Dreamseller

by Brandon Novak

  In the distance, mounted to the wall of the 7-Eleven, is a pay phone, surrounded by a dozen Mexicans waiting for a truck to pick them up for work. Man, even illegal immigrants are better off than me.

  My last fifty cents. I pump in the quarters.

  The phone number. I dig through my pockets, then a scrap falls to the ground on which is written “Scott.” A sense of calmness and peace washes over me.

  I dial and allow the phone to ring three times then disconnect the call, fearing that Scott’s answering machine will interrupt and cause the phone to swallow my coins.

  God, please let him answer. I don’t want to end up back at the garage, arguing with junkies over ten ccs on a hypodermic needle.

  I reinsert the coins and dial. Three rings and I hang up, and again I retrieve my fifty cents from the coin return.

  As each call goes unanswered, so does my prayer. Slowly, a junkie’s defenses kick in, and I explore the possibility that perhaps this is not meant to be…. Okay! I’ll call one more time. If no answer, I go back to my junkie lifestyle, my mindless existence. It is a horrible life, but nevertheless familiar, and might actually be easier than facing sobriety, anyway, I rationalize.

  And so, this pay phone has turned into somewhat of a slot machine. Not unlike a desperate gambler clinging to the astronomical chance that he might strike the jackpot, allowing him to win back the fortune he has squandered, I insert my last coins. Dial. The phone rings once, twice, three times. Then, at the far edge of the third ring, I hear it, fate has stepped in: a click, followed by Scott’s voice. “Yo, who is this?”

  “It’s Brandon.” A sense of confusion produces a profuse heat within my neck and swells my throat with pure emotion. Choking.

  “Oh, hey man, how are you?” Scott asks.

  I force out the words in between deep sobs, fighting the painful contortions in my throat, as years of suppressed emotions take vengeance. “I’m…not…too…good, brother…I…need…help!…Please…help me…”

  Urgency in Scott’s voice. “Where are you?”

  I am unable to speak, convulsing, wiping away the sheets of falling tears.

  Scott demands, “Brandon, where are you?!”

  Finally, “The…Seven…Eleven…on…Broadway….”

  “Wait there! Let me put some clothes on and I’ll be there in ten! Brandon, are you there?!”

  “Yes…Scott.”

  “I love you.”

  I reply, “I…love-you-too…”

  I hang up the phone, collapse into a squatted fetal position, and take a deep breath. Shaking. “Hey, Brandon!” I turn to my left: Alexia. She asks, “What’s going on?”

  I shut off the emotion and collect my thoughts. Alexia plucks two smokes from her purse, hands me one, lights it. I inhale and answer her with honesty. “I’m getting ready to go to rehab.” Laughter emanates from her lips, like wind chimes in the breeze. Laughing is the initial reaction we junkies have when another makes known their intention of rehabilitation. This response is not meant to discourage another human’s aspirations. The laugh is a default mechanism that expresses the absurdity of man’s innate will to heal, which to the junkie is as incomprehensible as the concept of infinity.

  When Alexia is finished laughing, she expresses her sympathy toward my condition. “Look, Brand, I know how you feel. Tell you what, I’m on my way to turn a trick. I’ll be back in about an hour. When I’m done, I’ll split a pill with you, okay, sweetie?”

  “Where were you yesterday?!” I chuckle through my shaking lips, still struggling to hold back a wave of emotion. This is the ultimate test, but somehow I find the strength to tell her, “No thanks, Alexia. Enough is enough.”

  “Okay, if that’s the way you want it, Brandon. Are you sure? You look like you need it.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  Alexia shrugs. “Okay, well, I’ll see you around, I guess….” Alexia turns and walks away. When she reaches the corner, she stops and looks at me, lifting her eyebrow, extending one final opportunity to accept her offer. Again I shake my head with a silent, “no,” and take a drag from my cigarette. Alexia winks her eye, blowing me a kiss. I know her love for me is as sincere as it could possibly be in a junkie’s world.

  Alexia is a twenty-six-year-old blond-haired, blue-eyed girl from the neighborhood. She has a walk that just sways. There is still innocence in her eyes, despite the fact that she is a junkie. She, like me, knows better and comes from better, but once again, this Drug took something so beautiful from this world…. Alexia was nearly perfect, but Heroin exposed all her flaws and intensified them until only they remained.

  This girl is more than just a hooker I know, more than an old street-running partner. She was my high school sweetheart, my best friend, my first true love, and my fiancée. At one point, she was my everything.

  chapter five

  The Story of Alexia

  I met Alexia almost ten years ago. I was skating with a few friends, trying to varial heelflip nine stairs, paying more attention to the trick than to the pedestrians. Suddenly, someone I had not seen a moment before was underneath me and the board as we soared through the air. I bailed on the trick, tumbling over myself onto the concrete. Now, usually when you almost kill someone with a skateboard, at the very least an argument ensues. However, I was now lying beneath a beautiful blonde with opal-blue eyes and tan skin, who seemed to be more concerned for my well-being than her own.

  “Are you okay?!” she asked with her hand over her mouth.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied. I thought for sure my knee was broken.

  “I’m so sorry; I didn’t see you coming,” she told me as she picked up my skateboard and handed it to me.

  Why the hell is she apologizing to me?! It was totally my fault! I could have seriously hurt this girl! I thought.

  As my friends skated on to the next spot, I stayed and talked to this girl, Alexia. In the hours that followed, I came to understand several things about her.

  Alexia was new to Baltimore, its freezing winters, the confinement of narrow low-roofed living spaces, the two-hundred-year-old red-brick row-homes. She was from L.A. and having trouble adjusting.

  Alexia was vulnerable. An undeniably beautiful, eleventh-grade honor-roll student who played on the basketball team of a prominent private school, Alexia had scouts interested in her and scholarship deals on the table. Alexia’s allure, athletic abilities, and intelligence filled the other girls in her school with envy and vindictiveness. Consequently, Alexia was in most respects ignored and excluded, and was left feeling very alone.

  Alexia had no mother and no one to share her feelings with. Her father, a union sheet-metal worker, did the best he could in his own way.

  I found myself entranced by this girl Alexia, and I had to have her. So, I tried for her, and before I knew it, she was mine and we were in love.

  We shared several months of passion and affection in its purest form. Then one weekend my mother went out of town, and in my mother’s bed I lost my virginity to the first love of my life, and Alexia had chosen me as the first person to give herself to. I was in love with a girl with golden hair and a pair of blue eyes you could get lost in.

  Then the party began….

  Social Drinking

  I began to cut school, often. So did Alexia. Her grades suffered, but not by much, at first.

  Overdrinking

  Alexia’s father began to notice changes in her social life. She was no longer reading for recreation. Now she was going with me to parties. Coming home late. One night she did not come home at all, claiming she had slept over at a friend’s house. Alexia’s father tried grounding her, but the punishment made her more rebellious.

  Drug Use

  Until Alexia met me, she had never once gotten high, and neither one of us had ever considered the possibility of using Heroin. We smoked pot here and there, and popped pills when they were supplied by my friends. Later, when I became a Dope user, she would drive me to score. After a few mon
ths, she started asking questions about this mysterious drug. “What does it make you feel like? What’s the attraction? How good could it possibly be?” Perhaps she felt excluded, jealous of the relationship Heroin and I shared. I always discouraged her curiosity, threatening that if she even thought of trying it, I would break off the relationship. Then one day, she asked to snort a bit of it, just to find out what it was like. That is all it took, and within a few weeks she was pulled into my sick world.

  In time, the number of days Alexia had not attended school began to outnumber the days she attended. Alexia’s grades dropped to just above passing. Her adviser warned that, if she did not soon make an effort to improve her performance, she would be kicked off the basketball team. Her father finally became strict with her, but he was far too late.

  Drug Abuse

  Within one year, our once-bright futures transformed into faint, distant memories. Alexia’s grades were failing, she had quit the basketball team, and her scholarship deals were revoked. And soon, the Drug became bigger than the both of us.

  Addiction

  No junkie has ever made the decision to become an addict. Addiction is a state of progression. It develops gradually and expands in geometric proportions until it finally consumes the user.

  When I think of Alexia, my mind takes me to that one perfect day when our lives still made sense, when we still had families who cared, when we still had each other’s love and respect, and when all these things suddenly became meaningless.

  It was a perfect sunny Sunday afternoon at Druid Hill Park. Every storybook-like element seemed to exist for the benefit of our romance: a cloudless sky, chirping birds, leaves swaying back and forth on a gentle breeze.

  I looked over at my precious Alexia as we walked together, bound by clutching hands. Alexia was swinging a picnic basket she had packed. I had brought the blanket and the bag of Dope. What an afternoon we had, high as kites, on top of the world, lying blissfully under the afternoon sky.

  Later…

  As my eyes open, an excruciating pain shoots like an electrical impulse through my skull, down my spine, and into my hands and feet. My eyes slowly make their way around as I take in the industrial-grade fluorescent light fixtures, the institutional-floral-patterened wallpaper, the stainless steel bed…the details that reveal my current setting, a hospital.

  I glance to my side and see Alexia sitting in a chair. This girl, who, such a short time ago was so vibrant, so delightful, now looks worn down, miserable, depressed.

  My mind is bombarded with the natural progression of questions inevitably asked by those in my current position. What’s wrong with me? How long have I been unconscious? Am I paralyzed?

  And so, I ask Alexia, “What happened?!”

  She replies, “You were driving home from Druid Park and I fell asleep, and I guess you blacked out…. We hit a tree and your head went through the windshield. They had to put twelve metal staples into your head.”

  I glance at the bedside table to see a clear plastic bag containing my clothing, caked with dried blood. Alexia continues. “The doctors said the only reason you survived is because you were so high that your body just went completely limp at the time of impact. You’re fine, other than that footwide gash in your head. I somehow managed to make it through the accident okay. There’s not a scratch on me.”

  Any other person would now thank God to be alive, take inventory of himself, and make amends to lead a virtuous existence. Not me, though. I ask, “Do we have any Dope left?”

  “No,” Alexia replies in a desperate tone. “But we need to get some! I’m getting sick.”

  “Well, do we have any cash?” I ask.

  “No!” she cries, and I come to understand that she is more upset at this fact than about my condition. I don’t mind. I feel the same way. In fact, I am glad that she shares my sentiment, because two motivated junkies are twice as likely to score as one.

  “Who can we call?” she asks.

  Think. I need a special individual with specific character traits: One, he must be a Dope fiend who can sympathize with my current disposition. Two, he must be willing to spot me a bag. And three, he must have a car and be motivated to deliver the Dope to the hospital. These are three qualities which few Dope fiends hold. Think!

  “Bill Carson!” I exclaim. Bill is a functioning drug addict. He owns a construction business and still manages to shoot Dope part-time. “He’ll definitely do it because I’ve hooked him up in the past! He owes me one!”

  I grab the phone next to my bed…goddamn it! A sharp sensation like a chain saw cutting into my skull blasts through my nervous system! I was so excited about the Dope that I completely forgot about my head wound and apparently had pressed the phone against it! I look at Alexia, who winces as she imagines my pain. “Jesus, take it easy, Brandon!”

  “No shit!” I snap. It takes a few seconds for me to recuperate.

  Alexia takes the phone. “Here, I’ll call. I’ll set it up and make it seem way worse than it is. I’ll get his worry level up and pass the phone to you, then you ask him for the Dope.”

  That’s my girl, always thinking! I dial…

  Soon, she has Bill on the phone, and her performance is as flawless as any Academy Award–winning performance in the history of motion pictures: “Hello, Bill? This is Alexia…Brandon Novak’s girlfriend…. Well, Brandon’s…had a bad car accident…. Yes, he’s alive, but it was very close. I’m so upset…” Alexia breaks down in tears that seem so real that, for a moment, even I am fooled into thinking they are for her pity of my condition rather than for her want of Dope. She feigns the inability to continue the conversation, hands me the phone, smiles and shoots me a wink, which I return with a “thumbs up.”

  I make my voice sound as pathetic as possible. “Hello?…Is this Bill…?”

  “Yeah, Brand, it’s me, Bill! Are you okay?!” From the urgency in his voice, I can tell that he is now properly motivated to bring us some Dope, thanks to Alexia! I love this girl!

  “Well, I could be worse, I guess, I’m still alive…. But, I’m so sick…real sick…. Do you think you could bring me something? You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, buddy, I got you. Where are you?” he commits.

  I tell him the hospital and room number.

  “No problem. I’ll be there; okay, Brandon?”

  “Thank you so much, Bill. I owe you big time.”

  “Sure, buddy, just hang in there.”

  I hang up the phone, and we give each other a high five, as if we had actually made an accomplishment worth noting. Now the countdown begins…

  One hour and a half later, Alexia sits glaring at me. She is irritable, short tempered. I am filled with anger and hate, and can’t even stand to look at her. After all, we are sick and have nothing to focus our negative energy on but each other. Soon, I find myself concentrating on not looking at the clock, not hating Alexia, not thinking about the Dope, trying to shut out everything until the time when I will have the ability to transform this world into one worth living in, an existence in which I am high.

  The situation changes as Bill walks into the room. Alexia and I perk up, our moods altered, and we are now two of the happiest, most delightful junkies in the world.

  Bill hugs Alexia as he looks over my condition. “Man, buddy, you got fucked up. I bet you could use a blast!” Then, he examines my IV and says, “Man, that’s a junkie’s dream.”

  “What to you mean?” I ask.

  “This intravenous tube is injected right into your bloodstream. I know junkies that would trade their right arm to have a permanent IV stuck into their left one. Too bad you don’t shoot this shit ’cause you already got a main line going right into your vein,” Bill explains.

  Until this time, I had never shot Dope. I was only snorting. Piercing my vein with a needle to get high had never even crossed my mind. But since the needle was already in my arm, I figured, “What’s the big deal? Let me try shooting it.”

  Bill smiles as h
e pulls out his bag of Dope. “Okay then.” He holds up a brand-new needle. “The doctor is in!”

  Three minutes later, Alexia stands guard in the hallway, keeping a lookout for hospital staff. Meanwhile, in the room, I watch as Bill pours a few drops of water onto a spoon, adds a few pinches of raw Dope. He holds a lighter flame under the spoon, bringing the mixture to a boil, and places a small piece of cotton in the center of the brew, which absorbs the liquid and filters out the impurities. He then touches the needle to the spoon and pulls up on the plunger, filling the barrel, then injects the needle directly into the feeding valve of the IV tube. “There you go; enjoy.”

  Several seconds later I am in the midst of the most intense high I have ever experienced in my life. Words cannot describe this feeling. From this point on, I would be committed to the needle.

  When I regain consciousness, I am in the passenger seat of my mother’s Ford Escort. Alexia is in the back. My skull is aching, pounding with every pump of blood that surges through my head wound. As we pull up in front of Alexia’s house to drop her off, Alexia gives me a kiss and tells me, “I love you, baby. I’ll call you later.” Obviously, Bill was kind enough to get her high, too; I could tell by her smile. “Bye, Ms. Pat,” she tells my mom. “If you need anything, give me a call.”

  As Alexia exits the car, her dad storms out of her house followed by three big friends, all furious. Alexia’s father, with a beet-red face and veins bulging from his neck and forehead, points to me as he crosses the lawn. “You! You fucking drug addict! Don’t ever step foot near my daughter again!” No doubt this man has been sitting in the house for hours awaiting my arrival while his friends instigated his anger. His sleeves are rolled up and his biceps are pumped with energy, each arm slightly raised from his body, like a street fighter ready for a brawl.