by Lutzke, Chad
I did just that, yanked, held tight, and ran. But as I rounded the corner, the man let go of the rope, threw his hands up and screamed “Not in front of Daisy!”
I stopped, then loosened the rope around my neck and dropped it to the ground. Whoever Daisy was she was now in hiding and nowhere to be seen. The man looked terrified, but not of me, of something else.
“Thank you,” he said. “Now just leave. Please."
There was desperation in his voice that was somehow calming, made me forget that he’d just tried to kill me. I couldn’t help but pity him. I held my hands up with my palms open as a symbol of peace and said, “I brought you something."
He gave me a puzzled look and told me he didn’t want anything I had. He then backed up, and when he did he limped, favoring his right leg. His ankle was a bulbous mess with dark shades of purple and red.
“The bag I was carrying, it was full of food for you...and heroin. I got it downtown.”
He got suspicious and again urged me to leave. I could tell he didn’t believe nor trust me. I didn't blame him, but still, the guy was a junkie. They did everything they could to get their hands on the stuff, from turning tricks to stealing from friends and family, but here he was turning away a stranger.
“Kat sent you, didn’t he?”
“No. I’m here on my own.”
“That makes no sense. I don’t even know you. Why would you bring me anything?" His face then gave a look of revelation. “You got some of that bad stuff that's going around...that Rainbow Bright. You're trying to kill me.”
I thought it would all go much smoother than it was. I anticipated the junkie clawing his way to his fix, asking questions later, if any at all. As pathetic as the guy’s life was, he didn’t want to lose it. He had reservations I wasn’t expecting. I gained a small amount of respect for him that wasn’t there before. A small amount. I decided to tell him of my plan and my reasoning behind it. He listened, with skeptic's ears. I told him about my curiosities, that it would be my first time. When I was done he told me I was nuts, that nobody would ever do what I’m doing. He was convinced I was there to poison him and asked how I knew about him. I said that someone had told me an addict was living out here. It wasn’t really a lie, but I didn’t let on that I was here just yesterday.
The man stood silent for a moment, thinking, then pointed his finger at me and asked “Were you one of those punks who was here yesterday? Bashed my ankle?”
I lied and told him it wasn’t me, then looked at his ankle and acted surprised, told him it looked like it hurt. I said I was going downstairs to gather everything I dropped and that I’d be right back. I picked up the rope and took it with me. He stood over the railing and watched me. When gathering the food I put it all back in the bag but slipped the zippered pouch down the front of my pants.
“Is that a honey bun?"
“It is. You okay with that?" He didn’t answer. He walked around the railing and met me at the top of the stairs, reaching out for the bag. I hesitated before handing it to him. “We got a deal then? You gonna help me do this?”
The man nodded, snatched the bag from me and said, “You’re shootin’ first. And I ain’t using a needle after you so I hope you brought your own.”
I told him I did, that I brought everything I thought we needed. I followed him down the hall and into a room where he’d moved his “furniture.” The room was similar in size to the other and he'd set it up just like the last one, though in here cardboard hung nailed over the windows acting as curtains. I took note there was no sign of anyone else. I asked him about Daisy. He told me not to worry about her, that I’d meet her later. If I turned out cool.
We sat across from each other, him on the cardboard bed and me on the floor against the wall. He dumped the contents of the bag onto the floor and picked through it.
“Some of this is for you, ain’t it?”
“Yes. Unless you’re really that hungry, then you can have it all.”
“Here, you’d better at least take this." He tossed me one of the cans of coke and a granola bar. “You’ll probably be puking, and you don’t want to be dry heaving. It’s worse.”
“Okay, thanks." I opened the granola bar and took a bite.
“I don’t see the goods here, man. What gives?”
I pulled the pouch out of my pants and opened it, took out one of the balloons and tossed it to the man.
“Aww, shit. You got tar. I’m not shooting this.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I asked.
“A couple things. I can tell you right now this came from Chaz. You said you got this downtown, right?
“Yeah, Hillcrest.”
“Near Van Buren?”
“Yeah, at the corner of Washington.
“Yeah, that’s Chaz. This stuff isn’t even half pure. Plus tar ain’t good for your veins.”
“I don’t think any of it is.”
“Yeah, but tar is worse. You see my toes?" The man held up one of his feet and showed me the stump where his big toe had been. “I used to shoot in my toes when I first started. Tried hiding the habit. I only shot tar then. My toes rotted, stunk for weeks until I had to have them cut off.”
“Damn!”
“Yeah. Well, I’m diabetic too so that might have something to do with it." He took a bite of the honey bun.
“How do you get your insulin?” I asked.
“I don’t. It’s diet controlled. Go figure.”
“So I wasted my money on this?”
“Nah, we’ll chase it.”
“Chase it?”
“We’ll smoke it. I got everything we need. Man, I haven’t had a honey bun since probably high school. Used to eat them every day back then.”
I was a little disappointed. I didn’t even know you could smoke heroin, and injecting it was what I’d had my mind set on. It’s the demon I wanted to stare at face to face. I’d smoked before—pot. But never injected anything. The tar didn’t seem like much of a challenge, and I wasn’t sure I’d have the same high people couldn’t seem to let go of.
“Can you smoke it and I shoot it?" I asked.
“Listen, man. If you wanna get high like you said, then Chaz’s junk isn’t the way to go. You’ll get high, sure, but not high, high. If you’re gonna throw your life away you may as well do it right. Cuz you ain’t gonna turn out the chipper you think you are.”
“Do you have any we could shoot?”
“Sure don’t, so you made good timing. Would have been a miserable day without ya.”
The guy took his orange tray and a triangular wooden box I hadn’t seen before and set it on the cardboard bed. The box was one of those military things you see at a veteran’s memorial—glass top, holds an American flag inside all folded up nice and neat. I couldn’t see what was inside the box but he pulled out a lighter, a thick plastic straw that looked like an empty pen, and a small jack knife.
“Down that coke.”
“I will.”
“I mean now, man. We need the tin if we’re gonna do this.”
It was all happening so fast now. Only minutes ago I was climbing through the window with a bag of junk food, and here we are getting ready to prep the drug so many chased after and even more ran from. The guy eating the honey bun was a completely different person than the one who was afraid I'd poison him. Now he was ready. The food had been a better offering than I’d thought.
I popped the lid on the coke and drank as much as I could, washing down the rest of the granola bar. I was getting nervous and stalled a bit. “What’s your name?” I asked the man.
“My name’s, Dave. Yours?”
“Chris.”
“Chris Piss...you get that a lot?”
“Not really. First I’ve heard it.”
“I’d call you Chris Piss if you were my friend." He took the last bite of his honey bun and wiped his hands on his shorts. “Let me hit that." He reached his hand out for the coke. I gave it to him and asked him how long he’s lived here.<
br />
“Don’t know. If I had to guess I’d say two months tops. I don’t stick around the same place too long." He downed the rest of the coke and took his knife and poked a hole in the can, doing his best to slice it, then pulled a wide strip down from the top, making a metal scoop with it. “I got no foil but this’ll do."
He took the heroin out of one of the balloons, pinched off a small piece and set it on the tin lip he’d formed, then pulled the tab up at the top and held it like a lantern.
“Take the tooter." He nodded toward the tray. “And inhale all the smoke through it once you see it rising.”
My heart raced and my palms felt clammy. As I reached for the straw, my hand shook. He could see it. He was watching me.
“I’m telling you right now, man, you’re gonna get sick. But you’re not dying, so don’t worry. Chaz’s tar ain’t nothin’ you can’t handle.”
I grabbed the straw.
“Let’s get it on,” Dave said as he sparked a flame under the tin lip. “Keep your eye on it."
I watched the black blob as it settled in the fold of the tin, then put the straw in my mouth and leaned toward the can, wondering what inside that little globule turned people into slaves, giving up so much. Their dignity. Esteem. Integrity. Money. Mental and physical health. Friends and family. Shelter. Morals. Opportunity. Dreams and goals. After a while, I saw smoke but didn’t inhale. I froze. I was lost in thought being so close to the bubbling demon.
“Hit it, man!" Dave’s voice startled me and I drew in as much of the smoke as I could. It hit my tongue like sea salt and tasted of burnt ham cooked in vinegar. My throat burned, the smoke more harsh than any tobacco or marijuana I’d ever had. I tried my hardest not to cough but it didn’t work. I turned my head away from Dave and let go, the acidic vinegar taste coating my tongue one last time as it exited in a small cloud before me. The coughing fit I experienced next I swear used every muscle in my body. Although my throat burned as though I'd swallowed tacks, the rest of my body tingled. The muscles that had tensed through the fit now relaxed, and any anxiety I’d felt before was gone. I leaned back to my spot against the wall and waited. Slowly, over the next several minutes, a warmth that felt like dipping into a tub of heated oil came over me.
“That’s it?" Dave said. “There’s plenty more here, boy. You’re gonna want at least a few more hits." Dave then took the straw from me, lit his lighter and readied himself for a hit. He exhaled to the point of making some strange noise in his chest, then inhaled through the straw like he was fresh out of the water and hungry for air. He didn’t cough. He held his hit in, holding his breath for as long as he could. When he finally did exhale there was barely a sign of any smoke.
“That’s how it’s done." He came toward me with the butchered coke can, handing me the straw. He held the flame under the lip, and I waited for the smoke. This time I exhaled, then inhaled much like Dave had done. The coughing was less of a fit this time, and though I’d taken a bigger hit, there was less smoke than before. And as a result I was much higher than I had been. The tingling in my body increased, as did the calm. The euphoria. I sat back against the wall completely content. Dave scooted back to his cardboard bed and finished off the rest of the tar that lie melting in the can. He then added more and finished that off too.
Finally, Dave leaned back and asked me how I felt. I told him I felt good, real good. He smiled and told me my life was over and that he hopes I enjoyed the eighteen or nineteen years I've had. Had I not been high, I suppose the declaration may have bothered me, but I wasn’t about to listen to some vagrant junkie tell me I’d lost control because of one date with the drug.
Only minutes went by before Dave loaded up the coke can and began smoking again. He didn’t seem to be having as much fun as I was. He itched himself quite a bit and then I started itching. I took notice that part of the wall behind him was adorned with the same flowers as the other room. Soon after my discovery, I watched Dave as he put down the can and started drawing more tiny flowers to join the others on the wall.
“You’re an artist?" I asked him.
“Not really. I’ve never drawn a thing in my life until a few years ago.”
“You really like flowers, huh?”
He didn’t answer me, just held his tongue out while he drew, like a child; every bit of attention on each tiny flower. At the time, it was a beautiful sight to see someone so lost and dedicated, but later it bothered me a bit. While he drew he'd shift around clumsily to get comfortable on the cardboard, being careful to avoid putting any weight on his ankle. I felt bad about what had happened and nearly told him right then that it was my friend who'd hit him. But as good as I felt in that moment, like nothing could ever go wrong, I was able to hold my tongue.
“Why are you drawing flowers all over the house?”
“They’re not for me.”
“Who are they for?”
Again, he didn’t answer. Instead he grabbed the can, loaded it and smoked more. He asked me if I wanted more and I did. I wasn’t coming down yet so I’m not sure why I continued. I guess because it felt like the right thing to do. Everything was perfect in that moment and trying to go beyond that sounded appealing. And possible.
After he picked the pencil back up I asked him again who the flowers were for. He said they were for Daisy. I’d forgotten about her and asked him where she was.
“She left.”
“Is she coming back?”
“No. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Is she your girlfriend?”
Dave stopped drawing and stared at me and asked if I was going to gab all day or sit back and cuddle with God. I think four hours went by sitting there, smoking the rest of the tar. And other than Dave rambling about his favorite music, films, and books, and then asking me mine, there wasn’t much talk between us. At one point I dozed off and fell asleep for at least a few hours. When I woke again my neck hurt from slouching, and from the rope. But other than that I felt fine–better than I’d expected, actually. I needed to get the car back to Dad so I told Dave I was leaving. And in a moment that can only be described as awkward, I thanked him.
“Don’t thank me, man. All you did was sell your soul for a dirty black bean. You may think you saw God, but that was a decoy. That garbage Chaz pawns off as heroin ain’t nothing but baby food. I drink straight from the teat. The junk I get blows your mind, runs through your body like liquid gold...a great ‘gasm to behold.”
“I dunno, man. It felt pretty good to me.”
“Baby food fills a baby, don’t it?”
Dave certainly had a way with words. I said goodbye and he said he’d see me soon. I’m not sure why he said that, but I was very adamant about this being a one-time thing. I knew I was done here and I left Limewood feeling confident that my curiosity had been quelled. I now knew what heroin felt like. And surprisingly there didn't seem to be any repercussions, except a small headache. No bad hangover. No coming down. And I hadn’t even gotten sick like Dave said. Most importantly, as I drove home I had no irresistible urge for more. I was a free man.
3: Denial
That night Eddie and Kent called and asked if I wanted to hang out, but I stayed at home. Being around those two didn’t sound appealing anymore. All I had on my mind was what I’d just been through at Limewood. And no way was I telling them about it.
I spent most of the night reading Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan. Somehow I thought it’d help me understand Dave a bit more. It didn’t. If anything, it confused me all the more. I didn’t get the book at all, so I stopped about halfway through it.
I thought a lot about what Dave had said about the heroin we'd had and how I didn’t really follow through with my initial plan, to take it intravenously. I could tell right away it wasn’t a problem and couldn’t find any reason not to try it one more time. For real this time, using Dave’s source. I decided I’d head out the next day and see if Dave was up for a drive, then that would be it. I would try it for real and then be do
ne. And nobody would ever know I’d dabbled. The secret was mine and Dave’s. And Daisy’s if she was there.
***
I waited until after I’d eaten lunch this time, then went to Limewood using Dad’s car. I told him I had an interview and if I didn’t get the job that I was heading to a job fair down at the college and maybe fill out some more apps on the way home. I took the pouch with the needles, lighter, spoon and cotton balls and put it in a backpack, along with some snacks, coke, and my dad’s copy of Trout Fishing in America–another peace offering for Dave. Dad wouldn't notice it was gone. The books on his shelf all held decades of dust, just stuff from the 60s and 70s that he couldn't seem to let go of.
This time when I climbed through Dave’s window I announced myself. He asked if I was alone and then yelled to come on up. As I walked through the house I could smell the bucket he’d kept in the closet, mostly the urine. It reminded me of the bathroom at the beach one year. Both toilets were broken but no turds were in sight, just the darkest urine you’d ever seen, like a dark German beer. I’d learned in health class that dark, foul-smelling urine could be the sign of a health issue. But I suppose pissing in the same bucket for weeks would tend to darken and smell despite your health.
When I got upstairs to Dave’s room he was flipping through the pages of the flower book. He didn’t look up, didn’t say a word, so I watched him for a minute. It was a bit awkward. I mean, this wasn’t a friend of mine. He was a deteriorating junkie, and I was a kid fresh out of high school with the world by the balls. Yesterday had been like a bad one-night stand that was dangerous for the both of us. We both knew better but never acknowledged the sin.
Finally, I spoke up. “Studying flowers?”
“I smoked it all, kid.”
“That’s fine. I don’t want it anyway. I wanna shoot up. I want to get the stuff you were talking about, from your source.”
