by Lutzke, Chad
“There’s a person up there, just lying there.”
“Guy or girl?" Kent asked.
“I think it's a guy. Could have been a chick, though.”
I asked Eddie if he thought the person had seen him and he said they hadn’t. He said he thought they were sleeping, maybe passed out.
“Maybe dead,” Kent said.
“I wanna see." I started up the stairs and Eddie followed. Kent lingered. I made it up about as far as Eddie had and stopped. Across the hall, at the top of the stairs, was a person lying on a stack of cardboard, layers at least six inches high, in what would have been a bedroom. The person had on bright red shorts, a white T-shirt and dark hair. But that’s all I could make out.
I took one more step and leaned in, squinting my eyes. At first I thought it was a girl because of the long hair. I took another step. And another. By this time I was standing on the top step looking straight ahead into the room. It was a man. He could have been forty. He could have been sixty. It was hard to tell. It was clear that life had taken its toll on him. His face was narrow and scruffy, and his hair curly and unkempt. He lay flat on his back and his mouth was open, his lips dry and cracked.
I took another step forward so Eddie could see. I turned and saw Kent trying to peek up from a few steps below. None of us were holding our weapons up; they were down by our side. There was nothing threatening about the sight of the man, and if it weren’t for his slow and steady breathing I would have bet my life we were staring at a corpse. His skin was yellowed and pale, his eyes sunken, and of course his gaping mouth.
I looked around the room. In the corner was a clothesline that held a pair of pants, underwear, socks and a plain black T-shirt. There was a folded blanket on the floor next to the bed, and next to that was a cardboard box acting as a nightstand. On top of it rested a short stack of books, several pencils, a drawing pad and a bright orange plastic tray—the kind you’d find at a fast food joint. On the tray was a spoon, a lighter, a candle, a few syringes and a small envelope with what looked like a black strawberry stamped on it. Next to the table was another smaller box full of trash. There was organization to all of it. What little the man owned he took care of and liked to keep things tidy. From my understanding of a junkie, that was pretty unusual. The messy bucket downstairs now seemed out of character for him, and the care taken in his room helped give some humanity to the sickly man lying there.
“If he’s dead I want nothing to do with this,” Kent whispered.
I took a few more steps and by this time was at the room’s threshold, looking down at the man. A plethora of questions went through my head. I wanted to know the guy’s story. I could tell at one point he was probably a real looker, with his chiseled jaw and long hair. There were traces of him in the room that reflected who he used to be—the books, the pad of paper.
Without knowing the man before me, and with no personal experience with drugs harder than the occasional joint, I was naive about most of it. And it puzzled me to no end why someone would give up everything they had just for a high. What was it about heroin that someone would sell their body, neglect their kids, lie and steal. My mind searched for reason and there was none. Not from this angle. I'd even been thinking about it on the drive over. But seeing the guy lay there as though dead, unaware of three strangers watching him as he floated in some cerebral nirvana, got me thinking even harder. About how I think it takes a certain someone to fall victim to its clutches, to become a slave to something like heroin. People who maybe were on the verge of giving up anyway. And then heroin just acts as the catalyst to start the beginning of the end, like they subconsciously wanted in the first place.
But that’s not me. I’m content. I’m grateful. And as far as I’m concerned, once I'm out of Mom and Dad's I’ve got a pretty bright future ahead. I got it in my head that the drug wouldn’t take some people the way it did others. I started thinking that if I ever tried it that it’d be a one-time deal, just to kill the curiosity, to answer the questions that now plagued me. What does it feel like? And why be a slave?
“Okay, we saw him. Let’s go." Kent whispered.
To everyone’s surprise, Eddie leaned in with the tire iron and tapped the man’s foot, both of which had missing big toes. The man didn’t move.
“He’s dead, man. OD’d," Kent said, this time no longer whispering.
“I can see him breathing, Kent," I said.
“Maybe it’s a coma...a drug-induced one.”
Eddie tapped the man’s foot again, this time directly on the flattened stump where his toe should have been. Nothing. I walked slowly and quietly around the makeshift bed and to the box nightstand. I took the bat and lightly knocked the stack of books over just enough to see the titles of all three. There were two small paperbacks and a large hardback, like a coffee table book. The hardback was an illustrated compendium of flowers. The two paperbacks were both written by Richard Brautigan: A Confederate General from Big Sur and In Watermelon Sugar. I’d read neither before but did recall seeing a Brautigan book on my father’s bookshelf, something about fish in America.
I noticed two of the walls in the room were white, while the other two were gray, with a television static-like appearance, but I couldn’t tell why. As I looked closer, I saw that tiny flowers had been drawn in pencil over the entirety of the two grayed walls. There must have been thousands of them from ceiling to baseboard. This wasn’t your average graffiti. This was unhealthy dedication. An obsession.
“Cut it out, Eddie." Kent said.
I looked at Eddie. He was still tapping the man’s foot. Still no movement.
“You guys ever know anyone to try this stuff?" I pointed toward the orange tray.
“Nope,” Kent said, no longer trying to remain quiet.
Suddenly the man shot straight up and sprayed vomit toward Eddie, who caught quite a bit of it on his shirt. Kent immediately ran down the stairs, two at a time I'm sure. I moved away from the bed and back over by Eddie who reacted by swinging the tire iron hard at the man, striking him in the ankle. There was a loud cracking sound. I was sure something broke. Eddie called the now-screaming man a pig junkie and threatened to steal his stash to pay for dry cleaning. Eddie’s never dry cleaned a thing in his life and certainly not a pair of jeans and a T-shirt—a kneejerk reaction I suppose.
The man tried opening his eyes, a near worthless effort. His mouth slung open in a long frown, eyebrows raised, but his lids would not comply. He squinted at Eddie, then wiped his face and said: “Take it. I don’t care. Take it all." Then he fell back hard against the cardboard stack, moaning. I’m not sure he was even aware how bad he’d been hurt. No doubt he’d feel it when the drugs wore off.
“I think we should bail now,” I said.
Eddie stared hard at the man, then at his vomit-spattered clothes. “You give me AIDS or something, man, I’ll come back here and set this place on fire, with you in it.”
“Eddie, chill out, man. Let’s go,” I said. I think he’d forgotten we were on this guy’s turf, invaders. As we left the room I looked at the guy’s ankle. It didn’t look right, already swelling and changing color.
We left the room and went back down the stairs, Kent had his pecker out and was pissing on the walls and floor, shuffling along, covering as much territory as his bladder would allow. I’d seen Kent do this before. It was kind of his thing, trophy pissing. But under the circumstances I thought it was distasteful.
“Really, man? This is someone’s house, Kent.”
Kent started laughing and Eddie would have too if he wasn’t busy cussing his way through the window, pissed off about the puke on his shirt. Kent and I joined him outside and we all lit up a smoke, like it was just something you do after being a dick. Eddie took off his shirt and wadded it up in a ball and threw it on the floor of Kent’s car. Kent complained about it. Eddie told him to shut the hell up, and then all was quiet for the next several minutes as we made our way back to town. Finally, Eddie started talking about how you
can’t get AIDS from puke but probably other stuff, like hepatitis or an infection. He said his aunt was a nurse and he’d ask her, said he’d tell her some homeless guy puked on him downtown. He kept on like this until Kent interrupted him.
“You didn’t have to club him like that.”
Eddie thought for a moment, looked at Kent, then looked out the window at the miles of dead Texas field grass along I-37. “Maybe not. Maybe I should have pissed on him.”
“Not cool, man,“ Kent added.
“It was reactionary. I didn’t know what was going on...scared the hell right outta me.”
“Still, man. I think you broke his foot." Kent said.
“You wanna go back so I can apologize? I probably did him a favor. He’ll end up going to the hospital, maybe get some help for his junkie problem.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
I stayed out of the conversation and let them go at it. It was moments like this that I wondered why they were my friends. We just weren't on the same level anymore, and I felt like I was the only one who was aware of it.
I never said a word to Eddie or Kent about my curiosities concerning heroin. Never saw a reason to, but I could tell even before we left Limewood that I’d be trying it. And that I would come back from whatever heaven-turned-hell others had visited, unscathed.
2: Succumbing
I laid in bed that night thinking about the guy in the townhouse and how he had given his life for a high, for something so temporary. How every waking moment was spent chasing something he’d never catch up to—the only future ahead filled with a bleak existence based on a daily decision that was stuck in a decaying groove. I couldn’t really pity the guy, though. He’d done it to himself and he chose to remain.
Sleep wouldn't come so I hopped online and searched all things heroin until the birds threatened to wake before I made it back to bed. Most of what I researched was what to expect as a first-time user. It seems there were a handful of experiences I could go through, but consensus said I’d most likely get sick yet still enjoy it. I even watched a few videos of people shooting heroin or high on the drug. Some of the people just sat there, seemingly unaware of their surroundings, while other seemed to fidget. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense how enjoyable something would be if all you’re doing is lying there, unable to move. Again, there's something else at the root of why those who tried it got addicted. Something psychological. Something I didn’t have or needed to worry about.
While researching, my main concern was my well being while under the influence, and of course a short recovery time. I would not fall victim. I would not become a slave. Before I tried it, there was one more thing I wanted to do: Speak with someone who had personal experience. The next day I'd be heading back to Limewood, make a peace offering, and hopefully learn anything else I needed to know.
***
By noon the next day–with money I had left from graduation–I was headed downtown. Hillcrest to be exact. An area I never thought I’d find myself in, in particular all alone. My dad let me use his car. It was no big sacrifice on his part. He had two of them; one that would otherwise be sitting in the garage, adding to the oil stain under it. I told him I was putting in some job applications. He told me to take my time. Too easy.
Once downtown, on the corner of Van Buren and Washington, I saw two women who were most likely prostitutes, exaggerated hip swinging, tight-fit clothes. Even in the early afternoon they were out, taking the funds of horny businessmen on their lunch. I wouldn’t say I was particularly intimidated by either of the women, but I did single one out that looked a little less threatening than the other—frail, dark circles under the eyes, a real poster child for street life.
I parked the car a half a block away and walked to the corner. I asked the junkie girl if she knew where I could score some “H." I’d seen the term being used online. I became concerned that maybe I had that tourist look, like I didn't belong—a potential target for being ripped off and given cut product (another term I learned) or even robbed of my money. I tried to act tough but without arrogance. I didn’t want spit on my burger, ya know?
The woman asked me if I was a cop, then she asked if I wanted to party. I told her that I did and that’s why I was looking for the H.
She laughed and said, ”Nah, honey, you want me to get you off?"
Embarrassed, I told her no but thank you and then went back to my tough guise and said “Can you get me the goods or not? Cuz I can go somewhere else if not."
She gave me a dirty look, then asked if I wanted tar. I'm sure the look on my face told her I didn’t know what I was doing. I was the perfect victim for whatever her or her dealer wanted to pull. I told her I wanted the tar, for two. She smirked and told me it’d be forty bucks, then said she’d be right back and went around the corner and through a green metal door, into one of those brick buildings that had the fire escapes you see in movies, where the bad guys make a run for it and the cops chase them out the window and down an alley.
I waited there on the curb as cars drove by, each passenger taking a long, hard look at me as I stood uncomfortably in a part of town that couldn't wait to eat me alive. Under my breath, I told myself to grow some balls, then I stood up straight. It helped, for a moment. Then the girl came back and asked for the money. I handed her a couple twenties and she slipped two tiny balloons into the palm of my hand.
“You’d best leave now." She said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t make it out of here with the rest of your money or that tar.”
I played it cool and tried to chuckle, continuing to act like none of this was new for me. She wasn’t buying it. I thanked her, then tried to walk fast—but not too fast, like the old folks in the mall before the stores open. Once back at the car, I opened my hand. The balloons were both red, and when I pinched them they had small globs inside like clay. I didn’t open them. I wouldn't have been able to tell if it was really heroin anyway. I’d save that for the junkie. As far as shooting it—for the most part—I knew what to do. But I wasn’t going to do it alone. It was time to go to Limewood.
I took the balloons and put them in a zippered pouch I used to hold drafting pencils at school. Inside the pouch I’d put two brand new needles I stole from my dad. He used them for insulin. I wasn’t worried about getting addicted, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to stick a dirty needle in my skin. I also had cotton balls, a lighter, and a spoon. As far as I knew, I was prepared.
As I drove down I-37, I thought about everything I’d read online—people’s experiences, their boasts, their regrets, and their warnings. There was nothing I'd done that ever led to addiction. Or even close to it. I've smoked pot. I’ve gambled and walked away when ahead and behind. Even a pack of cigarettes lasted me a good week. And with the exception of drinking on the weekends for the sole purpose of inebriation–not because I needed to–everything I ever did was done in a healthy and moderate manner: TV, food, spending money, pornography. Even when the doctor prescribed me Vicodin for a sprained ankle I stopped taking it before the script ran out. I was strong willed, self disciplined. There would be no problem. I would maintain control.
No doubt from the perspective of my friends, the idea of buying heroin from a whore in Hillcrest with the purpose of shooting it up with the man we’d attacked yesterday and bringing him a dose and a small bag of groceries as a peace offering would seem nothing short of insane, or stupid. But I focused on feeding my curiosity and the humorous tale I'd one day tell.
I pulled into Limewood, drove to the back, turned right. Scared of being spotted, I drove behind the house. I could hear the dead grass tickling the underside of the car, metal whispers telling me to turn back. I parked and sat looking at the back of the house. Nothing had changed. The black cloth still hung. I looked at the upstairs windows, which were all intact. I couldn’t tell which side of the house his room was on. I tried mapping it out in my head and guessed the window faced the front.
I grabbed my zippered
pouch and the small bag of groceries I brought from home—a few cans of coke, two honey buns, some granola bars, and beef jerky. I wasn’t sure how the guy was eating but thought he could probably use the food. I got out and shut the door quietly, then made my way toward the loosened plywood, expecting it to be nailed shut again. It wasn’t.
What if Eddie had killed the guy?
It didn’t seem likely with just a hit to the foot. Probably just too lazy, or didn’t have a hammer and nails lying around. I was thinking too much.
I pulled at the wood and climbed through the house, grocery bag first, followed by an entering that would have made the most skilled burglar proud. If there was any sound made at all it was by the wind, not by me. I picked up the groceries and walked up the stairs, slowly. As my eyes made it past the floor and into the room ahead, I saw the room was empty. No cardboard bed. No cardboard nightstand. He must have gotten spooked and ditched this house for another.
I decided to search the upstairs anyway and took another step up, when something hit my shoulder. I ducked and swung my arm out but by then it had wrapped around my neck and tightened. The junkie stood over the railing above me, holding tight to a rope; the other end formed into a slipknot that now gripped my neck.
“I’ve had it with you kids, prowling around my business, stealing my things. This ends now, bitch.”
I dropped the groceries and reached for the rope that had now gone taut to the point of nearly lifting me off the stairs. I obtained a quick grip on the rope and pulled. The man pulled back. We were in a game of tug-of-war, my neck the center of it all. I couldn’t tell what hurt more, the crushing of my throat or the rope sawing through my neck. I thought of trying to jump and climb the rope to him, but if he let go I’d crash down the hard wooden stairs. Instead, I decided to yank again, hold tight and run up the remaining stairs, around the railing and toward the man, giving myself slack and the man a beating.
