Heroin Chronicles

by Jerry Stahl

  We headed to 3rd Street between Avenues C and D. The south side of the street was an open lot, where a building used to be. It burned down. Now, children played on strewn rubble and junkies turned tricks on discarded mattresses.

  Tito pushed open the front door to the building. The lock was broken, and the hall stunk of piss and garbage. He angrily kicked an empty can of beer down the hall. It rattled into a corner and made me jump. Did he really have to do that? Asshole.

  It was dark, the lightbulb was blown. We followed him to the second floor, to the back apartment.

  Graffiti, newspapers, scattered bits of broken everything were everywhere. A young man was standing in a corner stooped over, on the nod, with an unlit cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. He looked frozen.

  “Wake up!” Tito bellowed in the man’s face. The guy opened one eye, smiled a crooked grin, and went back to his dreams.

  Tito banged loudly, and put his ear against the door.

  It clicked open and we all filed in past Tito’s mother. She said she was going out to the liquor store.

  How did people live in these filthy cramped places?

  A sink was overfilled with plates and flies. Two shirtless men, one younger than the other, smoked crack at the kitchen table, filling the air with a sickly sweet smell. I held my breath.

  “Yo, my man, Jojo? You gotta leave, dude. My mama needs you outta here,” Tito said.

  “She cool, I gave her money to go get two forties. I ain’t leaving right now anyways. I gotta get me some more rock,” Jojo replied.

  “Yo, you can’t sit here all motherfuckin’ day … You been here two days, motherfucker, give me some more money then … nigga.”

  “I already give you fifty yesterday, fifty last night, motherfucker … Fuck you, T.”

  I followed Marilyn to the bathroom, passing Jojo, who eyed me up and down, licking his shiny lips. He was dripping in sweat, and his eyes were black and crazed. He made me nervous. I had to get straight, then get out of there fast.

  “Where you find the white girl? Damn, I need me some white bitch … She got money, T?”

  “Shut the fuck up … hell if I know …”

  I heard them talk back and forth about me as though I wasn’t there. I locked us in the small bathroom. I’d be quick. Gotta get straight.

  I took the toilet seat. Marilyn took the edge of the bathtub. We quickly set up. I could do this blindfolded.

  I wondered how many times I had stuck a needle in my arm … in my whole life? I shoulda kept a record.

  I handed Marilyn a bag. She smiled and thanked me.

  “What if the world runs out of water …?” Marilyn asked.

  “Huh?” Marilyn often came up with these bizarre paranoid thoughts.

  “What if there’s no more water on the earth, then what?” she asked, drawing up from a leaking bathtub tap.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, annoyed, tying my arm with a shoelace.

  “I mean, if there’s no water, how are we gonna get high?”

  “What?” I’d gone through this with her last week. “Babe, ain’t never gonna happen … Look at the ocean, for God’s sake, there’s enough water for the whole world of heroin addicts to shoot up with.”

  “You sure ’bout that.”

  “Swear.”

  “Ain’t it salty?”

  Motherfuck!

  “Think of all the rivers then … Babe, of all the things to worry about, that isn’t something you should think about … really!”

  Thankfully, she shut up for a minute.

  Marilyn skin-popped because she’d long ago lost every vein in her body. She had large gouged-out craters all over her limbs, where she’d stuck herself a billion times. Once I’d watched her try to fix in the artery in the middle of her forehead.

  The dope had already hit her, and she was feeling good, and beginning to ramble. Nothing worse than a fucking dope fiend feeling good when you’re still trying to find a vein.

  “Motherfuck. I fucking hate this fuck shit, fuck. My life is HELL!” I spat out furiously, as I tied up my other arm.

  Sweat poured off my face. I was soaking wet. So was Marilyn. Still she smiled.

  I couldn’t get a hit. It was hotter than the devil’s bedroom, and I couldn’t breath. Sweat trickled into my eyes. I wanted to cry, but was too angry.

  Blood dripped onto the floor. I marveled at how perfectly round and dark the drops were.

  I heard Tito arguing outside the door.

  I was so frustrated at repeatedly sticking myself; my works were filled with blood, and I didn’t want them to clog. I finally asked Marilyn to hit me.

  She grabbed my left arm, twisted it around, and squeezed. A decent vein I’d never seen appeared. She jabbed the needle in with one hand, while holding my arm tight with the other.

  “You should have been a nurse,” I said, as dark blood registered.

  “Shoulda coulda …” She smiled.

  I tasted the heroin. Warmth. Comfort. Relief.

  At that moment, I loved Marilyn. Love. All’s okay. I really must control my anger.

  “There ya go.” She pulled the spike out, and pressed her thumb to the spot that dripped blood. Her nails were dirty.

  Nice. Not bad shit for Road Runner. Don’t know why I get so pissed anyway.

  We heard a loud crash and a scuffle. Jojo was threatening to burn the place up and kill me and Marilyn. Tito was yelling to get the fuck out, but Jojo said he needed money. Something smashed against a wall.

  Marilyn and I locked eyes. She motioned to get into the bathtub. We did, and closed the shower curtains, quietly. Not that this was doing any good. We couldn’t disappear and they knew we were in there. I thought Marilyn believed if she closed her eyes, no one else could see her.

  Adrenaline and fear ruined my high.

  We waited for something.

  I was wondering how I got into these situations. I began making a deal with God that if I got out of this jam, I’d think about making some changes. Stupid negotiations I’d made with my God many times before … but somehow He’d always listened, long after I’d given up on myself. I seemed to live in someone else’s life—how did my world become so … abstract?

  “It’s Jojo. He crazy, that crack shit turns him into el diablo, he with the Kings, he OG.” Marilyn put her finger to her mouth listening. “Oh shit, he wants Tito to give him more money.”

  “Why? Tito has money?” I asked.

  “No, he ain’t got shit.”

  I prayed that the door to the bathroom wouldn’t fly open.

  “What does he want?” I whispered. My mouth was dry, I needed water, badly.

  “Dope, money, what else is there?” Yeah, what else is there?

  I looked at the peeling ceiling … and the tap that was leaking down Marilyn’s back … Who cleans this place? Soap scum ringed the tub … my arm still hurt.

  I needed a cigarette … always needed something.

  The door to the bathroom suddenly blew open. I was terrified. The shower curtain was torn down. Jojo’s face was deranged, a vein in his forehead looked swollen and about to burst.

  “Get out. Get the fuck outta the fucking room NOW!” he yelled.

  “Oh no, Jojo, don’t do this,” Marilyn begged.

  “Where the dope?” he demanded, staring at me. “I know you got it.”

  He grabbed me by my hair, twisted it around his hand, and stuck a kitchen carving knife under my chin. The point pressed into my jaw bone, forcing my head upward. Jojo whispered between clenched teeth. His breath stunk like monkey balls, and he spit saliva onto my cheek with each word. I squinted my eyes, breathing through my mouth. His eyes were black and manic. His lower jaw jutted from side to side in spasms. His face and shoulders were twitching and jumping. He’d obviously been up for days smoking crack.

  Jojo yanked me out of the tub and pulled me into the kitchen, ordering Marilyn to walk in front of us. He referred to the younger guy as D, who was holding a gun t
o Tito’s head.

  D then put the gun in the middle of Tito’s back and walked him into the back room.

  Tito yelled: “Jojo, I can’t believe you, man, how long I know you, motherfucker, how long I known you? Damn, nigga …”

  “It ain’t personal … Shut the fuck up anyways!” Jojo screeched.

  I jerked my head back and the point of the knife slipped and cut me under my chin. Blood dripped onto my white shirt. I felt the wetness run down my chest.

  Jojo put his face into my hair and inhaled. He whispered, “I’m gonna fuck you, white bitch … but first you gonna suck my dick. I gonna fuck your tight ass … You like my dick, you gonna like me fucking your ass … ain’t you?”

  I held my breath as he talked. His teeth were stained and crooked. He pressed my hand on his crotch, which felt limp. His heart was thumping so hard, he was racing. There was no way he was going to get a hard-on. Sweat ran down the side of his face.

  “Come on, touch it, touch it …” He opened his zipper. I looked straight at him and yanked on his soft sweaty dick. Way too much coke.

  He leaned into me and rammed his tongue into my mouth, slobbering all over my face. His tongue searching my mouth, I tried not to gag, and left my body. Then, suddenly, as though remembering what he was meant to be doing, he got up with his pants still open and screamed, “Give me the fucking dope! I know you got dope, bitch.” He looked in my eyes. “We can party together … I can get some rock … Yo, you like to smoke?”

  My good God, was he serious? This had gone from a possible assault/rape/robbery to a fucking date. I knew my only way out of there was to stay calm and pretend I liked him.

  “Yes, I like to smoke, of course I do … Papi.” I giggled flirtatiously. I tossed my hair back and stuck my tits out. “Here’s the dope, Papi.” I wanted to hold onto as much as possible. Nothing hurt worse than losing drugs. I passed him the two bundles stashed in my right boot. Maybe the dope would mellow him out a bit and he’d let us go.

  He put the knife down, tore open a bag, and snorted it. Then another. Robbing us was like shooting dead fish in a barrel. What were we going to do? Yell for help? I just wanted to get the hell out of this place immediately.

  I looked at Marilyn, who was standing wide-eyed and nervous. We heard Tito shouting from the back room, talking in English and half Spanish. D was asking Tito where he kept his money.

  It got louder. Marilyn pleaded with Jojo to let us go. Jojo grabbed the knife that he had placed on the table and stormed into the back room, knocking over a kitchen chair.

  I glanced at Marilyn, then the door, then Marilyn. Those few seconds seemed to tick in slow motion. Can we make it out of the door and down the street without them catching us?

  We both leaped up and darted toward the front door, which had all sorts of bolts and locks on it. I slid the deadbolt, and pulled the door. It didn’t open. I was never so terrified, my fingers trembled, Marilyn was banging me on my shoulder. I felt I was in one of those nightmares where I’m trying to run from someone, and my feet are stuck in quicksand.

  “Come on … Mama, come on … hurry,” she whispered.

  “What the fuck do you think I’m doing?” I fumbled with two other locks, just yanking at them all. It opened! We both tripped over each other racing down the hall. Marilyn was practically on my back. I grabbed the staircase banister and flew, and I mean flew, down three stairs at a time … when we heard an extremely loud POP … from upstairs. Marilyn screamed. The gun? I couldn’t believe it … I was running on the basic human reflex to save my life. Were they coming after us?

  “Oh nooo … Dios mio … Dios mio!” Marilyn started yelling as we ran down the hall to the front door.

  “Shut up, shush,” I said. Two kids were sitting on the front stoop. We jumped through them onto the hot sidewalk that we had been on just twenty minutes ago.

  The blistering sun, never-ending heat. I squinted my eyes to the blinding light. Marilyn says to walk calmly, like nothing’s unusual. Whatever that means. We slowed down to a fast walk.

  “What the hell … You know, that must have been D who fired that shot. I hope Tito’s okay.”

  My mind was racing. I had to get some water. The thought of Jojo’s tongue in my mouth makes me want to gag. I turned around to see if anyone was following us. The street’s desolate, apart from an old woman rummaging through a garbage can.

  We coulda got killed. I felt ill. We stopped at the corner of Avenue C to catch our breath. Two cops cars flew over potholes past us. I felt their speed as they smashed through still air.

  They must be going to Tito’s. Someone in the building called in the gunshot.

  We stood at the light, waiting to cross. Marilyn turned around.

  “They didn’t stop at the building,” she said as we crossed the street.

  “What do you mean?” I looked around to see both cop cars turning onto Avenue D.

  “No one cares,” Marilyn said.

  “You think anyone saw us? You think we should go to the cops?” I asked nervously.

  Marilyn smiled. “Cops? Hell, no one goes to the cops.” I amuse her with my naiveté. She shook her head, laughing at my panic. “We weren’t there, we saw nothing … Whatever,” she grinned.

  I felt for the three fat bundles in my bra, and smiled back at her.

  Yeah, whatever …

  MICHAEL ALBO is a Los Angeles–based author and journalist who has written about crime, music, and popular culture. He is a regular contributor to the LA Weekly and the Los Angeles Times. His work has also appeared in the Chicago Tribune, Premiere magazine, Men’s Edge magazine, and Sonic Boomers music magazine. From 1993–2003, he served as the editor of Hustler Erotic Video Guide, which he describes as “a half-assed, porn-world version of People magazine.”

  baby, i need to see a man about a duck

  by michael albo

  Having the habit is an exercise in living undercover, and all afternoon my cover’s been blown apart by degrees.

  It was coming down evening on a hot and smoggy September day, and I wheeled a dusty white Ford Ranger pickup truck with bald tires and no air-conditioning through moderate traffic on the southbound 605 freeway. The asphalt was tinged blood-red by a sinking sun. This section of freeway carved through a surreal, heat-blasted moonscape of an alluvial fan near the confluence of the nearly dry San Gabriel and Rio Hondo rivers. I was on my way back home from Johnny Gato’s ranchita in Irwindale, and I carried just enough drugs to warrant a solid felony charge. The big, white, pissed-off, gimp-legged Long Island duck that I had secured in a cardboard box was escaping its makeshift cell and it was going to be one fucked-up situation if—or, more likely, when—it broke free in the tight confines of that cab. The white head and yellow beak had already crowned. I regretted passing up Johnny Gato’s offer to seal the box with duct tape and I regretted even more the decision to let the duck, that I named Quacky, ride up front.

  Four hours earlier, I hadn’t seen any of this developing. I was a world away in Beverly Hills with a real-life porn slut.

  She called herself Eve Eden. “My real name’s Eve,” she drawled in that insincere way hustlers have when they’re laying down the whore con, “and I used to work at this strip club back home called the Garden of Eden, so I use that for my last name.” “Back home” was some dismal, bug-infested, malarial Alabama swamp, but Eve had left that all behind to make her sinuous way through the big city as a freshly minted adult-movie starlet. After two weeks in the neon-lit, subterranean depths of Greater Los Angeles, she had come around to realize that she was a lot farther from home than she could ever measure by miles. Attractive enough, but not beautiful, she wore heavy bangs and a pink eye patch to cover the results of girlhood run-in with the business end of a pellet gun. “My brother was huntin’ squirrels and he accidentally shot me,” she explained. “If I hold a strong magnet to my eye, I can feel the pellet move. It’s trippy. It’s still in there.” She lifted the patch and flashed a milky orb tinted by a smear of b
lue that was no doubt thankful for all the things it had never seen. She said it was an embarrassment to her. “The kids at school called me Cyclops … or Blinky,” she said. She wasn’t the kind of girl who got many eye-to-eye gazes these days, not since she bought herself a pair of ridiculously enhanced breasts that jutted from her chest like a pair of twin defense missiles and were sheathed in a tight, glittery pink tube top that read, PORN WHORE. The pastel pink of her outfit, the patch, the matching pink-frost lipstick and nail polish, and her overly dyed and fried blond hair made her look like a serving of carnival cotton candy that had lost a few bites before being tossed on the midway for the ants that crawled in the dust.

  We sat at a table in the sun-splintered dining room of Mary Kate’s, a precious and overly fussy Beverly Hills parody of a workingman’s chop house on Wilshire Boulevard. She drew the attention from an early lunch crowd of bankers, business squares, and locals with money. It wasn’t her clothes or overt whorishness that pulled eyes, but her absolutely white-trash table manners. She was loud, and she was mightily impressed by the complimentary sourdough. “Oh … my … GOD! This is the best bread I ever ate!” she crowed. She used a steak knife to slather a crusty piece with an ungodly amount of pale yellow churned cream and suggestively licked the blade clean. She was fascinated by my order of spaghetti all’aglio e olio. “I’ve never had THAT! Is that what real Eye-talians eat? Can I try some?” I handed her a fork and tablespoon so she could do the proper noodle-twirl like a civilized girl, but she reached past me with a bare hand and grabbed a big, oily handful, leaned her head back, and dropped it down her gullet like a fledgling eating worms. “That IS good!” she smiled through oil-slicked lips. In another setting, it might have been sexy.

  The last thing a dope fiend needs or wants is attention. A steady stream of misdirection needs to flow to present yourself as close to normal to the always-watching world around you. I had three simple tricks: I kept a job, I wore a business suit, and I drank. The current job was running a pornographic magazine from an office in an imposing black-glass tower in the heart of Beverly Hills for a limping, moon-faced Greek millionaire. He trundled along with the aid of an ebony cane with a silver and gold lion’s head for the handle. The eyes were set with diamonds. He didn’t actually need the prop, but told me once that it conferred “power and respect” upon him from underlings like me. I didn’t argue. He signed my checks and as long as the copy got in on time and sales didn’t fall, I remained an employed and productive member of society. The job also provided an excuse to use the company expense account to entertain feature subjects like Eve, who had just shot a centerfold layout for us. Right now, though, she was turning into a lunchroom liability. Even though I was dressed in my somber navy suit, blue oxford shirt, and mirror-shined black wingtips, the other diners had shifted some of their attention from Eve onto me … as if I was supposed to do something about her behavior. And this is why I drank: Americans are a lot more likely to forgive a drunk than they are a dope fiend, and, usually, social mistakes can be glossed over by the simple statement, “I’ve had a little too much.”