I crept inside. The house was small but cozy. The type of home I had dreamed of as a kid. I wondered what the children tucked safely away in their beds upstairs dreamed. Was it of sugarplums? What the hell was a sugarplum anyway?
Heading towards the Christmas tree I stumbled over a tiny toy truck. It let out a roaring whoop. The sound made me jump and I crashed into the tree, nearly toppling it. Cheesy decorations rattled, swaying on the dead limbs like the ghost of Christmas past.
I caught my balance and steadied the tree. My heart raced. Did someone hear that clatter? I stood, perfectly still, waiting and watching. When no one came rushing down the staircase I started to breath again.
I noticed a row of stockings, hung with obvious care, next to a faux fireplace. A red light bulb flickered underneath a brown, plastic log. The stockings read: Mommy, Daddy, Joey, and Lisa. Each hand stitched with careful attention. The whole effect brought tears to my eyes.
What was I doing here?
The answer came quickly, as my stomach cramped with a violent lurch. The teardrops dried on my cheek and I got down to business.
I bent next to the tree and carefully unwrapped the brightly colored paper. I stuffed a few gifts into the pocket of my coat, wondering how much I could get for each.
Would this be a Merry Christmas for me?
God, I hoped so. I needed a fix, more now than ever. I needed to forget the pain, and numb out what I had become.
Opening a package addressed to Dad, I smiled. Pay dirt. Mom must have saved up all year for this one. I held the silver watch to the light reading the small inscription, ‘So you will always know when it is time to come home’. I smirked, it would fetch me a few bucks at the pawnshop.
When I was finished with the gifts, I stood brushing away dried pine needles from my jeans. Why didn’t they water the fucking tree? This sent me into a rage. It was dying. Couldn’t anyone see that? It needed help—love and attention—not lectures and recriminations. It needed one hit.
Just one fucking hit.
“Jake, honey, is that you?” a soft voice called from the darkened stairwell.
Shit. What the fuck was I going to do?
The woman made her way down the stairs, the fifth one groaning under her weight. “Jake?” she whispered again.
She was almost upon me. I glanced at the fireplace poker next to the fake hearth. It was real enough, cast-iron, and sharp. One blow and I’d be free. My fingers itched in their thick, leather gloves.
The light in the hallway flicked on.
Bile rose in the back of my throat.
“Jake?” she called again. Her tone was hesitant, almost scared, like she was afraid of what monsters might lurk in the dark. “Is that you, baby?”
“Yes Amanda,” I said, shoulders slumping. “Go back to sleep.”
She stood just inside the doorway bathed in fake firelight. God, she was beautiful. Sweet and kind too. Much more than I deserved. “I’m glad you’re home. We were worried,” she said.
“Everything’s fine,” I lied, moving closer to her. “I’m just wrapping some presents for you and the kids. Go back to sleep and I’ll be up in a minute.” I kissed her cheek inhaling the scent of gingerbread surrounding her.
“Okay.” She paused. “You’ll be up soon?”
I nodded.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispered, climbing the staircase like an old woman.
Silently, I watched her go, remembering how beautiful and innocent she looked on our wedding day, but disappointed and worry had destroyed her innocence years ago.
When she disappeared, I opened the front door, my pockets filled with holiday cheer. “Merry Christmas,” I repeated, stepping into the cold night air.
Junkie-dexterous
I glanced around the park seeking a public restroom to ply my doper trade. The shaking started, my body’s own alarm system, telling me I had but seconds to spare.
I jogged up the palm tree lined path clutching the bindle and my kit in one hand while loosening the belt around my waist with the other.
Yep, I’m junkie-dexterous.
Are you?
By the entrance to the park, next to a playground filled with tots and their Ritalin popping mothers, a rest area bathroom stood. I pushed my way inside gagging at the stench of rotted sewage. Years of overflowing shit-water stained the concrete turning it a muddy brown. Most of the plumbing and fixtures had been stripped away, pilfered by baseheads in need of quick cash or improvised crackpipes.
Two stalls, both without doors, faced the each other. Fecal matter, wadded paper, and desperation clung to the toilet seats. I closed my eyes and wondered how desperate I’d become. There had to be a point where I said no more. That I refused to live this fucked-up existence. My guts cramped, forcing me to admit the terrible truth. I had a long way yet to go.
Junkie-bitious
I turned the faucet, but no water poured from it. Not a single drip. Fuck. My eyes fell on one of the toilet and its rust-colored water. I glanced at the syringe in my hand and back at the porcelain bowl.
Fuck.
Bending over the stained toilet, I drew rusty water into my needle while mouthing ‘what the fuck am I doing’ like a mantra. The plastic turned cold as water filled the chamber mixing with my dried blood. A rush of heat licked up my spine and into my brain. My heart sped up and my breathing quickened.
I mixed the toilet water and a good-sized hit, cooked it up with a precision only the finest of chefs ever accomplished, and drew the bitter nectar back into my spike.
Junkie-licious.
I tied my arm with my belt and readied myself for a foray into corroded vein territory. My veins are both my salvation and my worst enemy. At the height of my habit, it took me over an hour to find a usable vein. Now, I can usually hit after fifteen minutes of digging. I pressed the needle to my flesh tapping my finger against a fragile blue line running on the inside of my forearm.
“Mommy,” a small voice from the doorway said. “What’s that man doing?”
I froze. My eyes met the eyes of a horrified mother. She scooped up the little boy and backed up a step. “Don’t hurt us,” she whispered. “Please. I’ll give you money.”
“I...” I dropped the needle. It fell onto the shit-coated floor and rolled away. I raised my hands. “I don’t want your money.” Even though a part of me did. “I’m not going to hurt you. Take your kid and go.”
Tears leaked from the mother’s eyes and the child in her arms began to cry. She kissed his forehead. “It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s right here.”
I swallowed. A fleeting memory of my own mother circled my mind. “Go. Now.”
She nodded and ran from the restroom. The child cupped safely in her arms.
I closed my eyes, shame burning deep inside me. My stomach cramped, and I puked, splattering the concrete floor with bile and blood. Tears ran down my cheeks.
With grim determination, I dropped to my knees and scourged the vomit-stained floor for my smack-filled syringe.
Model Glue
“And I do a little dance on the catwalk…” Singing to myself I flash a huge plastic grin. “Yeah, on the catwalk…”
That isn’t right...
How does it go again?
God, I hate that song. A couple years ago I couldn’t work a runway without it blaring from the speakers.
Funny that I think of it now.
The flashbulb pops blinding me momentarily. My pupils shrink smaller, which is somewhat of a miracle. They haven’t been bigger than the head of a pin for years. Tiny hints to the alkaline smack rushing through my poison bloodstream.
I take a deep breath. The expensive sheath gown around my body pulls tight. I feel every inch of cellulite burst out, oozing from the fabric like blood from a picked scab.
Can’t they see it?
Don’t they know the truth?
“Nikki,” a man shouts over the roar of the crowd. “Look this way.”
Blue, silver, and red lights bath his fac
e while his eyes focus on my beautiful ones. Wanting what he can never possess. Showtime. Flipping my long black hair, I smile wickedly licking my lips with expert precision.
‘I’m too sexy…’
Fake. Breathe. Big smile.
(5α,6α)-7,8-didehydro-4,5-epoxy-17-methylmorphinan-3,6-diol diacetate (ester)
Head back, breasts high.
I can feel the rumble of the groupies below me. Every eye is on my imperfections, focusing on the scar tissue hidden beneath thick layers of putty.
‘Smile pretty for the cameras’ my mum’s voice echoes in my deadened head. A long time ago, I wanted to be beautiful like those girls on the glossy magazine covers. Gia, Jaime King, and Kate Moss have nothing on me.
Heroin Chic is a fucking joke. I am the ultimate scag girl, strung out, sick, and tragically beautiful.
The entire world is my runway…
Strutting high above the hustle and flow, my breath comes out in slow, painful gasps. Every thing is speeding up. The music. The lights. Like a demented merry-go-round. Faster and faster. I feel sick. Stumbling, I drop to my knees. A hushed-murmur descends on the watchers.
I have failed. The commandment is broken...They can see me sweat. It glistens, beads my face, bleeding flesh-toned makeup and tears. Mascara-coated eyes drip puddles of formaldehyde-scented tears down my cheeks leaving me streaked and pale.
I teeter at the edge of the runway, glancing into the crowd of onlookers, and seeing myself in their startled eyes.
Big Smile!
The catwalk crumbles beneath my feet. The creaking groan of metal and concrete sounds much like the roar of jet engines on the Fourth of July.
For a brief moment, I pause...
Breathe...
“Damn junkies. Fucking think they can fly,” said the redheaded cop standing over the broken body of the slim-hipped girl. He sadly shook his head glancing at the ledge twelve-stories above. “A shame. She was a pretty thing. Could have been a model.”
Welcome to Heroinwood
The camera pulls close on her face.
She is tragic and stunning,
~beautiful in death, unknown in life.
The idyllic American dream overdosed.
~in a shooting gallery in Hollywood.
The lens peers closer.
~closer to the slight smile on her dry lips.
Junkpardy!
“Alex, I’ll take Famous Junkies for a bindle.”
“The answer: His works include The Tea Cup and Lavender Mist.”
I scratched my head hoping for divine inspiration. None came. Seconds later the buzzer rang through the studio.
“Oh, sorry.” Alex’s head bobbed in fake sympathy. “Jackson Pollock was the answer we were looking for.”
Damn. I should have known that. A MFA wasted.
“Pick again.” Alex pointed to the blue screen.
Ummm….
“I’ll take Dead Junkie Poets for two.” Shit, why did I pick that one? I knew nothing about poetry. Nothing!
Tick, tock, time ran off the clock.
Alex’s eyes widened somehow knowing I’d fucked up. “The answer: With the help of his friend, Allen Ginsberg, he published Naked Lunch in 1959.”
What the hell? That was like twenty years before I was even born. I slammed my hand on top of the buzzer. The plastic felt cold to the touch, like all the warmth was slowly seeping from the room. “William Burroughs.”
“I’m sorry, but we need it in the form of a question.”
Stupid game. “Who was William S. Burroughs.”
Alex nodded condescendingly. In a flash two bundles of dope appeared before my eyes. Instant gratification. My eyes scanned the screen focusing on the big score. “Alex, I’ll take Junkie Whores for a gram.”
Alex rolled his eyes. “She married a famous musician on a beach in Hawaii on February 24, 1992.”
My hand went for the buzzer, but the doe-eyed girl next to me beat me to the punch. She used to be pretty. Now scabs, scars, and pitted skin labeled her ‘junky’.
“Who is Courtney Love.” The girl jumped up and down.
“That’s correct.” Alex gave the girl a leering grin. “Two years later she was also instrumental in his death. A pioneer in the field of junkie whores.”
Bitch. I glared at doe-girl wishing her a bad case of the clap.
“Let’s take a moment to meet our contestants.” Alex moved toward me. “What is your name and what do you do?”
“My name’s Jim, and I’m a junkie.”
“Hi Jim,” the crowed roared.
“What is it you do for a living?” Alex read from a small index card.
I looked at him like he was a moron, which in many ways he was. “I get high,” I said.
Alex returned my look. “What I meant was, how do you support yourself?”
“Oh,” I nodded. “I steal. And sometimes I write.”
“Well, good luck.” Alex moved to the man on my right. “We haven’t heard much from you today. Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself.”
The man said nothing, his face slack and blue.
“Um Alex?” I motioned to the blue dude. “I think he’s dead.”
“Where do they find these people…?” Alex tapped corpse on the forehead. The man fell forward hitting his noggin on the buzzer. It let out a long bleep. Alex stood there waiting for the dead man’s answer in the form of a question.
The timer buzzed.
“I’m sorry.” Alex looked anything but apologetic. “It appears your time is up.”
Two stagehands ran on stage and carted the dead guy away.
“And you, sweetheart?” Alex stepped in front of junky girl, and traced his fingers along her collarbone. “What’s your story?”
She smiled up at him. “My name’s Vanna. I’m a prostitute from Los Angeles, California.” She waved at the camera. “Hi Mom.”
Alex stepped back. “Interesting bunch. Vanna is in the lead with a gram. Dead guy is in second with half that. It’s time for Final Junkpardy!”
The screen lit up. It read: This junkie spent the last hours of his life in a flophouse on Hollywood Boulevard. He was best known for his twenty-seven unpublished works.
I knew this one.
What was that guy’s name? I could picture him in my mind.
“Time’s running out,” Alex said over the annoying blare of the theme song.
...do..do...do..do....do..do..do….do….
My hand shook as I scribbled a name on the slick glass surface. J...I...M... The buzzer blared, cutting off the last letters.
Alex held up a hand. “I’m sorry but your time’s up.”
******
“Aahhhhaaaa…” Air rushed into my deprived lungs as a sharp, stabbing pain shot through my chest. “Fuck.” I yanked at the offending instrument, a ten-inch hypodermic needle, once filled with Narcan embedded in my chest.
“Jimmy?” My girl, Vanna dropped to her knees next to me. “I thought I’d lost you.”
Alex had lied. My time wasn’t up. The game was far from over.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” Vanna asked, tearfully.
“Yeah,” I said, glancing around the filthy room. “Come here.” I pulled her into my arms. She came without reservation leaning against me with a sigh.
I caressed her cheek. “Where the fuck’s the rest of my stash?”
Minor Vice
Heroin is my addiction.
My dope quest.
The needle my minor vice.
Cooking Up with Rachel Rey
Bam.
The television blared sending the cockroaches hiding in the darkened corners scurrying for cover. On the screen a stern, dark haired woman stood at the counter of an overly shiny kitchen counter. Her thin hands gestured vaguely to the countertop. “Preparation is key. Have all your tools and ingredients handy before diving in. Make sure the utensils are clean, and sharp.” Picking up, a spoon, she jabbed it at the camera. “Cleanliness is next to Godli
ness, so remember to wipe down every surface with disinfectant.”
I soaked my tools. The stench of bleach permeated the room.
The TV woman pulled a lemon from a red woven bag. “Persian meals take a fair amount of planning, so start early.” She smiled into the camera, all teeth.
Early?
I glanced at the clock. It was a little after four in the afternoon. My stomach growled and a shiver of anticipation rattled across my skin.
I loved Persian fair.
“You want the freshest of the fresh lemons for this dish.” She stroked the lemon, almost lover like. I turned away, embarrassed as a rush of sensual heat burning in the pit of my stomach.
“For this dish we need half of a lemon. Make sure to save the rind for a bit of zest.” She gripped the fruit, slicing through it like a black widow through her mate. The juice dribbled like blood pooling around the fruit in a sticky, biting flood.
My eyes scanned my countertop searching for the bag of lemons I purchased from the farmers market. I loved LA. Where else could you buy lemons in the ghetto?
Where had I put them?
The Junkie Tales Page 5
