“Well, Thor,” I say to the chocolate brown face, “I’m glad I have you.” And we both settle down in a huddled, awkward ball as familiar as the couch in our old living room, to pass the time in slumber.
“Come on. Come on. Scoot over.” John pushes, and I awake with a start. It seems that only a few hours have passed.
“Huh? What? Okay…I gotta pee, John, and so does Thor.”
“Shhh. Stay down till we’re down the road.”
Turning toward the valley on Laurel Canyon, then right on Ventura, we travel about half a mile till John spies the Valley Chalet motel and pulls in. Oh…we’re gonna get another room first. This is good. We usually do a run after leaving Eddie’s, but I’m happy to think I can take a bath and wash some of the grunge off my stiff, aching body. Sadly, I have misread the situation. The time in jail has made John’s already worn and haggard face even more leathered. But there is something else, something terribly more demoralizing. It’s as if a mask covers his face—one of those rubbery, wretched faces people wear on Halloween.
John checks us in and, as usual, inspects the busy street outside. Opening the door of the small room, he waves me in. Grabbing one of the garbage bags and stuffing Thor under my shirt, I scramble in through the open door. The motel is a particularly seedy place with old green shag carpeting, rust stains in the sink and bathtub, and see-through spots on the sheets from years of wear. Everything is bolted down, including the cheap, velveteen Spanish matador pictures on the walls covered in peeling paint.
As always, John immediately places the desk chair under the doorknob of the front door. He strips off his clothes and hops on the bed, snapping open his briefcase. The freebase pipe is lying on its side at the bottom, already assembled. He opens a small film container and taps a few crumbs onto the screen in the bowl. He motions for me to light the end of the Bacardi-laced cotton ball, and I dutifully comply. John pulls in a long, slow draw, holds it in till his face bursts flame red, and plugs up the stem with his thumb. His shoulders slump as he leans back against the headboard.
Sitting on the edge of the cheap cardboard bed, I pull at the invisible nylon threads on the bedspread, anxious for him to share his exhale of the mind-numbing solution. John knows I’m craving the drug. I want to disappear too. I can see the tension in him deflate, like air seeping from a giant blow-up doll. His body relaxes. I reach out and gently touch his leg, a puppy begging for a table scrap.
Finally, after what seems like forever, he leans forward and offers me his lips. They taste of burnt screen and plastic, a taste which means these are the last scrapings of his briefcase; he is out. Why? We just got back from Eddie’s. I try not to think and force myself to search for any bits of altered state to blur my thinking. I suck in another gulp of air, holding my breath for as long as I can manage. It will let me think I am high, have a “buzz” if I can hear ringing in my ears. When I release my lungs, as I suspect, there is no cloud of residue. I’m depressed and don’t want to look up. He’s gonna get mad any minute now. John sits staring at his pipe lying relaxed in his hand, wearing his nakedness like a comfortable suit of clothes. Then he raises his head to look me up and down.
“Get dressed,” he orders sternly.
“What? I am dressed, John.”
“No. Something nice.”
“W, why, John?” I ask, nervous about being part of one of his plans. Is he going to dress me so he can rape me? What kind of perverse sex game is he going to play this time? God, please, I don’t want him to tie me up again, like he’s been doing lately when he shows me how he can hog-tie an animal. It hurts too much. I’m not high enough for that. Please.
“You know…” John’s voice is eerie, like a mortician’s: flat, hard, and cold.
It is late afternoon, I note from the way the light falls orangey yellow through the shabby, faded curtains. My gut sends a wave of cold sweat through my body as understanding falls, my shroud of ignorance lifts, and John’s intention pushes its way into my consciousness. This place…his request…is a reality I have always feared but hoped would never come. Quickly I force the ugly realization out of my mind, and with a terrified hard gulp I will John’s motives away. I sit motionless, silent, wanting time to stand still.
For a few pregnant moments, John tinkers aimlessly with some loose jangling pieces in his briefcase. “What are you waiting for?”
Slowly, I struggle to get up. I don’t want him to get angry—I don’t want to get hit—so I obey and open the plastic bag of clothes. Maybe if I do what he asks he will change his mind. Aimlessly, I pull out jeans and T-shirts and heap them on the floor. “This is all I got, John.”
“That one. That flower top I got you. And those jeans. Put those on.” He flips his thumb menacingly on the pipe as he points to the pile.
The air gets thick and heavy, and the size of the room shrinks and suffocates me. His thumb keeps an angry beat on the glass. Tink, tink, tink…
I steal a glance at his face to check his mood. The blue of his eyes is a bright contrast against the red background, and his nostrils flare like a crazed bull’s. I remember when his face looked like that in the past; it used to mean passion, sweet and strong. Now it is a clear sign of danger, of his impending rage.
Quickly looking away, I do as I am told. With my head held low, I keep a fearful watch from the corner of my eye, hidden by the long dark strands of my hair. With the trash bag emptied, its contents dumped unceremoniously on the floor, I cautiously stand up and sit next to John on the bed.
“Let me see your face,” he tells me, tapping the pipe harder.
Lifting my head obediently, I quiet a sob.
“Quit it!” He curls his lip, shoots a daggerlike glare at me. “You got any makeup in there?” He motions with his head.
“John, no, I…”
“Shut up and go look!”
Startled, I jump…then walk over to the bag, afraid he will throw a punch in my direction, and rummage blindly around. I can hear more tapping on the base pipe, the chink of the lighter, and a sucking noise of the bubbles rolling through the burned-out stem.
“Come here,” he chokes, still holding in the hit.
I walk over and robotically kneel on the floor next to him. He blows a faint, plastic-tasting mouthful of air hard into my lungs, and I hold it till I get dizzy again from lack of oxygen. I pretend to feel more of a high than is really there and slump down, stalling for time.
But John is not fooled. “Go wash your face and come here.” He indicates the spot next to him on the bed.
Again, I do as I’m told and, with my face damp from the metallic-smelling water, I lie next to him on the bed and tentatively reach over to hold him. John puts the pipe away and scoots down close to me, wrapping me tightly in his arms. Softly he begins to caress my back and legs, buries his face into my neck, till my body guardedly relaxes. He makes love to me, more gentle and loving than he has in a long time. He lifts my arms, my legs, scanning every inch of them, snapping a mental picture like an Instamatic camera. His kisses sweep over me from the base of my belly, up between my tiny breasts, into my neck. I melt into them, still scared yet desperately wanting the kindness, the sense of compassion, to be real…enough to erase the degrading moments earlier.
It’s over quickly, and John is back digging in the bottom of his briefcase for a few dirty pieces of freebase that might be floating loose in the corners with the lint and sand.
With his lovemaking having stopped as coldly as it began, I lie under the sheets and stare at the ceiling, my mind trying to fall asleep. The noise coming from John’s direction, every bang and crash, sends a jolt of fear through my body. I don’t like how urgently he’s searching for crumbs, and the familiar tension churns loudly in my stomach.
“It’s getting dark. Get cleaned up and put your clothes back on,” he says, his back turned toward me. “You’re going out!”
“No, John…Why? I can’t go…”
He snaps back and lunges at me. Taking me by the throat, he
growls, “You thought it was good enough for me when I had to sleep with those bitches. Now it’s your turn.”
“John, I, I, I can’t. I don’t want to sleep with anyone else. Really. I only want to be with you. I swear!” Tears come gushing out as I tell him the one thread of truth I have left in me, and I beg him not to do this. “No, John, please. No. I don’t want it. Please. Please!” I don’t know what to do. I plead to calm his unfounded fear that I am secretly lusting after others. I am convinced he’s just jealous and if he’ll believe I only love him, this torturous mistrust will end. “John, please!” My tears stream down onto his hand as I try to kiss his arm and loosen his grip on my neck. “Please. I don’t want anyone else. No strangers, no threesomes. Only you, John, please. Only you!”
The hatred clears from his eyes for a moment, and his gaze connects with my pleas. I think I recognize a flash on a memory of our love. Then I see rage again.
“Do you know what it takes to keep a roof over our heads and dope in the pipe? Besides, we owe him. Eddie Nash had to bail me out of jail! That did not make him happy. Now we owe him big-time!” John’s nostrils flare again, stretching his lip in a sneer as he glares accusingly at me.
“Then quit the dope, John. Please. This is all because of the dope. I hate it. I hate it. Stop it! Please!”
John lets go and takes a few long strides to the window, standing at the corner behind the curtains and looking out at the street. Again, I pray and say nothing more, hoping that if I stay quiet he will have a change of heart. It has gotten dark. He stands for a long time, naked, leaning against a side wall, peering out of the drapes—and finally, without saying a word, he picks up his clothes and gets dressed.
Rummaging in the pockets of his pants, he pulls out some condoms and flings them on the table. “Twenty bucks for a blow job and forty for all the way.” His face is expressionless. “And I’ll be in the bathroom watching. So don’t let the motherfucker go to the bathroom.”
I cringe at his words and go numb. I want to die. I want to die. That language slices through me like a razor-sharp Japanese suicide sword. I feel like nothing; less than trash. He hasn’t changed his mind at all, and my pleas go unheeded. I am exhausted and know that no matter how much I beg him, it won’t work. “What do I do, John? I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” He comes out from the curtains, yanks me up off the bed. “You walk up and down the street till someone stops. Let him talk first, then ask him if he’s a cop. He has to tell you. Tell him to meet you here. Don’t go with any of them.” His voice is deliberate, every syllable sharp as broken glass. His fingernails dig deep into my shoulders, tearing quarter moon cuts in my skin. “Now get dressed!” he orders, releasing me hard and throwing my chosen clothes at me on the bed. He raises his hand, sending me a look that says he’s had it. “Go!”
I cringe and cower. “Don’t, John. Please.” My skin stings with a rush of adrenaline. I’m scared that if I say anything else he’ll attack me. Slowly, zombielike, I put on my clothes. In the bathroom I stall for time, letting the water wash the tears and dirt from my face. I can’t breathe; my blocked sinuses press against my cheeks. My eyes are red and swollen from crying, with dark sunken bruises underneath, and my tangled hair is hard to comb through. Time is heavy, standing still; I’m in a bubble of space. I travel through it in slow motion as if I’m walking through a thick layer of slime. I have no sense of the shell that is now my body. All understanding of who I am is leaving me; I am completely unfeeling, detached from my movements, a fractured casing of who I once was. I dress carefully in the clothes John picked out, smoothing down my flowery shirt over my jeans again and again. Robotically, I walk past John, who takes a hard look at me and again peeps through the curtains, sucking at the barren pipe.
“Don’t get into anyone’s car!” he shouts without looking back.
I walk to the door, place my hand on the knob, and quietly turn. The knob sticks a little, and for an instant I believe I won’t have to go any farther.
“Go!”
My hand jumps; the door clicks open. I step silently into the humid air and the buzzing sound of heavy traffic, and become another street child of the Los Angeles night.
Knock, knock, knock. The tapping at the door is furious. I jump up to look out the window. John isn’t supposed to be back from Eddie’s yet, and I get nervous that someone might have followed me from the street. It is the black girl, Frosty, from the long-term bungalow at the other end of the motel. It has been a few weeks since John and I first checked in, and John has talked to her several times as we’ve come in or gone out. She waves at me every time she sees me leave the room to take my turn on the filthy streets. She knows John watches for me.
The evening’s street activity comes alive on its own, I find out. It is like the twilight zone, or a channel on television with programs I’ve never seen before. The actors and actresses all know their lines. I don’t feel like I’m doing anything different, just walking down the street, but I’m approached almost immediately. The one blessing, I think, is that it is over quickly. Paralyzing fear and horrific internal pain are over quickly, if I can set my mind on checking out for those moments. Then I can block it out…and then I can look at myself in the mirror.
After the night is over, John draws a steaming hot bath, removes my clothes, and ritually scrubs me clean. He counts and pockets the money, apologizing profusely that our lives have sunk so low. “Does that still hurt, baby?” He wipes the washcloth carefully over my cuts and bruises. “I’m so sorry. It’ll be better soon, baby, I promise. Just gotta get clean. Everything is better after you get all the dirt off.” John makes sure I am extra clean. It has to be this way before he can lie down with me, touch me. Sporadically, out of jealousy, he attempts to throw me a question or two about whether I enjoyed myself with those other men, and recoils instantly from my piercing death stare. In that moment, I could kill him. I know it, and I don’t care. I also know I will die doing it. But I relish the thought of tearing his body limb from limb, John screaming in pain and in fear of me this time. My thoughts scare me. I numb my brain again, slip away from reality. I let him dry me off and carry me to bed, where he will make love to my body under the sheets as I watch from a distant corner of the room.
“Can you help me?” Frosty asks, looking frantically from side to side. Small boned and large breasted, she is bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her hair is unkempt and matted, and a thin layer of nervous sweat beads on her upper lip and brow.
I unlock the chain on the door and let her in. “Sure. What’s the matter?”
“I, I just need your help holding my arm. I can’t find a vein. Can you just come over and help me? For a minute—just a minute—p, p, please?” she begs. Her brown face looks like dry ashy wood and is wrenched in agony.
“Uh, yeah, sure. I’m not supposed to leave the room, but okay. Let me get the key.” Her eyes, deep wells of black ink, are deeply creased in pain, pitiful. I can’t say no.
I follow her quick pace, practically running to keep up with her. I hope John doesn’t find out I’m helping her. She barrels through her door, pulls the chain across to lock it, and leads me to the built-in vanity, where her needle waits loaded and ready. Frosty is fixated, sweating profusely now. She grabs a belt lying handy on the chair and pushes her arm through the readied leather circle. Yanking back hard, she bites down on the loose strap with her teeth, contorting her face into a misshapen smile. She slaps the innermost part of her arm and picks up the needle.
I watch in horror, stammer uncomfortably, “Wha, wha, what do you need me to do?”
“Hold my arm. There.” She points with her chin through the strap in her teeth.
I race to do as I’m told and squeeze her arm tightly, cutting off the circulation so her veins bulge between my two hands. Frosty grunts and groans, digging into her skin with a bending needle, as I keep my grip secure. I want to throw up. Please, please, please. Let her find the right spot, I
think, hoping she’ll hurry. I am painfully sympathetic with my neighbor. I have seen her on the street at night, in that other evening world, usually smiling and throwing me a subtle wave. Tonight is different. She is so agonizingly desperate. Sweat and fear reek acrid and foul from every pore of her skin.
“Shit!” She drops her arm and releases the belt. “This isn’t gonna work. Damn it!” Grabbing the needle, she places it in her teeth and pulls off her shirt and bra. The belt dangling in her hand again, she does what I cannot believe and wraps it securely around one of her large breasts.
I struggle to keep a sudden rush of vomit down.
“Here. Hold this.” In a panic, she nods toward her chest, belt in her mouth, fingers slipping off her sweaty skin.
“Oh my God! Okay. Here.” I scramble to help, finding it hard to keep a firm hold on her slippery breast. We wrestle with the large mound of flesh to keep it motionless enough to catch a vein that won’t collapse. She’s done this before, I notice.
Blood runs profusely from the edge of the areola where Frosty continuously pokes her way to a working vessel. Then, in blessed release, she hits it. Her eyes roll to the back of her head, and she lets go of the belt. Splatters of crimson droplets spill a sinister-looking trail from the linoleum to the carpet until she finally puts her hand over the wound and collapses on the bed. “Mmmmmm,” she groans. “My medicine. Can’t go to work without my medicine.” Her words float through the air, dreamy and buttery smooth.
My face is flush with sweat and tears. I stand there awkward, not knowing what to do with myself. Frosty has forgotten I am here; she is drifting further away with the heroin. I clumsily grab a pile of cotton balls from the vanity and, sniffing back my tears, wipe up the drops of blood from the floor. How horrible and sad, and so close to home. Is this where John and I are headed?
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 29
