by Rob Hart
“Are you Ash?” he asks.
“Indeed. And you are?”
He raises an eyebrow, frowns a bit. “You can call me Doctor Feelgood.”
I guess it was rude to ask. Real names don’t go over well in this business. “All right then.”
“Come on back.”
The doctor leads me to what I figure would be a bedroom, but there’s a massage table covered with white paper, a small sink, cabinets, medical supplies. Everything pristine and gleaming, which is a good sign. I sit on the table, the paper crinkling beneath me. The doctor remains standing.
“Needle prick?” he asks.
“Little more than that. Got shot with a lethal load of heroin, then some naloxone.”
“First time using heroin?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t let on that this is surprising or uncommon. “Show me the injection site.”
I pull up my sleeve and go hunting in the crook of my arm but can’t find it. He takes my arm, runs a gloved hand over the skin until he locates a tiny red mark. “Doesn’t look too bad. That’s the first good sign.”
“Good how?”
He looks toward the neat stacks of supplies. “Puncture this clean, they probably used a new needle. I deal with a lot of junkies and they tend to be pretty fastidious with swapping out for clean works. Whoever prepared the dose for you probably used a new one out of habit. I’d bet money on that. But there’s a big difference between betting money on a hypothetical, and contracting hepatitis or HIV.”
“Yeah, not something I want to gamble on.”
“Take off your shirt.”
I strip down. The doctor presses his fingers lightly into the bruising on my torso. “I’d ask if they beat you up before hand, but none of this looks new…”
“Yeah, unrelated. Everyone’s got a talent.”
He runs his hands over my ribs, pressing in the odd spot. “Nothing broken.”
“Lovely.”
He swabs my arm with an alcohol pad and gives me a shot in the arm. Then he hands me a small paper cup with some pills, and another small cup with water. I throw them back. “What is all this?”
“Dirty needle puts you at risk for HIV, as well as Hep B and C,” he says. “This is all a cocktail that might help prevent that from happening. I’m going to give you a course of these—you’re going to have to take them at regular intervals for the next few weeks. I’ll draw everything up, make it nice and simple to follow. Do not miss a dose. I’m not even going to tell you what to do if you miss a dose. Because you cannot miss a dose. Understood?”
“Yes.”
He goes to the drawer, pulls out some more vials. “I’m going to take some blood now, and again when you follow up with me in a month. Like I said, you’ll probably be fine.”
“The more you say it, the less I feel like it’s true.”
He turns. Gives me a smile like someone died.
“Sorry,” he says, and I believe that he is.
As he portions out pills and makes notes on a yellow legal pad, I ask him, “So how do you get into this line of work, anyway?”
He turns, gives me a withering look over his shoulder. The kind of look that makes me think I shouldn’t have asked. He turns back to his notes and writes some more. Says, “You ever find yourself in a place where you felt like you didn’t have a choice?”
And I understand why he’s upset by the question.
“I get it,” I tell him. “I really, really do.”
Samson pulls the SUV to the curb outside Bombay’s apartment. I sit there and clutch the bag of pills. Sit in the warmth of the car’s heater, not wanting to get out. Because getting out will make all of this real. That in the course of a single day I’ve pretty much walked back every little bit of progress I’ve made in the past year.
My job prospects are suddenly fucked. All my talk about walking a straighter path, and I picked a fight with people who have actively tried to kill me, and might want to do it again. And, oh, I could have a virus ready to lay waste to my immune system.
“You going to get the fuck out of my car or what?” Samson asks.
“Why do you hate me so much?”
“I told you…”
“No, I want a real answer. Not some smartass bullshit. What the fuck did I ever do to you? I’ve never raised my hands to you. I’ve said some smart shit, but nothing that bad. I know that whole thing with the pimp went a little sideways, but c’mon, you act like I killed your fucking cat or something.”
Samson sits there for a couple of seconds. I wonder if he’s not going to answer.
Then he does. “Two reasons. First is, you’re a thug. But you don’t know that. You think you’re better than that. And you’re not.”
“I’m not a thug.”
“You mean not like me.”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
He laughs. “See? You look down on me. What I do doesn’t live up to your lofty standards. Problem is, we both do the same shit. At least I’m honest about it.”
“What’s the second thing?”
“What second thing?”
“You said there were two reasons.”
He thinks. “Right. Yeah. It’s what you do to my boss. You start trouble for her.”
“Has she ever told you how the two of us met?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Ask her sometime. Ask her about the big guy that tried to choke her to death. Ask her if she’d even be here without me.”
He doesn’t say anything and I don’t care to argue anymore so I climb out of the car.
The SUV lingers for a second and I half-suspect the window is going to come buzzing down, but then it speeds off, and I contemplate how to hide the paper bag of pills in my coat so I don’t have to explain them to Bombay.
But before I do that, I walk up and down the block. Peek into the parked cars. Make sure there’s no one watching. No one waiting. No smoldering cigarettes.
As I make my way into the building I check my phone and find a text from Lunette.
Ready to look at some apartments tomorrow?
The thought of tomorrow is exhausting but I write back: Sure.
The apartment is nice enough—the walls are freshly painted and the floor is hardwood. The faux shitty kind, but at least it looks nice. It’s not what I expected from the crumbling façade and the fifteen-minute walk from the subway.
But it looks barely big enough to fit a bed and a couch together. There’s a small kitchenette in the corner, featuring a mini-fridge and a stove with only two burners. Not that I cook much, but that feels cheap. We’re facing the rear of another building so the view is chipped brick. Also, something smells funny. It smells like a dank basement even though we’re three floors up.
Lunette’s lady friend Dee paces the apartment, cell phone pressed to her ear, making affirmative noises every few seconds. She’s a pro. Handshake like a vise, intense eye contact, hair cut short in a way that’s more efficient than stylish. She wears a checkered bow tie that has her neck in a death grip.
“Fine, do it,” she says, lowering the phone and turning to me. “Well?”
“What neighborhood did you say this was again?”
“Woodside,” she says. “I like to call this part the used-tire district.”
Lunette pops out of the bathroom. “You have to see this.”
I step inside. It’s cramped but manageable. I figure she wants to show me the shower stall. The showerhead comes up to my chest and there’s enough room to turn around, but maybe not enough to bend over and reach my feet. Then I realize she’s looking at the toilet. There’s a little wall in front of it. Anyone but a very small child would have to sit on it sideways.
“Fuck this,” I tell her. “I hope you’re showing me the shittiest one first.”
“Actually, no,” Dee says. “I’m showing you this so you can see what you’re up against. This is two grand a month. Utilities not included. For what you want to pay, if you want to stay in
the city, you’re looking at getting a roommate or going to Staten Island. Otherwise, you’re headed for Jersey City or up to Yonkers.”
“There’s got to be something…”
“There isn’t.”
“But…”
“There isn’t.”
“Well, fuck.”
“I know it sucks,” Dee says. “Lunette told me about your old place. I hope you enjoyed it while you had it. We’ll have better luck finding a unicorn than we will another one of those.”
I walk to the window, look out into the dirty alleyway below. I take out my list:
Find a place to live
Get a job?
Find Spencer Chavez
See my mom
Check on Crystal
Pull a pen out of my pocket and add a question mark next to “find a place to live.” Stare at it for a second, then I write “again” next to “find Spencer Chavez.” Fold the paper up and put it back in my pocket. Turn to Dee and Lunette.
“So you took me all the way up to Queens to teach me a lesson?”
“It’s like one of those HGTV shows,” Lunette says. “Where they show you the house you can’t afford before making you settle for a fixer-upper. You’ve got to learn to settle.”
Dee nods knowingly, like this is a very good comparison.
“So everyone watches these shows now?” I ask.
Dee says, “My favorite is where the husband and wife who hate each other flip homes in Reno. Because everything they do is obviously staged. Also I’m pretty sure the husband is gay.”
“I like that one too,” Lunette says.
“So I imagine you have no more places to show me?” I ask.
Dee nods. “I will have more for you. Soon as you tell me what you’re willing to settle for.”
“Let’s get some coffee and discuss,” I tell them.
They move toward the door but I step into the bathroom to take a sideways piss. Finish up and wash my hands and look in the mirror. The bruises are almost gone but I look like I didn’t sleep at all last night. Which was actually the case. I know the doctor said I shouldn’t get too worked up, but my blood feels hot. Like there’s something wrong in my body. I can’t help but think about what might be growing inside.
I’m still not sure what I’m going to do about Spencer. I need the money. I run the math through my head. If I can find a place for two grand a month and Ginny pays me forty, that floats me for more than a year. I can live cheap while I find a job. I stopped smoking and cut down on drinking. Those were my biggest expenses besides eating. I don’t need cable. Bombay would flip me a computer.
Maybe I could make all that work.
It remains contingent on finishing this job.
I join Dee and Lunette in the hallway outside the apartment. As Dee looks up I ask, “Say I could do a ceiling of two grand a month. Think you could find a decent one bedroom for that? Even a studio? Somewhere in Brooklyn, at least, so it doesn’t feel like I’m going through fucking Mordor to get home at night?”
Dee sighs a bit. “I can try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
I don’t know the bartender at St. Dymphnas. Some guy. At least it’s not crowded. Lunette orders a glass of cabernet, and when he asks me what I want, I hesitate. Ever since my little bout with alcohol withdrawal, I’ve set some new rules for myself: beer only, limited intake, no hard stuff. Beer is like water. Barely touches me. Whiskey is a coping mechanism.
And yet, this fucking week.
“Jameson rocks,” I tell the bartender.
I deserve it, all things considered.
I’m not slipping.
Lunette doesn’t know any better, so when the bartender puts down the small rocks glass filled to the top with amber liquid, she raises her glass and we clink them together. I take a small sip. It fills my mouth and then my head. Memories come rushing back. Most of them not very good. I don’t care. At least they’re familiar.
“So what’s wrong with you?” Lunette asks.
“Today didn’t go great.”
“No, it’s not that. Something bigger. You’ve had this look on your face all day.”
“Maybe that’s the way my face looks.”
“Stop it.”
I take another sip. What can it hurt? It’s only liquid in a glass.
Nothing compared to what got pumped into me yesterday.
I tip the glass to the ceiling, drain it. Flag down the bartender, ask for another. I know I’m crossing a line. I know this won’t be it. Two will turn into three will turn into the bottle. But I can’t get over the sense of memory. The feel of it. The woodsy sting of the whiskey bringing me back to a previous time. I can already feel the tickle of drunkenness at the back of my brain. My old life shining through the cracks.
I tell Lunette about everything that’s happened so far.
It feels good to get it out to someone, and I can’t talk to Bombay because I can’t bear how he would react. Lunette has always been far less judgmental, and we haven’t been friends long enough that I worry about hurting us. Not that I don’t value having her in my life, but for some reason this stuff—being myself—comes so much easier with her.
When I’m done she realizes her wine glass is empty. She asks for another.
“That all sucks,” she says.
“Succinct.”
“And you saw a doctor?”
“He didn’t seem terribly worried, but gave me a bunch of stuff to take, to be safe.”
“Should you be drinking?”
I wave down the bartender for a third. My words taking slightly more effort to form. I am out of practice. Used to be I didn’t get this way until my sixth. Then again, I skipped lunch. “Alcohol is a disinfectant.”
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
The bartender puts down my third and Lunette says, “He’s cut off after this.”
“I’ll decide that…” I tell her.
“Shut up,” she says. She turns to the bartender. “Got it?”
He puts his hands up and backs away.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“Except there is something wrong. You just explained to me all the things that are wrong. And now you’re being evasive. Do you know how fucking proud of you I was, to see you’ve got your shit together and you didn’t feel the need to tie one on in the afternoon? ‘Cause a year ago, you and me would have gone out for a drink and you would have been fucking blotto by the time we left. These are good things.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“Because.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I take a sip. “You’re not an answer.”
“You’re acting like a child.”
I take the third whiskey. Contemplate it. I’m about the down it when Lunette snatches it out of my hand and drinks it herself. Then she tosses a pile of cash on the bar.
“Let’s get something to eat,” she says, pulling her purse onto her shoulder.
We step outside to find a light snow falling. Not enough to stick, but enough to reflect the light as it falls in lazy spirals to the ground. Lunette leads us to the pizza place at the end of the block, orders four plain slices, and sits at a table in the corner. I sit across from her. My head swimming in whiskey, afraid to make eye contact with her, because I feel like a child who’s just been scolded by a parent, and more than that, justifiably.
After a few moments the man behind the counter calls her over. She fetches the slices, two each on two trays, and proceeds to cover hers with red pepper flakes. I leave mine as is, watch as the oil pools, turning the paper plate underneath transparent. When they’re a little cooler we eat in silence. I finish before her and sit there while she works on her second slice. I feel better with food in my stomach.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
“We do what we do,” she says. “What are you going to do about all this?”<
br />
“For as stupid as it sounds, I think I should keep looking for Spencer. I need the money. Forty-k is not insignificant.”
“Is it worth dying over?”
“I’m going to do a better job of keeping my head down. The mistake I made was trusting a junkie. No offense.”
She cringes. “I hate that fucking word.”
“Junkie?”
She puts down the crust of her remaining slice. “Junk implies garbage. I did heroin for a very long time. Do you consider me to be garbage?”
“Absolutely not. I don’t think that’s even how it works. Junk is slang for heroin, right? I mean, it’s not about the person, it’s about the substance…”
She puts her hand up. “Doesn’t matter. A lot of people look at heroin users and they think we’re all pieces of shit. Subhuman. I could tell you stories about things people did to me or said to me while I was using, and you would get up right now and find every one of those people and beat the shit out of them. Heroin isn’t an indulgence. It’s not pie and you’re eating too much pie. It rewires you. It twists your body so you need it to function. We all know what it does and we all do it anyway, and that’s on us, sure, but that word? It’s a slur. It’s a slur against people who need help.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugs. “Just don’t use that word.”
“I never respected you any less.”
“I know that. Though…” She looks down. Twists her hands together in her lap. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
“Shoot.”
“I used to sneak cash out of your wallet. When you were drunk.”
“Are you kidding?”
Her face softens. “I’ve been wanting to tell you. It’s why I paid for the pizza. I probably owe you a few pizzas, in the grand scheme. I never got into the whole twelve-step thing but I still feel like I need to make amends for some stuff. And that’s one of them. So, I’m sorry.”
“Huh.”
She frowns, tenses up. Like maybe I’m pissed. But I’m not. Instead, I laugh. Quietly at first, but then I lose control. Lunette smiles and joins me, and within a few moments the two of us are laughing so hard people are staring.
