by Rick R. Reed
Anyway, the guy, a fellow addict, really didn’t pay us any mind as he smoked, surveying the traffic going by, the waxing and waning of the rain.
Marc smiled sheepishly at me. “Busted.”
I shrugged. “Not really. I don’t think he even knows we’re here.”
The man turned to us. “I know.” And then he turned away again.
We smiled at each other and simply gazed into each other’s eyes. I held his hand under the table, squeezing it, feeling its warmth. I wanted so much to kiss him again.
Marc said those dreadful words after a long period of blissful silence. “We should go. I have work in the morning.”
I nodded, sad. “I do too. Probably earlier than you. I open tomorrow, which means I need to be there no later than six thirty.”
I wanted to say, “Take me home.” I wanted to say, “I don’t want to split up, not now, not ever.” I wanted to say, “Even that first time we met, the one you don’t remember, I think I felt the same. And that’s my particular pain to bear, because a stupid drug and how it obliterated every part of me that’s good caused me to do stupid little things that, if you remember, you’ll hate me for….”
I remember I forced myself not to go down that road. Not then. Things were too perfect. For just one night, Lord, let me have perfect.
And as we got up from the table and headed out into the night, it was. Perfect. We held hands all the way to his bus stop, where we shared another kiss. Shorter, but no less intense.
I left Marc standing on the corner with a promise that we’d see each other again. Soon.
Is tonight too soon?
I stand up, grind out my smoke in the ashtray on the dresser. I leave the window open and crawl back into bed, thinking I can squeeze in a couple more hours sleep.
Maybe I’ll dream of Marc.
And when I wake and the hour becomes decent, I’ll text him. Is tonight too soon?
TURNS OUT I didn’t need to text him, because when I woke up, a text from him was already waiting for me.
If you can stand being with me two nights in a row, I’d love to see you again tonight. Maybe someplace more private. Deal?
I stare down at the screen, smiling. Oh, honey, it’s a deal, I think, and then text my enthusiastic yes. I text him my address, tell him I’ll cook him dinner. I’m not bad in that department, you know.
LATER, ONCE I get home from work in the afternoon, Kevin’s waiting for me. He looks up from whatever he’s watching on TV. There’s a look of annoyance on his face. “You smoked in the house,” he says.
“Hello to you too,” I say. “Have a good day?”
He shuts off the TV with the remote. I think he was watching The People’s Court. He gives a little yip that I suppose is meant to be a laugh.
“And I’m sorry. It was only one. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Only one? C’mon, bud, you’re enough of an addict to know that ‘only one’ is never an excuse.”
Damn. I’m excited about getting ready for my date, and here’s my roomie, harshing my perfectly natural buzz. I take in a couple of deep breaths to calm myself. This is a small practice I never would have done once upon a time. No, once upon a time I would have reacted with rage, jumped all over Kevin, told him how unfair he was and if he had a problem with my smoking in the house, he could shove it up his ass, just for something different to put up there. The old me would have lit a cigarette up right then and there just to show him who’s who and what’s what.
But I’m not that guy anymore. I wait a few seconds, still breathing deeply, resisting the urge to ask him how he could even smell anything when I left the window open all night. “You’re right. You want me to pick up some Febreze next time I’m at Bartell’s?”
He shakes his head. “What I want you to do is not smoke in your room.”
“Done,” I say. “You can go back to your TV now.”
He points the remote at the TV and presses the power button. Marilyn Milian is shouting something in Spanish, something about the cheap coming out expensive.
As I head toward my room, he calls out, “I thought maybe we could order a pizza tonight. I have a coupon for Pagliacci. You pick the toppings.”
I stop in my tracks. This is unusual for Kevin, and if I didn’t have the plans I did, I would have bent over backward to join him. I turn back. “Sorry. I have a date tonight.” I sit back down. “And here’s the thing. I invited him to come over.”
“And what? You want a three-way?” he snorts.
“No, but tonight would be an excellent time to—”
“Make myself scarce?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“I would,” Kevin says. He frowns, and I wonder if I’m going to have to just accept that he’ll be here in his room, or worse, on the couch with the TV on. “But don’t worry. I was planning on going to a meeting tonight, anyway. The one over in Green Lake? We usually go out for coffee after, so the place’ll be all yours. So you can get up to whatever shenanigans you have in mind. Just stay off my bed.” He grins.
“Thanks. I don’t know about shenanigans, but I’m gonna cook for him.”
“Cook? Whoa!” He laughs. “Who’s the lucky fella tonight? Someone new? Yet another hopeful from the diner?”
“It’s the same guy from last night. Marc.”
Kevin’s mouth drops open. “Two nights in a row? And the same guy? And you’re gonna make him dinner?” He looks me up and down. “Are you sure you’re my roommate?”
“C’mon, Kev.”
“Oh, don’t give me that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with the same guy twice.”
He has a point. Back in my Tina days, that was just par for the course, because one, or a dozen, could never satisfy. That was the thing with Tina—you could have multiple partners and gang bangs all night and you still wouldn’t be satisfied. Because there was no such thing as satisfied. You had desire out the wazoo—literally—and no way to ever feel like you’d had enough. It was sick. Like being thirsty and having access to gallons and gallons of water, but after each swallow, you looked around for more.
But even lately, even after two years sober, I confess that I’ve never met a guy like Marc, one I want to see again.
A shiver passes through me, like somebody just traipsed across my grave. I recognize the feeling as something bad. What’s the word? Foreboding?
I plop down on the couch, wishing I could light up. “You’re right. You’re right. But this guy is special.”
“You really like him?”
I nod.
“Good sex?”
I shake my head. “We never got there. Just a couple of amazing kisses.” I grin, both pleased to let Kevin know this relatively new aspect of myself and at the memory.
He gets up from his chair and comes over to me. He lifts up some of my hair to inspect my scalp. He pushes me forward, yanking my shirt collar back so he can peer down my neck. I flinch away. “What the hell are you doing?”
He snickers. “Checking to see if I can find the signs of the pod. You know, the one they left behind and that you hatched out of—when they took the real Jimmy.” He sits back down.
“It’s me. Maybe it’s just the right time for me to meet the right guy.” And then I recall my original night with Marc, a little over two years ago, and my heart plummets. My mind tells me This ain’t never gonna work. Find somebody else before this all blows up in your face.
And speaking of faces, I see Marc’s again in my mind’s eye, and my body responds with all kinds of warmth—sexual heat and a kind of weird feeling that simply to be close to him is enough.
I can’t let him go.
But can I just go on with this masquerade? Doesn’t he deserve to know who I really am?
I eye Kevin, who’s turned the TV back on and is now caught up in a People’s Court case involving a Pomeranian mauling a pit bull.
He’s my roommate, not my confessor. He’s a nice enough man, a little weird, but then, aren’t
we all?
Not wanting him to know is what my reticence really boils down to. He knows I’m an addict, and that’s enough for right now. He doesn’t need all the sordid details. I know he wouldn’t judge me for the things I’ve done, but still, there could be a shift. He might lock his shit up more securely, for example. Never leave his wallet lying around.
There’s only one person I can really share this with. Someone who will listen. Someone who won’t judge—really. Someone who’s both been there and been there for me.
Miriam.
I wish I had time to get over to the east side, where she lives, even if it was just for a quick cup of coffee, but I don’t. Marc’ll be here by six thirty.
I stand and then grope around in my pockets. I pull out my pack of Marlboro Blacks and show them to Kevin. “See? I’m taking these outside. I’ll be on the front stoop. Enjoy your show.”
“Enjoy polluting yourself!” he calls just as I’m closing the front door. As an added kick in the pants, he coughs dramatically. I roll my eyes.
See what I mean? I can’t tell him stuff like what I need to tell Miriam.
I get outside and plop down. Our building has a wide set of cement stairs at its front, and they’re ideal for sitting on, having a smoke, and watching the world go by. I’m not the only resident of the building who often has this same idea, so I’m grateful to be alone.
I’m also thankful there’s no rain, at least not right now. The sky’s already dark, and there’s damp in the air, but nothing is falling from the sky. In Seattle, we call this nice weather. Plus it’s almost fifty degrees, which means I can do without my denim jacket.
I watch the traffic go by for a few minutes. Light up a smoke. I’m stalling.
Finally I pull my phone from my pocket, bring Miriam up. My finger hovers over her picture. She has the sweetest face, the kindest smile. I know her hair is dyed and that she’s had a nose job, but genuine warmth and kindness radiate from this pic, which I took the last time I saw her. We’d had lunch on my birthday in the International District. She’d treated me to pho and had given me a leather strap bracelet I still wear—and cherish. I press the screen.
“Hey, sweetie.” Her voice in my ear immediately relaxes me, makes me feel hugged.
“Hey yourself.”
“How’s tricks? Everything going well? I was just about to start making supper. Adobo chicken and roasted cauliflower. Chocolate pudding for dessert. Homemade.”
“Wow. Fancy. Can I come?”
“Why, sure you can! We’re eating at seven.”
I laugh. “You’re so nice. But I can’t, not tonight, good as all that stuff sounds. I have a date.” And that reminds me that I haven’t even thought what I’ll make for Marc and that, most likely, I’ll have to get myself out to the store.
“Oh, honey, that’s great. Same guy?”
I nod and then realize she can’t see me. “Yup. Marc. I told you about him.”
“Yeah, you were nervous about seeing him. Something about having already met? Did you guys hang? Was it wonderful?”
“It was magical, Miriam.”
“Aw! That’s so sweet. Tell me all about it.”
I let her in on the details of our date—the sharing, the kiss, the bliss. The rain. It’s all such a sweet memory. Even though it was only yesterday, it has all the earmarks of a very nice dream. My heart starts to beat a little harder as I think about spoiling the fluffy and feel-good ambiance of the dream with stark reality.
Maybe I should just keep things to myself? I immediately reject that idea. Secrets are not what my life in recovery is about. Rigorous honesty is what the twelve-step program demands.
“Wow,” Miriam gushes. “That sounds really romantic. Like something out of a movie.”
I nod again, ignoring the futility of it. I light another cigarette from the butt of the last. “There’s, uh, something I want to talk to you about. About Marc and me. There’s a little trouble in paradise, see?” I expect her to chuckle, but she doesn’t. “You got a few minutes?”
I hear the scrape of a chair being pulled out. “Sweetie, I have all the minutes in the world. For you.”
“You sure? You said you were making supper.”
“I said I was getting ready to. I have time. And you’re just stalling. Tell me what’s going on.”
I’m quiet for a long while—so long, she prods me.
“Go ahead.”
Little flashes come to me, like quick cuts from a movie. They turn my stomach, but they keep coming anyway.
There I am in a filthy motel room in Tukwila, not far from Sea-Tac Airport, everything in the world I own now strewn across the floor and the bed. It stinks in there of fast food, cigarettes, and sweat. I’m at the small table by the window, curtains shut, eyes glued to the screen of my laptop, on a hookup site. I scan restlessly through the images—looking for someone cute, someone vulnerable, someone who’d be stupid enough to invite a weasel like me into his home.
You’d be surprised.
There’s me a few minutes into a conversation I’m having with this guy up on the north side. I have my arm tied up, pressing the moist flesh restlessly for a vein. They roll away from me like spaghetti under my skin. It’s frustrating. But as I always manage to, I find a good one. I bite off the orange plastic cap on the syringe I’ve got loaded up with a hefty dose of liquefied Tina. I poke the needle into the vein and draw out a little blood to make sure I’ve hit pay dirt. The blood swirls, calming, a celebration, releasing in me a huge anticipatory surge. I have to remind myself to breathe. It’s like when you’re at the very peak of the first summit on a roller coaster. I know I’m not going to make the mistake of injecting the drug under my skin, as I’ve done before, causing an abscess, but right into a vein. Suddenly the world is all about what’s getting ready to hit….
I plunge the top of the syringe down, flooding my veins with Tina. Immediately the drug courses through and my body fills with golden heat. It feels like liquid fire. Sunlight pulses through my veins. Sweat pops out all over, trickles down my face, my spine. I hear a chorus of a thousand angels singing.
This is it.
This is what I threw my whole life away for.
This is all I care about.
I close my eyes, undo the clasp around my upper arm, and pant a little. My dick gets hard.
This is wonderful, a one-way ticket to heaven….
“Honey?” Miriam jars me out of the reverie. It’s scary how fast I can go back there, to that time. I can almost feel the searing, delicious heat in my veins.
I want to do it again.
I want to puke.
“You wanted to tell me something?”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve met Marc before.”
“You said that.”
“But listen. It was two years ago. I was living in some dive out by the airport because I’d lost my job, lost my apartment, lost everyone close to me.”
“There but for the grace of God,” Miriam says, and I know she means it.
“I’ve told you I did some dealing?”
“Yes.”
“And that sometimes I stole from people?”
“Uh-huh. Go on….”
I take in a deep breath and blow it out. “You won’t hate me for—”
She cuts me off. “I won’t hate you for anything. Sweetheart, there’s nothing you can say that’s gonna shock me. And better, there’s nothing you can say that’s gonna change my opinion of you.”
“Remind me what that opinion is again?”
She laughs. “That you’re a good guy. That you are love. And loved. And that you’ve made mistakes, but they were steps on the path of your journey. You needed to get high. You needed to do the things you consider bad.
“Why? Because you learned from them. Because you grew.” She draws in a breath and lets it out slowly. “Sometimes, the worst things we did were actually the best because they taught us so much.”
I pause to l
et her words, her counsel, sink in. I know she’s right. Still, it’s hard to tell her the truth.
“This guy, Marc? We hooked up back then. I, uh, got him to invite me over. I went to his place, high as a kite, and I fucked him. But that’s not the problem. He made that choice. But he didn’t make the choice for the other things I did to him.”
“Tell me.”
“Every time he left the room—and I stayed all night with him—I’d get up and go through his things. His drawers, his gym bag on the floor, his closet, a jewelry box. And I took whatever I could get my hands on—watches, electronics, earbuds, cash—basically anything I could turn over quickly so I’d have enough to one, keep getting high, and two, keep a roof over my head, shoddy as it was.”
“And he never knew?”
“I’m sure he did. When I got out of there at dawn, though, I don’t think he had any idea. And to make sure he couldn’t bug me anymore, I blocked him on my phone and on the site where we met.” I stare down at the damp concrete of the stairs below me. A car goes by, its tires hissing on the wet pavement. “It was my MO back then.”
“You were a different person. And now you’re worried that—what? He’ll recognize you?”
“I don’t know. I do look like a different person.” I remind her about the dreads I used to have, the septum piercing. How skinny I was. I know it’s very possible he might never put two and two together, and I tell Miriam that. “But I don’t know if it’s healthy or wise to live with a lie like that between us.”
“It’s not,” Miriam says simply. “Lies fester. They get under the skin of a relationship. You want to be intimate with this guy? And I’m not talking about between the sheets, but truly intimate? You can’t with a lie like that between you.”
“So what are you saying?” I stand up, nerves suddenly jangling. It’s like there’s been a shot of adrenaline straight to my heart, and it’s making me feel both giddy and sick. “I should call it off?”
“No, honey. I’m saying that somewhere down the road, if he doesn’t figure it out, you’ll need to have a talk with him.”
“But when?”
“That’ll come clear. You’ll see.”
