by Nic Sheff
DAY 16
Lauren’s fucking scared about facing her parents. We do the rest of that nasty cut shit and I can’t believe it’s all gone. Gack may have sold some, but it’s not real likely. I make breakfast and help clean up. She talked to her parents early this morning. They should be in at, like, six. Still, I’m not taking any chances having to meet them like this—so I leave early. Lauren says if I don’t call her many times this evening, she’ll fucking kill me. I try to look at her objectively.
Over two weeks and she looks completely changed. She’s lost so much weight her small head looks enormous on her withering neck. Her cheekbones are standing out against the hollowness of her face and eyes. Her arms are bruised, bloody—brown splotches—white scars—swollen in some places, horribly shrunken in others. Her lips are washed out—white—cracked. I kiss them and taste her dry nicotine tongue.
“We’ll be all right,” she says.
I take my stuff and walk out to where I parked my car. There’s leaves and shit all over it. There are four parking tickets under the windshield wipers. The back tire is flat and I got no spare.
Back to Lauren’s.
I use her phone to call a tow truck. When we get to the gas station, the attendant—an aging, lined white guy with long hair slicked back—tries to sell me new tires all around. I tell him I just need it to be drivable.
“These other ones are gonna go,” he says, his voice all thick and hoarse.
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Yer chances ain’t good.”
I thank him.
While his boys are fixing the tire, I go call Gack. Between the tow truck and the tire, well, that’s a little under two hundred bucks. I worry about how fast my money is disappearing. I’m on, like, the corner of Geary and 21st and the early afternoon streets are mostly empty. Gack said he sold three sacks and used the other. That’s sixty dollars he got, at least.
When I pick him up, he’s all excited ’cause he found a pair of pants behind some church. They have all these pockets, which he thinks is just fucking great. They’re, like, army style—dark, olive green—torn at both knees. I see his pale knees sticking through.
“How’s Erin?”
“Oh, dude,” he says, his voice cracking some. “She fucking lost it. Shit weren’t cool. She called me all wanting me to take her to the hospital and shit. Poor thing had to go to school like that in the morning.”
“But she’s all right?”
“Sure.”
We go cop behind some donut place near the Bay Bridge. Gack goes in like always and I wait in the car. I’m tired, man. All the speed in the world can’t seem to get me up. I watch some black dude with a thick beard and a thicker parka asking for money on the street corner. I’ve tried it before. Really, there’s no feeling worse. Not even hustling is as bad. At least with that, there’s a sense of being a commodity of some value. Asking for money is a proclamation of your own unfitness for survival. It’s saying, “I am the weak one of the herd.” Or worse, a parasite that feeds on society. Trying to meet a person’s eyes, begging them for scraps—it is humbling in a way that few things are. And sitting here, I keep thinking that I’m about to have no other option. Tricking or begging—that’s what’s gonna be left for me. Plus I’m so goddamn worn out.
When I was on the streets before, I had so much drive. I remember when I was living at Akira’s, he let me stay in this storage space in his garage. I had to clear all the shit out that was in there, but keep it secret from his mom—so I just piled it all up in the rafters and put a mattress under it all. One night I was sleeping and it all came crashing down—splitting my head. There was blood everywhere. In the morning, I woke up with this huge scab on my forehead. I put on a shirt and this apron I had from a job I’d gotten at this Italian restaurant. They gave me the shirt and apron, but I never went back. So I put that shit on and got this bag of ice and started walking up Park Presidio, Clement, and Geary. I picked the scab off and the blood was coming down. I went up to people and was, like, “Please help, I just got in this accident at work. I need money to get a taxi back home.”
I made around fifteen bucks in about half an hour, but then this Russian woman with very platinum hair stopped me.
“What you say doesn’t make sense,” she said. “If you got hurt at work, why didn’t they help you?”
My eyes widened. “Good question.”
That was the end of that scheme. I guess it was pretty stupid to begin with. But doing that shit now—I just can’t see it. Plus, back then, fifteen bucks would get me through a day of shooting speed. I’ve moved far beyond that point now—but we know that already.
When Gack comes back he’s all freaked out. He tells me to drive—quick. Walking through the alley, some guy approached him and told him to empty his pockets. He had to throw his skate at the guy and run. I screech outta the parking lot. Gack is breathing hard.
“What the fuck is happening to us?” I ask. “Doors are closing.”
“Nah,” Gack assures me. “It’s all good.”
Driving toward Church and Market, I ask Gack to get me a shot ready. “Do you need one?” I ask.
He shrugs.
“All right, fuck it. Make ’em big, man. I’m not even getting high no more.”
“Word.”
We shoot up in the Safeway parking lot. I actually feel it, which is good, and I cough and all. Gack bags the shit up just like it is ’cause I ain’t fucking cutting shit anymore. I’ll sell small sacks, but I don’t wanna deal with all that again. He goes off to try and make some sales on twenty bags. I try writing in my notebook—Daisy’s notebook. My thoughts are scattered. It’s all bullshit. I draw instead, looking up every once in a while to watch the couple in the car next to me. The guy is real haggard-looking, but young—late twenties. The girl is sort of pudgy, with a bob haircut, dyed black. The car is full of crap. It’s a boxy red nothing, like mine. After a while, I realize they’re both shooting up—or, uh, the guy is shooting them both up. I get outta the car and lean against the hood, lighting a cigarette. I watch them both get off, then the guy looks up and notices me staring at them.
“Yeah?” he asks, rolling the window down.
“Nothing, don’t trip. I just didn’t know if y’all wanted a little up for later.”
“What?”
“I got this really good crystal I’m selling if y’all are interested. I ain’t no cop or nothing.”
He turns to his girl.
“What do you think, baby, you want some crystal?”
“Crystal?”
“Is it good?” she asks.
“Kid says it is.”
“Is it good, kid?” she asks, laughing.
“You can try some if you want.”
“No shit?”
I tell them again it’s good. I tell them it’s what I’m on. We’re talking like old friends. They agree to buy forty dollars’ worth and I’m so grateful that I actually hook them up really fat. I even give them Lauren’s number. If they want more they can just call. They thank me and I thank them. I feel this power inside—a renewed faith. Maybe things’ll work out after all.
But then I see Gack coming up and he’s talking to himself and clenching his fists.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“What?”
“We’re fucking closed out here.”
“What do you—”
“That fucking guy, he talked a lot of shit.”
“Mohawk kid?”
“Yeah. He said I was selling bunk shit. No one’ll buy from me. I’m gonna find him and beat the shit outta him. We gotta go down to Haight.”
“Haight?”
“Yeah, they say he’ll be down there.”
I do what he says. Somehow Gack thinks that beating up the Mohawk guy will prove he’s been straight ahead with everyone. When I tell him about hooking the couple up, he sighs like I’m so fucking stupid.
“Come on, man, you can’t be doing that. These people ain’t ever
gonna call you. Just ’cause you are cool with someone and hook ’em up don’t mean they’re gonna have any loyalty to you. People don’t give a fuck.”
“But—”
“I’m different. There are a few of us who are. Hey, pull over a second, I think I see one.”
“One what?”
“One of us.”
So I pull over. We’re in the Panhandle—actually right near my old drug dealer Annika’s place. There’s nothing here but row after row of Victorians—maybe a liquor store or whatever. The pavement is all cracked with blades of grass growing through. There’s dog shit everywhere. The street stinks of it.
I see Gack go up to this guy who is short and hunched. He has a scruffy beard, a beanie, a black jacket. He’s drinking from a brown paper bag and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, or I guess it’s a joint. They talk for a second and then they’re back to my car.
“Nic, this is Ben. Ben’s all right.”
He gets into the backseat. The weed he’s smoking fills the car with this sweetness. I take a long pull from the wet roach and pass it to Gack.
“Ben, you wanna help us find this kid who’s been dissin’ us? We gonna kick his fucking ass.”
“Yeah, all right. I gotta parole board meeting at four in Daly City.”
“Dude,” I say. “I’ll drive you.”
“What about that punk-ass motherfucker? We gotta take care of that shit, Nic.”
“Whatever,” I say. “Fuck that kid. We’ll see him around sometime. Why waste our energy looking for him? That’s like giving him power and shit.”
“Word,” says Gack. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Yeah.”
So we all drive out along the beach to Daly City. At one point, way down the avenues at, like, Judah and 30-somethingth, Gack wants me to stop. We’re right near his girl’s place and he wants to call her—see if she can hang out awhile. He goes to find a pay phone and I sit with Ben. Ben doesn’t say much—except that he just got outta jail. He mentions some letter he’s waiting for. Apparently there was some guy he shared a cell with who promised to give him the deed to a big piece of property in England. By some coincidence they turned out to be related or something. The whole thing sounds like bullshit to me, but I don’t tell him that.
I look out on all the Chinese and Korean markets. I’m thirsty as hell, but I don’t wanna buy any more shit. I just filled up my tank with gas and bought hella cigarettes and shit, so I’m pretty fucking worried about the fact that I got only five hundred dollars left. That’ll be gone in a week—and that’s if I try real hard to conserve it. Basically, I can’t be buying food anymore.
I have this empty water bottle in the back of my car, so I go into a dry cleaning place. Now, I’m pretty used to having people look at me and not trust me and whatever. No one in the city ever lets you use their bathroom or anything. And, in general, folks on the avenues are real suspicious and cold. I’m nervous about walking into this place, but, like I said, I’m thirsty and can’t afford to throw any more money away. So I go inside and the woman leaning on the counter scowls at me behind thick glasses. She speaks in not great English—asking what I want.
“Nothing. I just, uh, I need some water.”
“Water?”
“Yes, please. I’m so thirsty. Could you fill this bottle up with water for me—or show me where I can fill it up?”
“You want water for drinking?”
“Please.”
“No, you go buy.”
“Please, I just want some tap water.”
“No, you go.”
She points a long, thin finger toward the street.
“Go.” I meet her eyes for a second, then turn and walk silently out. The sun seems very far away.
I shove my hands into the pocket of my sweatshirt, but then I hear a voice calling after me.
“Boy. Boy.”
Turning, I see the woman from the dry cleaner’s running after me. She has a small bottle of water in her hand.
“You take this.”
“What? Why?”
“You take.”
I thank her. She just turns and walks back into her store. I guess I feel like crying. I’m not sure why.
Gack comes back and I tell him the story and he doesn’t really seem to care. He can’t find Erin, so he decides to just come with us down to Daly City. Ben’s meeting takes about five seconds. He basically just has to show up. The building is this big institutional-looking green block slab. My car is kinda jerkin’ and being weird and shit. When we park, the engine lets off this steam or something. I mean it’s kind of hissing and smoking. I lift up the hood and stare at the insides—not like I know shit about cars. I suppose it’s only a matter of time before the car gives out. I’m just gonna have to drive it till it stops running completely. It can’t be long.
Ben says he’s really hungry as we drive back to the city.
“If we get to Glide by five then we can get in the dinner line,” he says.
“Glide?”
“Sure.”
I know Glide Memorial Church from when I was little. In grade school, we used to take trips down there to help work in the soup kitchen. We all hated it, of course. Mostly we just served punch, or whatever—helped clear away trays. We were too young to chop anything or handle serving the hot food. I remember distributing bread to the line of men and women—none of ’em looking at one another or at me. Mostly they weren’t too scary or anything. Sometimes they’d ask for an extra piece of bread, or more juice. We weren’t supposed to give it to them, but I always did.
I can’t say what I thought about seeing those people having to be fed like that. I mean, I’m not sure if I really thought about why they were in that position. Obviously, growing up in the city, I was used to seeing the homeless. I know I felt sorry for them—men and women wrapped in blankets lying on the hard concrete. I guess I thought they were sick or something. No, I don’t remember what conclusions I drew.
But one thing was for sure—I never in my life imagined being one of them.
Yet here I am, standing in line with a little yellow ticket in my hand—the sun blocked out by the dry-rot buildings. I’m standing in line with all these other men and women, mostly older than me, huddled together—but never touching, never looking up, never talking. I stare at a piece of gum turned black, stamped into the sidewalk. I’m suddenly real paranoid about someone I know from when I was a kid driving by—a teacher, or even my parents. I’m hoping we can just get inside, you know?
The church stretches up, up, up, with dirt caked into the worn-away bricks. A stained-glass window reflects no light and purple flags hang from the steeple. We’re let in through a side door, down these bare carpeted stairs. There are a lot of pictures of Jesus on the walls and signs posting times for substance abuse counseling groups and AIDS testing and whatever. I follow Ben and Gack follows me. We don’t say one thing. The whole room of people is weighted with shame.
I grab a tray. Two young black women and an older white man with a tie-dye T-shirt serve beans, coleslaw, white rice, and stale bread. I ask for everything on my plate and thank them. We go sit down at one of the long plastic tables. We eat fast. We’re below the street and the only light comes from some fluorescent pale bulbs along the ceiling. The food actually tastes great. I eat it all.
Lauren sounds terrible when she finally answers her phone. She’s crying hysterically and chokes and gasps for breath. Her parents are kicking her out if she doesn’t agree to go into rehab. She has about a week to decide—that’s when they’re all going to meet with Jules about her options for treatment. They want me to come to the meeting.
“Me? Why?”
“Because I love you and we want to help you.”
“Oh, Lauren, I don’t know.”
“It’ll be fine, we’ll do it together.”
“I’m not going back to rehab.”
“Just come,” she says, sniffling loudly. “Maybe they’ll figure something else out.”
She says she has to stay home. She can go out to some appointments and things. Maybe she can meet me then. Otherwise we just have to wait and see.
I hang up the phone. Suddenly I don’t feel like hanging out anymore. I tell Gack and Ben that I’ve gotta go. We agree to meet up tomorrow. Ben gives me a number of some hotel where I can leave a message for him. I get in my car and start driving back toward the parking lot on 15th and Lake—figuring I’ll maybe walk around the Presidio some, see if there’s any old abandoned army housing that I can sneak into. I’ve always had this fantasy of squatting in one of those places. They’re all single-story brick or white wood houses—boarded up—doors fastened shut with heavy padlocks.
Driving over there, the heat gauge is, like, busting through the glass. I can hear this hissing noise and there’s a bunch of gray-black smoke. The car stalls out right at the base of the lot and I manage to coast it into one of the parking spaces.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I put some stuff in a shoulder bag—a screwdriver, a notebook, pens, three CDs, a portable CD player, and these big studio headphones. I play this Fantômas record. It’s sort of arty death metal with all these sudden starts and stops—strange vocalizations over hardcore compositions. I set out through the Presidio—the trees hanging down and the streetlights all glowing orange. The roads wind through the dense forest. The shadows are dramatic and startling. I keep feeling like someone is coming up behind me and I look back, nervous. It reminds me of this time outside my old drug dealer’s place in Oakland.
I mean, downtown Oakland’s pretty safe and all, but the little suburbs are just totally fucked up. No one even knows they’re there, so you could basically just go in and never come out and no one would ever know. I remember walking through there and I was listening to this John Coltrane CD. It was the Impulse stuff after he kicked heroin and started talking to God through his music. It’s really out there and I was listening to one of those CDs, walking through this neighborhood. It seemed like everyone was staring at me and it was really just a matter of time before this big car, a Cadillac or something, crept up slow next to me. I was just pretending not to notice and all, so I walked on. But the car sped up, then pulled this fat U-turn and stopped. These three big-ass dudes with fucking bandannas and football jerseys got out and they were just mobbing straight toward me. You know that walk? When they stick their chests out and sort of waddle, but it looks tough, you know, a tough waddle. Basically, I thought I was fucked. I had this goddamn backpack full of CDs and drugs and money, all of which I figured I was about to part ways with. I didn’t know what to do. They got closer and I turned and started to run. They actually fucking chased me. Somehow, tweaked out, listening to Coltrane, running from these big guys, about to get jacked, it all seemed so funny and I started laughing. I mean, I was really fucking laughing so I couldn’t stop. But I was still trying to run, which made me laugh even more. They just stopped and, like, looked at me all puzzled and shit and then they started laughing. They were laughing and I was laughing and I just kept running till I was outta there.
