Dreamseller

by Brandon Novak

  Driving away from his friend’s house, Scott felt the uncontrollable urge to open the package. To his shock, it contained a large bag of pure, uncut Heroin, and another of pure cocaine.

  Before this event, Scott had not so much as touched a drop of alcohol in years. He had avoided the parts of Baltimore where he used to score, and abandoned his old crew of drug companions. He had not even discussed drugs unless he was counseling one of the many addicts he sponsored. But, there was Scott, all alone, face to face with his worst enemy. I cannot imagine the mental anguish he must have felt.

  The pain was too much to bear. While still driving, Scott began to lick and sniff the bags. And that is all the situation needed to spiral out of control.

  Scott was in tears when he shot up a day later. Within two weeks, his personality was destroyed. In the month that followed, his business fell apart. He failed to report to his parole officer or to show up for court.

  When Mandy and I heard of Scott’s relapse, we said little to each other about it. We knew what had to be done.

  That same day I arrived at Scott’s door, which swung open upon my knock. I peered in.

  The interior of the house was dark. Normal. From the upstairs, I heard a television.

  I climbed the stairs toward the sound. In the walls of the unlit hallway I could see several holes, which seemed to have been made by a series of sharp kicks at foot level. Higher on the wall were dents and smaller holes, perhaps two dozen, which seemed to be fist size, as if it had been punched repeatedly.

  I took a deep breath. Knock knock.

  The voice that answered did not belong to Scott. In fact, it was not a voice at all, more like a low-pitched raspy growl from deep in his throat.

  “Who’s there?” it demanded.

  I recognized the tone and knew: Scott had ceased to be. The cocaine and Heroin had subdued him, erased his memories of friendship, love, and affection. All that remained of my former friend was a collection of the undesirable traits that linger after one’s human qualities have been stripped away. An unbalanced, incomplete self.

  “It’s Brandon,” I replied.

  The door flung open, as if someone had been standing on the other side ready to pounce. The dark figure in the doorway was a shadow of the man I had once known. His once large, muscular frame was emaciated and wiry. His muscles rippled under thin layers of skin. His eyes were framed by the circular orbital muscles that protruded from his skull. The eyes themselves were narrower, more alert, darting back and forth, scanning the vicinity.

  His skin was picked to pieces. Bleeding scabs speckled him from face, to chest, to arms, to hands. These sores were the product of a twitching nervous system searching desperately for a compulsive activity to occupy its fitful surges of energy and finding a perverse pleasure in the act of scratching open a fleshy surface.

  “Get in!” Scott’s hand darted out, clenched my arm, and yanked. With the door slammed behind me, I was in a room that resembled an animal’s den. The mattress and blankets lay on the floor in the form of a nest; the floor was littered with empty ice cream containers, cookie boxes, and wrappers from sweets of all kinds. The large color television was gone; it had been replaced by a thirteen-inch black-and-white model I assumed had been pulled from the bottom of a closet storage box when the big set had been traded for drugs or money. On the screen an episode of what may have been Cops was barely visible through the static. The set had no antenna. I’m sure the cable bill had remained unpaid for so long that the services had been terminated.

  “Hey, Scott, how you doing?” I smiled.

  A hollow-sounding laugh contorted his mouth into a sick grimace. “I’ve been better.”

  As if it weren’t one hundred percent painfully obvious, I asked, “What’s wrong?”

  As he turned from me, he caught his reflection in the mirror and became entranced, taking a step this way and that, in an attempt to find the image of his former self.

  Scott could not hold the first heave of vomit that spurted from his gut to the floor, nor a second gulp, which dripped through his fingers. He picked up a filthy shirt from the floor and wiped his hands and mouth.

  “You’re using, huh, buddy?”

  He, again peered into the mirror, answering as if he were talking to himself, “Nah, man, nah.” Then, “Hey man, I’m gonna get a shower. I gotta get this throw up off me.”

  “Okay, buddy.” Realizing that he might not make it to the shower, I placed his arm over my shoulder and walked him, like a wounded soldier, to the bathroom. Once there, I helped him out of his clothes and under the shower head.

  Forty-five minutes later Scott is still in the shower.

  I am on the living room couch, paging through a women’s fashion magazine that had been left alongside a tube of lip gloss and eyeliner by a female companion. In the next room, water from the second-floor shower drips from the kitchen ceiling. And then I hear it.

  Scott’s moan begins softly and increases in volume and emotion. “aaaaaAAHHHHHHH!” This sound repeats, until the screaming groans form words. “Ggghhhaaaaaacomeonnnn! Coooome-ooonnn! Come on, motherfucker! I’m gonna fuck you up!”

  From the bottom of the staircase I yell, “Are you all right up there, buddy?”

  His response was nonchalant. “Yeah, I’m fine, man! I’ll be right out!”

  The screams continued, but were accompanied by the unmistakable sound of fists pounding flesh. “Come on motherfucker! I’ll kick your fucking ass! Let’s go, fucker! I’m gonna fuck you up!” Punching, smacking, slapping.

  “Scott, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine, Brandon! I’ll be right down!” His voice is happy. Cheerful. Next, he begins singing! “Paint It Black” by the Rolling Stones.

  As water pours from the kitchen ceiling, questions filled my mind:

  Could there be a third person in this house?

  Was that person fighting Scott?

  Has Scott gone crazy?

  Is this situation so surreal, has Scott’s world driven me crazy?

  I crawl upstairs and tiptoe to the bathroom. The door is open. A needle and accessories lay in the sink.

  Yes, Scott is alone, pounding himself in the chest and legs, striking the walls of the shower. And now, this situation finally makes sense.

  Scott’s response to shooting up was incomprehensible to me. Where I had always gotten numb to reality, he became ultra-aggressive, paranoid, and sometimes enraged. Judging by the amount of Dope and coke he was presently using, punching himself and the walls around him forced his heart to race, keeping him mentally alert, allowing him to use the maximum amount of Dope and coke without ODing.

  I walk downstairs, and suddenly, Bang bang bang bang! At first, I don’t know where the sound is coming from. Then, I realize, it is from the front door.

  I go to the front door, open it.

  It has never been a problem for me to differentiate an undercover policeman from an average citizen. In their attempt to assimilate with the rest of us, the undercover cops fail to project the personality quirks and mannerisms of a “normal person.” For example, take this guy standing in front of me. Obviously, he is trying to create the image of the average slob sports fan by wearing sweat clothes and an Orioles baseball cap. But his hair is meticulously groomed. Why would a slovenly sports fan bother combing and gelling his hair? Wouldn’t the purpose of the baseball cap be to hide his messy hair so he didn’t have to comb it?

  Now his sweat clothes. His pants say “Cats.” Not “Arizona Wildcats,” just “Cats.” His shirt mimics a team jersey but makes no reference to any particular sport, and on it is printed the number “41.” Obviously, this cop wanted to save a buck on his undercover outfit and got the cheap knockoff brands at Kmart. No sports fan would be caught dead in this gear! Sports fans pride themselves in identifying with particular teams and players.

  Also, this guy is clean. Too clean. He is clean shaven. Even his fingernails are clipped. And to top it off, he is wearing
cologne! Who the hell rolls out of bed, throws on sweat clothes, and slaps on Brute 33?

  Across the street a similarly dressed man stands next to a van in which a third man is seated. Obviously backup. These undercover cops are here for Scott, to take him away for skipping on parole.

  “Hello?” I ask.

  “Hi, is Scott here?” asks the cop.

  “No, he’s not. You should come back later.”

  The cop asks, “Who are you?”

  “I’m his friend.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m William. What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Can we come in and wait?” The undercover cop takes a step forward, hoping my instinct will be to say yes.

  “No. I’m afraid I can’t invite you in under any circumstances. I just can’t invite strangers into someone else’s house. It wouldn’t be right, or legal, for that matter. But you can come back later. I think he’s coming back at nine or ten.”

  “That’s okay, we’ll wait.”

  I close the door, climb the stairs, and approach Scott’s room. He is now dry and dressed in a pair of gym shorts.

  “Scott, listen, buddy, the cops are here, at the door.”

  Scott grabs my shirt, pulls me close. “What do they want? Are they down there now?”

  “Wait, wait, wait. There are three plainclothesmen. They say they want a word with you, but I told them they can’t come in and that you aren’t home. So, just don’t make any loud sounds or go downstairs, okay? They’ll have to leave eventually, if they don’t have a warrant.”

  Scott released me and went to the window, looking out of a small gap in his curtains to the street below. With an index finger, he scrapes the crust from the edge of an open sore, wedging his fingernail between the skin and the coagulated blood and making an audible “picking” sound, which almost seemed to be in rhythm with the gnashing of his teeth. Pick. Pick. Pick. Griiiinnnnd. Griiiinnnnd. Griiiinnnnd. As Scott paces in the room, his footsteps become the third instrument in an ensemble of twitching nerves.

  “Well, Scott, I guess I should go. That way, they’ll think there’s no one here at all.”

  Scott shuts the door behind me. “Oh no! No, you don’t! You’re staying here. We’re not going anywhere. Do they have guns? How many of them are there? What did they say?”

  “Wait, Scott—”

  “No, fuck them! They’re not coming in here, not in my fucking house, no fucking way! We’re not gonna let them! No one’s fucking coming in here!”

  Scott puts on his clothes, still pacing. I’ve seen him like this before. This is how he reacts when he’s getting ready for a fight. He’s pumping himself up, breathing heavy and steady. His eyes snap from side to side, looking everywhere, yet nowhere in particular.

  I am afraid. Very afraid. When Scott gets like this, he can become dangerous. Is he going to fight the police? Is he going to take me hostage? Does he have a gun?

  What the fuck did I get myelf into?

  More important, how the hell am I going to get out of here? I have to wait until his attention isn’t focused on me. Every few seconds, he examines himself in the mirror.

  I wait for the moment when Scott’s attention is fully captivated by his image.

  “Okay, Scott, I’m going to take a piss real quick.” I slip out the bedroom door, leaving him transfixed by his mirror image. In one minute flat I’m climbing out the bathroom window. I drop to the back alley below and run to safety.

  So now, weeks later, Mandy and I are dealing with Scott’s death. I snatch up the phone and call one of Scott’s brothers.

  “Hello? This is Novak. Is Scott okay?”

  “No, he’s not,” Scott’s brother tells me.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Well, Brandon, he’s not dead…anymore. He OD’d, from heroin. He was pronounced dead, but somehow the paramedics were able to bring him back.”

  Relief. “Who was he with? How did it—”

  “No one really knows the circumstances right now. An anonymous source called the ambulance. But now Scott’s in the intensive care unit. He’ll live, but he’ll be dealing with a lot.”

  Grace overcomes my chaotic state of mind as I snuggle with Mandy under the down comforter, her warm body and mine embraced in peace under the weight of our sleeping pit bull Diva.

  Now, if this were a movie, I would write in a FADE TO BLACK, to serve as a visual closure, conveying a feeling that all is well. Unfortunately, the next day is going to bring about an entirely different reality.

  We awake to find a steady stream of snow pouring from the sky. The white landscape tells us it has been snowing for some time. Mandy and I dress, preparing ourselves to fight the elements in order to see Scott.

  “How you feel, babe?” I ask Mandy.

  She looks unsure. “Well, confused, scared, happy, sad, and relieved all in one.”

  I give her a heartfelt kiss. “It’s gonna be all right.”

  God, I love this woman.

  As Mandy and I clean the snow off the car, I am smiling as I envision the scene of us visiting Scott in the hospital. In the fantasy, Mandy and I enter the hospital room, finding Scott in between bites of a hospital breakfast. He looks up and smiles, with his bright blue eyes full of life and fire, and he energetically gives us his usual greeting: “What’s up, buddy, how you doing?” This thought gives me motivation to dig the wet snow twice as fast as before.

  As Mandy drives us to the hospital, I become fixated on the snow and how beautiful it is, and I picture Scott watching the winter scenery from his bed. I wonder how he feels the morning after he was brought back to life after dying from a needle full of Heroin that he voluntarily stuck into his arm.

  From the parking lot, into the elevators and past security, Mandy and I cling together, holding hands as we make our journey to Scott. The hospital is a strange place, where tragedy brings together families and friends in sadness, hope, science, religion, and every so often, miracles.

  We are alone, and share a moment.

  Mandy asks, “Why are you shaking?”

  “I’m not shaking.”

  She gives me a look. “Stop lying; I can feel it in your hands.”

  “Well, I guess I am a little.”

  The elevator takes us to Scott’s floor, the ICU. The waiting room is packed. Nurses, doctors, visitors. We wander through the commotion to the receptionist’s desk. She is wrapping up phone calls, answering others, placing a dozen people on hold. In five minutes, she asks, “May I help you?” We give Scott’s name and she gives us his room and bed numbers. We thank her. I grab Mandy’s hand and we rush to Scott’s room, open the door.

  Scott’s bed is empty. A million thoughts and emotions bombard me. Uncertainty. Sadness. Disappointment. Disbelief. Panic.

  A voice behind us breaks the silence. “May I help you?”

  “Where is Scott? The guy who is registered in this bed?”

  “That young man discharged himself over two hours ago,” she informs us.

  I hear her, but it takes time for the words to register. “Discharged himself?”

  The nurse continues. “Yes. He left in such a hurry, he didn’t even have his shoes on. That young man has a real battle on his hands, and if he doesn’t surrender soon he will be lucky to make it back here again.”

  “Did he say where he was going?” I ask.

  “No,” she replies. “But I don’t think it was anywhere positive.”

  I grab Mandy’s hand and take one final look at the hospital bed that might have saved Scott’s life. As we turn and head for the elevator, I can see a vision of Scott, running barefoot across the snow-covered hospital parking lot. Although the windy chill of the snow-filled air must be stinging him, he is completely numb to it. His eyes are full of despair, his body and mind desperate for his next fix.

  Mandy searches through her purse for a tissue, in vain. I wipe my tears away with my sleeve, overwhelmed by an unsettling emotion that bears no name.

  That
night, Mandy is back at work and I am again alone, in contemplation of Scott and his addiction. There is never a moment in an addict’s life when he can honestly say that the flames of his addiction have been completely extinguished. Addiction is a smoldering fire, subtle yet fierce. Through his years of sobriety, Scott could only pretend to assimilate into the normality of the real world. He had prayed for the strength to avoid dipping into his friends’ medicine cabinets while using their bathrooms. He had hoped for the will power to avoid street Dope shops on his way home from work. He had abstained from taking up offers for free hits offered to him by old acquaintances he had met by chance. But although he had successfully resisted one temptation after another, moment after moment, day after day, in the end, Scott couldn’t hide anymore. Heroin had sought him out, taken possession of his person, and claimed his soul.

  Now I face a painful and disturbing conclusion. Through Scott’s struggle, as well as through my own, there has been no epiphany, no catharsis, no transformation of character. And this uncomfortable feeling, this emotional void, this uncertainty that I am experiencing is the essence of addiction.

  I drift off to sleep, with the knowledge that, although the time and place have changed, my life remains the same.

  I am a twenty-nine-year-old junkie, lying in my girlfriend’s bed, in a quiet suburb of Baltimore City. My eyes close.

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