Michael
I don't really know where I am right now and that's the point of this whole thing. The idea is that it doesn't matter if I'm still in that motel room in Vegas or if I'm back in my shitty single in LA. All that does matter is that I'm sinking into the bed, pleasantly suffocating. Warm, numb, surrounded. I'm alone, I know that much. I used to despise getting high alone, but now I won't do it any other way if I can help it. Not that I don't I appreciate my fellow junkies; I do. Their ability to shut the fuck up when they're shooting is as necessary to me as their assistance in scoring.
Not that I shoot. I've never been able to get the courage and snorting and smoking hasn't stopped working for me yet. My "friends" have offered to do it for me, but not after they've done themselves and I don't trust them that much. I never know whether to marvel or pity those poor bastards who can actually function after they've done a shot. Functioning, for me, isn't the point. It's the opposite of the point. I'm doing this so I don't have to do anything; so I can not feel and not think. Especially about her. And don't insult me by pretending to be surprised.
My senses are completely fucked up, now. I can't smell or taste anything. My eyes are closed and while I can hear my body moving against my clothes, the comforter, and the pillow, I can't really feel them. I'm aware of my heart beating and everything gets muffled and the dark red behind my eyelids goes black.
I knew she was going to tell me that it was over before she actually did. She'd been avoiding me for days. When I tried to talk to her about getting together, she told me she was too busy. Work, she said, and school. And while I knew it was true, I knew there was something else. So I wasn't surprised when we finally talked about it, nor did I put up a fight. She couldn't be with me any longer. Initially, I figured I would just hang out for a while. Play the field, have fun, all that crap. But as the weeks turned into months, the months into a year, things didn't look up. The women I met were attached or uninterested. I withdrew from my friends gradually, unable to trust them with any sort of vulnerability. I lost myself in dance clubs, in after parties full of people I didn't know. I made drunk acquaintances and eventually, being familiar turned into being trusted, as alcohol became pot, became speed or coke. Then I found myself chasing the dragon in someone's bedroom in North Hollywood with two other guys, neither of whom I had names for. It was 4am and the party was dead. People were passed out all over the place. Smokers lingered on the balcony. Drunks wandered down the hallway to their cars, confident in their ability to get home without killing themselves or anyone else.
And I was exactly where I wanted to be as the gray-brown smoke entered my lungs and I held it. Felt softness against my throat, totally unlike the harsh smoke of marijuana. I became completely detached from my surroundings, watching my hand take the straw and the foil, while someone else flicked the lighter beneath. Inhaled again with lungs that now felt as if they belonged to someone else and looked with borrowed eyes. I was a passenger in my own body, now, as the guy who'd brought the shit stuffed a card into my pants pocket that had the name “Rich” and a phone number on the back of it. When I blinked, he vanished. Our compatriot was staggering to his feet, removing random articles of clothing. I intended to protest, but making my mouth form the words had become difficult. The point was moot as I watched him crawl into the bed, pulling back the sheets to reveal two naked bodies of indeterminate gender.
I woke up six hours later and there were still bodies all over the place, though the bed was empty. Bottles were scattered everywhere, most of them empty and none of them spilled. I searched wallets and purses for stray cash and left with a six pack under my arm.
I waited two days to call. We met underneath the bridge that was Sunset Boulevard passing over Myra, inside the stairwell. Graffiti covered the walls and there was the faint smell of stale piss, beer, and artificial pine. When I remarked on it, Rich told me that homeless people tried to sleep here sometimes, but the gang kids ran them out so they could use it as their personal hang-out. Every month or so they’d pour Pine Sol all over the place and then splash buckets full of water to rinse it out. They let him deal here because he dealt to them at a discount and had never been busted. Rich claimed he could spot a cop at fifty yards away with his eyes closed.
I bought from him under that bridge for three months before we graduated to more civilized surroundings, like Tommy’s, the Dragonfly, or Boardner’s. I’d apparently passed some sort of initiation he used to test new customers by creeping them out. Over time, I got to know some of his other customers and formed a few shallow, junk-based friendships. We bought in bulk for discounted prices and would spend a few days getting fucked up at someone else’s place. A couple of them, like Hank, were accomplished pickpockets. Jimmy mugged people at gunpoint. Nobody ever talked about what they did to get money, but they were usually willing to tell you how other people did it. I never talked about where mine came from, but rumors eventually started.
Not that I shoot. I've never been able to get the courage and snorting and smoking hasn't stopped working for me yet. My "friends" have offered to do it for me, but not after they've done themselves and I don't trust them that much. I never know whether to marvel or pity those poor bastards who can actually function after they've done a shot. Functioning, for me, isn't the point. It's the opposite of the point. I'm doing this so I don't have to do anything; so I can not feel and not think. Especially about her. And don't insult me by pretending to be surprised.
My senses are completely fucked up, now. I can't smell or taste anything. My eyes are closed and while I can hear my body moving against my clothes, the comforter, and the pillow, I can't really feel them. I'm aware of my heart beating and everything gets muffled and the dark red behind my eyelids goes black.
I knew she was going to tell me that it was over before she actually did. She'd been avoiding me for days. When I tried to talk to her about getting together, she told me she was too busy. Work, she said, and school. And while I knew it was true, I knew there was something else. So I wasn't surprised when we finally talked about it, nor did I put up a fight. She couldn't be with me any longer. Initially, I figured I would just hang out for a while. Play the field, have fun, all that crap. But as the weeks turned into months, the months into a year, things didn't look up. The women I met were attached or uninterested. I withdrew from my friends gradually, unable to trust them with any sort of vulnerability. I lost myself in dance clubs, in after parties full of people I didn't know. I made drunk acquaintances and eventually, being familiar turned into being trusted, as alcohol became pot, became speed or coke. Then I found myself chasing the dragon in someone's bedroom in North Hollywood with two other guys, neither of whom I had names for. It was 4am and the party was dead. People were passed out all over the place. Smokers lingered on the balcony. Drunks wandered down the hallway to their cars, confident in their ability to get home without killing themselves or anyone else.
And I was exactly where I wanted to be as the gray-brown smoke entered my lungs and I held it. Felt softness against my throat, totally unlike the harsh smoke of marijuana. I became completely detached from my surroundings, watching my hand take the straw and the foil, while someone else flicked the lighter beneath. Inhaled again with lungs that now felt as if they belonged to someone else and looked with borrowed eyes. I was a passenger in my own body, now, as the guy who'd brought the shit stuffed a card into my pants pocket that had the name “Rich” and a phone number on the back of it. When I blinked, he vanished. Our compatriot was staggering to his feet, removing random articles of clothing. I intended to protest, but making my mouth form the words had become difficult. The point was moot as I watched him crawl into the bed, pulling back the sheets to reveal two naked bodies of indeterminate gender.
I woke up six hours later and there were still bodies all over the place, though the bed was empty. Bottles were scattered everywhere, most of them empty and none of them spilled. I searched wallets and purses for stray cash and left with a six pack under my arm.
I waited two days to call. We met underneath the bridge that was Sunset Boulevard passing over Myra, inside the stairwell. Graffiti covered the walls and there was the faint smell of stale piss, beer, and artificial pine. When I remarked on it, Rich told me that homeless people tried to sleep here sometimes, but the gang kids ran them out so they could use it as their personal hang-out. Every month or so they’d pour Pine Sol all over the place and then splash buckets full of water to rinse it out. They let him deal here because he dealt to them at a discount and had never been busted. Rich claimed he could spot a cop at fifty yards away with his eyes closed.
I bought from him under that bridge for three months before we graduated to more civilized surroundings, like Tommy’s, the Dragonfly, or Boardner’s. I’d apparently passed some sort of initiation he used to test new customers by creeping them out. Over time, I got to know some of his other customers and formed a few shallow, junk-based friendships. We bought in bulk for discounted prices and would spend a few days getting fucked up at someone else’s place. A couple of them, like Hank, were accomplished pickpockets. Jimmy mugged people at gunpoint. Nobody ever talked about what they did to get money, but they were usually willing to tell you how other people did it. I never talked about where mine came from, but rumors eventually started.