American Junkie

by Tom Hansen

  There was a memorial service. The captain of the ship came to pay his respects. After the service he told my mom and I that a hole in the hull that had been patched before they left had somehow opened up in the middle of the Gulf of Alaska, the boat had begun flooding and they couldn’t stop it. Eventually the captain decided to abandon ship and everyone had gotten into survival suits, except my dad. He said he’d had enough, that he just couldn’t do it again. The captain eventually talked him into getting into the life raft and they drifted for a day and then there was some problem with the life raft, everyone had to get out while they repaired it. When they were climbing back in my dad keeled over, dead.

  That fall we received a Coast Guard report on the accident.

  During the day of the sinking, the raft was leaking badly due to a puncture in the floor and had to be bailed continuously. An attempt to repair the floor using one of the patches provided with the raft was made, but the patch was only moderately successful and continuous bailing was necessary. Since abandoning the Pacific Surf, Ole Hansen’s behavior had been erratic. At one point he jumped over the side for no apparent reason. He was brought aboard the raft and attempts were made to reassure him and keep him calm. On the following morning it was decided to patch the raft using a larger patch. At about 1000, 12 July 1977 everyone got out of the raft with the exception of_and_who were to install the patch. At first Ole Hansen appeared to be holding on to the raft without difficulty._bailed out the raft and installed the patch. In just a few minutes Ole Hansen’s feet became entangled in the boarding ladder and he began to panic. _and_attempted to bring him aboard but were unsuccessful. All of a sudden Ole Hansen went limp and_thought him to be dead._then boarded the raft and checked Ole Hansen’s breath and pulse. There were no signs of life._held onto Ole Hansen for another fifteen to twenty minutes until he was assured there was no life. Ole Hansen was then tied to the raft.

  On 13 July wind and seas began to increase._became concerned that the line secured to Ole Hansen would damage the raft in the seas. He also feared the raft was losing air. Therefore in the interest of the survivors,_cut Ole Hansen free of the raft at about 0800, 13 July 1977. His body has never been recovered.

  [JUNE 2, 1999]

  “Mr. Hansen?”

  “Umm hmm.”

  “I’m here to draw some blood for an HIV test.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  She pushed up the sleeve of the scrub shirt, a rubber hose at the ready to tie off my arm.

  “Good luck finding a vein,” I said.

  The last one, in the ER, I think she was a med student. I had told her that it wouldn’t work, that my veins had dried up, but she’d been determined to show her expertise and jabbed me about hundred times in my hands, wrists, arms, for over an hour before she finally gave up and had to call one of the doc’s to put in a central line in my neck, in my jugular. I resisted the chance to say “I love you.”

  I was very out of it and dozed off. If they want to take my blood they could have it, I thought. They better be careful though. Who knows what all is in there? Maybe that was why mosquitoes had always left me alone. Something was happening, I could feel her doing something with the central line, disconnecting it, maybe to use it for the blood draw.

  “Okay. All done,” she said. It woke me up.

  “You’ll have the results in a couple of days.”

  “Okay.”

  [1978]

  I was staring at the little nozzle, sticking up out of the center of the lab table, the one we hooked up the Bunsen burners to. What would happen if I turned it on? Before me a dead frog was on its back, its arms and legs nailed down to a cutting board.

  “Mr. Hansen? Is there a problem?”

  It was Mr. Clark, my eleventh grade biology teacher. He’d approached the lab table and I hadn’t even noticed. I guess I wasn’t dealing with my dad’s death very well. I’d been kind of a zombie ever since, blindly wandering around until I hit a wall, then changing course and wandering until I came to the next thing in my way.

  “Didn’t you study the diagram?” Clark asked, glaring down at me with his strange face, the buckteeth, the beard but no moustache, the weird rash. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  In theory I knew why we were doing this, it was something to do with practicing to be a doctor, but I was confused.

  Clark had been bloodthirsty with glee at the idea of us cutting up frogs, but he had some weird thing for insects, bees especially, even dead ones. He had even installed a beehive in the classroom. Housed in a big clear Plexi-glass box, it stood atop of one of the lab tables with a PVC pipe out the top and up through a hole in the ceiling so his beloved bees could come and go as they pleased. He went on and on about the hive and how it functioned, apparently convinced that bee society was superior to humans. He was probably right, actually, when I thought about it. In bee society every bee had a role and went about it without question. Bees weren’t forced to decide between meaningless career choice A and meaningless career choice B, or the tens of thousands of others. What I was plotting would only reinforce his theories about bees and humans, but at the time I just didn’t give a shit. The plan was simple. I would climb up onto the roof of the school after dark, drop a Cherry Bomb down the PVC pipe and blow that fucker’s little perfect world to hell.

  “Well?” Clark asked, getting impatient, “Did you, or didn’t you, study the diagram?”

  “Umm, yeah, but...ummm. Why are we doing this?” I asked.

  It was the last straw. He sighed, turned and stormed away.

  Mrs. Giller, my English teacher strode into class, upright and stiff, as usual. She had a way of always walking in straight lines, and then pivoting on her heel like a soldier, rather than walking in a curve. She was obviously senile, probably should have retired about ten years earlier. Either that or she believed in forgiveness and the inherent goodness of young people to ridiculous levels. She hadn’t called the principal when Trev and I stole her purse and hid it for a month. Nor when I let loose with the fire extinguisher from the hall in class. Not even when we removed all the textbooks from the classroom and hid them in an abandoned locker. She had finally called the authorities when Trev and I had set a desk on fire burning pot stems.

  Giller was going on about something, gesturing wildly and writing on the blackboard. Trev and I sat in the back whispering, going over details of the Beehive Plot. It was on hold until I got my hands on some more Cherry Bombs from the Indian reservation. I’d used them all blowing up mailboxes. I was explaining The Delayed Fuse Method. 1. Take a nail and poke a hole through a cigarette near the filter. 2. Light the cigarette covering the holes with your fingertips so you can get it lit fully. 3. Insert fuse of explosive through hole in cigarette. 4. Place explosive carefully. You have about five to seven minutes. We knew we were going to have a problem with the cigarette staying attached to the fuse as the Cherry Bomb tumbled down the PVC pipe. I thought some duct tape might do the trick.

  It’d been months, but someone from the A.V. department had finally discovered the little piece of cardboard I had wedged between the lenses of the movie projector and now we were going to be subjected to the infinite boredom of Giller’s home movies of Egypt she’d been talking about since the beginning of the year. I didn’t need to hear about the mysteries of the pyramids, I had my hands full with goddamned mysteries in the here and now. I thought I would use the time to take a nap.

  Andi was sitting two rows over. God, she was beautiful, with her slim figure, red hair and pale skin. I’d known her since eighth grade, when purely by chance I had been paired with her to learn to ‘Do the Hustle.’ She’d been very patient, friendly and understanding as she helped me make it through that torture. During the rest of eighth and ninth grade, sometimes we had come across each other in the halls and talked a bit, and I began to dream about someday getting close to her, or someone like her. But in high school that had ended, something had changed. She would walk past me in the
halls, and it was like I wasn’t even there. In class she never talked about the things she used to, becoming a vet or a doctor. She now spent all her time with the kids from Emerald Hills, riding around in expensive cars and posing. She hadn’t become a bitch, she just didn’t see certain things anymore. She had simply grabbed hold of the one thing that was worth the most, her looks, and had used it to change the world around her. Everything for her now was like an exchange of currency. And I had nothing to spend.

  And it wasn’t just her. It’d been going on all throughout my school years and I kept waiting for it to end, but it seemed like it was just going to go on and on. All around me kids were going to parties, laughing, going out on dates, dances, movies, losing their virginity, driving their cars. I’d been in high school for three years and hadn’t even talked to a girl.

  The movie started. I lay my head down on the desk but couldn’t sleep. In the darkness I unfolded a jumbo paper clip until it was a straight piece of heavy wire about three inches long. Glancing up, I noticed that The Skull was peering at me suspiciously, trying to figure out what I was up to now. He had a bony face and what looked like two permanent black eyes. I stared back at him until he looked away, then I threw the paper clip, like I had learned throwing knives in Norway.

  The lights came up. Giller was giddy. She had finally gotten to show us her Egypt movie and was dying to talk about it. She took the handle at the bottom of the screen, pulled down slightly to release the catch, and then tried to guide the screen up into the long steel case suspended from the ceiling. Nothing happened. She pulled down again, but the screen only retracted a few inches. Once more she gave a good hard pull down, and this time she just let go. A loud ripping sound came from the front of the class as the screen retracted slowly, the jammed paper clip ripping it all the way down the center. After some confusion, Giller called the principal. The Skull had seen me, ratted me out.

  I was ordered to the principal’s office. He paced back and forth in front of me, wringing his hands, obviously distressed. Then suddenly he stopped, looked down at me, “Why’d you do it, son? Why’d you destroy the movie screen?”

  I didn’t know what to say, I hadn’t actually tried to destroy anything. But he stood there, looking down, wringing his hands and I could tell I was going to have to give him an answer, so I borrowed a quote from Sir Edmund Hillary, the famous mountaineer. It was the only thing I could think of. I shrugged and said, “Because it was there.”

  [JUNE 6, 1999]

  There was a man and woman in the room, standing by the door, speaking quietly. I’d just woken up, and I could hear them talking about me.

  “He’s stable, but his prognosis is very poor. He refuses drug treatment,” the man said.

  “I know,” the woman said, incredulous.

  I propped myself up a little. They saw that and their demeanour changed and they turned and smiling, walked over next to the bed.

  “Hello Mr. Hansen,” the woman said, “I’m from social work. This is one of your doctors.”

  I’d seen him already, and she’d been in a couple of days before, but I couldn’t remember what we talked about. The man spoke next.

  “I have the results of your HIV test,” he said. “It was negative.”

  I’d figured as much. When I first started shooting up, syringes were hard to come by and I’d shared needles with anyone, but for the last twelve years or so I’d always had boxes of new ones from the needle exchange. If I’d gotten AIDS it would have showed up a long time ago, most likely. But I hadn’t thought about it much, either way. AIDS was like cancer, it was all over the news, but I’d never known anyone with cancer and my inherent distrust of all media led me to believe that they were blowing the whole thing out of proportion.

  “You’re being transferred tomorrow,” the woman said.

  “Where?”

  “Bailey-Boushay House.”

  “What is it?”

  “You need long term rehabilitation. We just can’t do that here.”

  “What kind of place is it?”

  She paused, as if she didn’t know what to say. That was a bad sign. It was probably some kind of dump. Some hellhole.

  “I think you’ll like it,” she said, trying to seem upbeat, trying to reverse course.

  The doctor apparently agreed with her because he was nodding like an idiot, a goofy grin on his face.

  “I have to finish getting the paperwork ready for your transfer. The doctor here wants to talk to you,” she said, as the doc pulled up a chair and sat down.

  “We need to discuss your options,” he said.

  Options? What options?

  “Okay.”

  “Your hip is in bad shape. There are a couple of things we could do. We could operate, or we can wait. That’s what I recommend, actually. Amputation still might be necessary in the future, but your hip seems to be getting a little bit better, or not worse at least, it seems to be responding to the antibiotics, and I think the best course of action right now is to just wait, see how things progress.”

  “That sounds good,” I said. For the first time the thought of losing my leg scared me. It was strange. I hadn’t felt fear, or anything else, for many years. After a minute, I relaxed. Everything was still completely out of my control.

  “Is the pain regime working out?” he asked.

  “Yeah, it’s okay.”

  I started to doze off. The drugs were affecting me. I didn’t feel them, like I wanted, but they were certainly making me tired. I heard him say something about having me come back to the hospital, later, for more tests or something, and then I was gone.

  I woke up later and there was my mom. I propped myself up, much as I could.

  “Hi mom.”

  “Hi Tom. How are you?”

  “Oh, a little bit better, I guess.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Have you been here long?”

  “A little while.”

  “They’re moving me somewhere tomorrow.”

  “I know. The social worker told me.”

  “Did she tell you what kind of place it is?”

  “No. She said they can take care of you there.”

  “Yeah. That’s what she told me too. We’ll see, I guess. Did you work today?”

  “Yes. Albertson’s. The one down by Sand Point.”

  Poor woman. She was seventy-seven years old and still working. So much for this being a civilized society, I thought, so much for retirement. If only she’d stayed in Norway, she’d be able to enjoy her golden years instead of slaving away for minimum wage, handing out Keebler cookies pieces or Johnsonville sausage samples at grocery stores around town.

  “You’re still doing that, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those people should give you a raise,” I said, disgusted.

  “They did. Twenty-five cents.”

  Wow. A whole quarter. All her life she’d followed the rules and what had it gotten her? A twenty-five cent raise.

  “Today,” she said, “there was this fat woman and her three screaming kids, and they came back three times! The kids tried again and I had to tell them no. The samples are for everybody.”

  “I don’t know about this new place,” I said, changing the subject so she wouldn’t continue down that road, which she would, if I didn’t stop her.

  “What place?” she asked. “Where they’re sending me.”

  “They won’t send you somewhere bad,” she said, trusting people like she always had.

  “I’m not so sure,” I replied.

  I’d heard plenty of horror stories about state run institutions—brain pills, electroshock treatments.

  One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.

  “I’ll come see you there,” she said. Eventually I fell asleep.

  [JUNE 7, 1999]

  It was probably early afternoon, judging from the way the sun was coming in the window. Gretchen removed the bag of brown slop f
rom the steel pole attached to my bed and hung it on a rolling IV stand. She did the same with the other bag of saline solution and antibiotics, careful not to disturb the central line going into my neck. Then she began disconnecting the morphine pump. Even though I’d never felt it, the thought of it being gone triggered a vague longing inside me somewhere. When The Pain Team hooked it up, they told me I could push the button and get a dose every five minutes. I tried pushing the button twenty times in five seconds. Every time, I would stare at the huge syringe, locked up inside its case, and watch the big plunger creep down a fraction of an inch, hoping the machine would malfunction and give me all of it at once.

  The medic arrived, exchanged some words and paperwork with Gretchen.

  “Goodbye,” I said to her, as they wheeled me out.

  “Good luck,” she said.

  She’d never said more than she needed to, nor tried to lure me into some silly conversation about television or celebrities. She’d never tried to get me to talk about how I got there. She just came in, did what she did, and left. Her questions had always been to the point. I was grateful for that.

  The medic wheeled past the nurses’ station. I felt somewhat like a little boy in a miniature car, because I couldn’t do anything, stand up, walk, or even go to the bathroom by myself. Suddenly, we were in the elevator. I closed my eyes and then we were outside. The sun was shining, and it warmed my face. He rolled me across the road to where the aid car sat parked. I took a deep breath. The fresh air was a little jarring, like I just took a whiff of amyl nitrate.