment, something, provided the clinic goes without a hitch, provided I could bear to go to their inane group sessions. Provided I don’t get kicked out again. That was always a possibility.

  My mom was in for a visit. She was talking to one of the staff, a woman who makes sure patients are discharged into settings they can handle, where they can manage to take care of themselves. They even sent someone out to her apartment to make sure it was suited for me, if there was anything it needed, if the halls were wide enough for a wheelchair, if the bathtub needed handles, etc. They were offering to do all sorts of things, build a wheelchair ramp, install railings on the walls, and in the bathroom. It sounded very expensive and since I’d been getting around fairly well I declined. I had never wanted to be a burden on society. The money they spent on that could be used for some people who really needed it. Those burned up kids at Harborview, maybe.

  My mom finished speaking with her and sat in the chair next to the bed. I didn’t want the nurses to stumble across my pill stash and take them, not at this point, after I went to all the effort to save them. I waited until the coast was clear.

  “I want you to take this,” I said, handing her the tin, “and put it in a safe place.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Pills. Methadone pills,” I said.

  “What...what are they for?” she asked.

  “Mmmm. They’re for my hip, for the pain.”

  She didn’t ask any questions, she just placed the tin in her purse. Saving for a rainy day was something she understood. You only had to look in her cupboard and see all the margarine and sour cream tubs, all the plastic bags, the plastic forks and spoons, the glass jars.

  After she left I slithered out of bed and into the wheelchair. I was able to make the transfer by myself now. I rolled out of my room and down the hall toward The Blue Room. I’d passed it a few times, the room at the end of the hall, peeked in through the little window, but I’d always been reluctant to go in, check it out. It was supposed to be some sort of place to meditate. Relatives went in there to pray, or cry when loved ones passed. I pushed down on the handle, butted open the door with the chair and rolled in.

  It was like a womb, safe, quiet. The walls and ceiling were blue, the floor covered with blue carpet. Blue chairs lined one wall, a blue love seat another. It was comforting, in a way. Everything was a shade of one color. Dark blue, light blue, many different shades. But one color, one thing that everything else was based on. The sunlight outside was forcing its way in through the blinds. As soon as I saw it I lost the peaceful feeling. There was still something out there.

  [1996]

  I unlocked the door to Monica’s apartment, stepped inside, dropped my keys and the garage door opener on the table, took off my coat and flung myself onto the bed. It had been a long day at work and I was tired. The blinds were drawn, the room lit up only by the glow of the television and a table lamp in the corner with a scarf draped over it. Noise filtered in from outside, cars coming up Denny Way. I was glad we lived on the top floor, far from the madding crowd. The first floor apartments were at street level and the people who lived there had to listen to the inane drivel of the pedestrians coming up Denny on their way home from work, the stupid jokes, the forced laughter, the exchanging of meaningless bits of pop culture trivia. Monica’s orange cat walked out of the kitchen licking her mouth, jumped up onto the bed and collapsed against my leg, purring. I dozed off.

  The clack of a key turning the lock woke me. It was Monica. Sally was with her, chattering away as usual. I sat up against the headboard. Sally was chunkier and more trailer park-ish than Monica, a little bit thicker, but she had a pretty face, sensuous with full lips and catlike eyes. More often than not it was her who found and set up the deals or parties or clients or whatever that it was that they did when they went out at night. Personally I didn’t care what or who it was that Monica did. We never talked about it. My bullshit detector was so finely tuned that I knew when she was with me, she was really with me, not thinking about someone else. Besides, who was I to judge? She was just doing what she knew, being good at what she was good at, using the tools God had given her to survive, just like I was.

  Monica walked over to the bed, leaned down and kissed me. She said that they were going out again, and both of them retreated into the other bedroom. After a few minutes Monica came out and asked me if they could have some heroin. I gave it to her and dozed off again. I woke up again when they were getting ready to leave. Monica was wearing a skirt with white stockings, heels and a garter belt, more classy than Sally’s slutty schoolgirl get up. I sat up in bed and watched. Monica was still in her 20’s, still very pretty, but that thing I had first seen in her eyes had spread to her face and body a little. Even so it was barely noticeable, only occasionally in the mornings, or the brief moments we were together out in the light of day. She hadn’t fallen off that cliff yet, the one I’d seen so many pretty junkie girls fall off. They reach a point, and then their looks go downhill fast, their features collapse or they blow up like balloons. That edge would probably come soon for her. But maybe not. A rare few seemed to be able to age gracefully, even if they were junkies. I suspected it had something to do with how strong they were in their minds. Monica picked up her purse, walked over and kissed me.

  “I’ll be back in two or three hours,” she said.

  “I’ll have a big shot waiting for you when you get back,” I said, smiling, grabbing my crotch. She laughed.

  If only that were still how it was, I thought, after they left, feeling a little sad. Monica and I only had sex once in a blue moon anymore. I’d been doing so much heroin for so many years that my basic animal drives were dying. Sometimes we still tried to fuck, but more often than not my equipment wouldn’t work, as if my body wouldn’t do what the rest of me wanted. This night would probably be like most nights lately, Monica would just come home sometime in the middle of the night, wake me up and then we would shoot up together. Then we’d curl up in the glow of the TV and nod off, holding onto each other, holding onto something.

  [OCTOBER 15, 1999]

  Greg’s voice was going quiet, until it became little more than a whisper. He was telling me that Ricky, the guy at the end of that hall had died. I looked over at his face, lit up in the glow from the television. He was staring into space, speaking slowly like he was in a trance, like I wasn’t even there. He was telling me he took the body downstairs to a special room, then he washed it, carefully, with a sponge. Then he combed his hair and shaved his face, doing his best to make him look presentable, even though he didn’t think Ricky had anyone, family, friends, no one. Greg had finished speaking and just sat there, staring at a point low on the wall. Slowly he seemed to come out of his trance and change back into his jolly old self.

  “Do you like blowjobs?” he asked. I was used to his sex talk by now.

  “I haven’t had one in years.” I said.

  He looked at me, stunned. Greg talked about sex like it was pizza. He was clearly one of those who had the ability to completely disconnect sex from love. I’d always wanted to achieve this thing, it was obviously the way the world was heading, but it had been impossible for me. I’d always needed for sex to mean something. Unfortunately, I’d never been able to make anything mean anything, except selling drugs.

  Jumping up from the chair, Greg said he had to see about his other patien
ts and reminded me of our date for the ARJO later that day. A long time ago I’d been preoccupied with sex, then a little less, then not at all, and then it’d become impossible. I had saved my cock, but why? Even though my functioning had returned the prospects of putting it to any use were probably going to be slim. What am I even going to say to women now? I can imagine that conversation. It will probably go something like this...

  Tom: “Hi.”

  Woman: “Hi.” (then she sees my scars, or notices my limp) “Oh. What happened to you?”

  Then I’ll say something like “Well, that’s a long story,” or if I’m feeling witty, “I deconstructed myself.”

  Eventually she’ll snap out of it, brighten up and say something like, “Cool boots! Are those Florsheims?”

  Oh, the humanity. I suppose I can just lie. “I was snorkelling off the Ivory Coast and was attacked by a gang of Great White Sharks.” Or, “I was behind the lines in Desert Storm, and dove onto a hand grenade to save my buddies.” Either were completely believable. Who was I kidding? I had bigger problems.

  Later that day Greg came in. “You ready for your bath?” he asked. I said I was.

  “It’s quite impressive, that your wounds have healed,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  It was a miracle, according to CJ. She’d been working on them for five months now with her tools and creams and dressings. CJ had congratulated me, as if I had something to do with it.

  In the bathroom I climbed into the ARJO tub and sat down on the formed plastic seat. Greg closed the door and turned on the water. He dashed about, chattering away, gathering shampoo, soap, sponges, a razor. Finally, after assembling everything he soaped up a big sponge and ran it gently over the broken landscape of my body. I lay back and closed my eyes. Soon my life wasn’t going to be so easy, but on some levels, I seemed to be adjusting well. My dose of Methadone had continued to go down, five pills four times a day and I still hadn’t noticed any withdrawal symptoms. However, I’d had to lower the number of pills I’d been able to stash to four per day.