Well, from my last posts, those who read them anyway, probably got the sense that I was heading in this direction anyway, but fuck it-I got a need to write, as I've been sitting in my room all day, watching United States of Tara- feeling brain dead.
Last Friday I got payed for a job that I had been commissioned to do. I got the cash and then headed down towards the nearest methadone clinic, located under a subway overpass by a murky canal filled with toxic sludge, and littered with coke bottles and McDonalds French Fry's boxes.
As I made the fifteen minute trek to where I would buy my heroin, I really had no thoughts going through my brain. All I could pay attention to were the rolling cramps in my stomach, amd my loosening sphincter, which I had to control with an almost Zen ammount of concentration, to keep myself from shooting out a projectile stream of diarhea.
As I approached the bridge, I saw the clusters of addicts standing in small groups outside the bodega's, sipping coffee, waving canes in the air. It was hideous, but the sight was familiar, amd it brought me some comfort 'cause I could already smell the dope. As I approached the crowds I ran into my friend Guerdo, a portly Hispanic man sporting a wooden cane who's dealt Xanax to me for the past 6 years. I hadn't seen the guy in months, but to my surprise, he remembered my face as well as my name, and gave me a hug before asking what I needed.
I'm looking for smack I said. His brow scrunched up for a second, and he unscrewed the lid to his bottle of clonazepam and popped two pills before telling me to follow him.
We walked towards another group of methadone patients, and Guerdo started asking around if "R" was still around. One highly intoxicated woman belched out something to the extent of "who's this white boy!?" I just took my portfolio (yeah I know, so very white of me), and leaned against the deli wall while my friend asked around for me.
After several phone calls to "R", that Guerdo made using ther people's cellulars, we were told to meet the mystery dealer at the clinic. Guerdo instructed me to hand him the cash, since "R" didn't know me, which I reluctantly did. Ive known this dude for a long time, and he'd always dione right by me, but there's nothing I hate more than having to cop through a middleman. At the time though, there was no alternative, as I had less of a chance getting beat in Brooklyn by a friend, then I would have in the Lower East Side.
Guerdo left me by a triangular shaped block, on a bench under a huge overpass. From my position I luckily was able to see him head up towards the clinic and meet up with the dealer. I still was insanely nervous though-whenever I cop dope, and things dont go completely as planned (which is 70% of the time), I enter this incredibly emotional and desperate state. As I sat on that bench waiting for my friend to come back to me with the dope, I began engaging in suicidal fantasy's. I imagined one of the trains derailing from the overpass above, and plummeting down towards my position, killing me instantly. My mom could say "At least he died clean.."
Well the minutes turned into an hour, and I was getting increasingly more antsy about the whole thing. Two DT's had just pulled over and began questioning a group of addicts sitting on another bench. Luckily I had my sketchbook out, so I passed off as just another yuppie waiting for the bus, sickened by the nearbye methadone clinic and it's patients for lowering real estate value. Soon after the cops left, I saw lumbering slowly across the street, one of my old heroin dealers from the year before, a fat, giant of a man named Anthony. I made sure to catch his eye, and he gestured for me to walk ahead of him and meet in the middle of the next block.
We stopped inside a small smoke shop, and Anthony asked me how much I was looking for. "Two" I replied, and then went into a corner where I fished out a crisp twenty. We left the smoke shop, and made the deal. I took down the fat bastards number, and then headed up towards the clinic to find out what was going on with Guerdo.
As I crossed the street I saw him standing in the middle of a large crowd of people, who were all yelling frantically in Spanish. As I came upon them, Guerdo's face was red, as if he'd been crying. An African American lady said "Check your fuckin' wallet dumbass!"-My heart sank. Guerdo pulled his wallet out of his back pant pocket, and sure enough, my sixty dollars was wadded up inside, he looked up to the sky and screamed something in Spanish, with tears rolling down his face. A brutish fellow with a wife beater and a bandanna then grabbed the money and shoved bunch of baggies tied together with a rubber band into the wallet and took off.
"Oh my God Znegative! I thought I had lost your money!" I patted him n the back and told him it didn't matter now, all was good.
We got back towards the buss stop and Guerdo handed the dope over to me. I wrapped it in a ciggarette plastic, and quickly cheeked it before I parted ways.
I went to the nearbye McDonalds and bought two apple pies, then asked for the bathroom keys. I locked myself inside the stall, through out the works, and mixed up my shot. My hands were shaking from the anticipation, but I managed to steady them enough to hit a vein and shoot for the stars.
Last Friday I got payed for a job that I had been commissioned to do. I got the cash and then headed down towards the nearest methadone clinic, located under a subway overpass by a murky canal filled with toxic sludge, and littered with coke bottles and McDonalds French Fry's boxes.
As I made the fifteen minute trek to where I would buy my heroin, I really had no thoughts going through my brain. All I could pay attention to were the rolling cramps in my stomach, amd my loosening sphincter, which I had to control with an almost Zen ammount of concentration, to keep myself from shooting out a projectile stream of diarhea.
As I approached the bridge, I saw the clusters of addicts standing in small groups outside the bodega's, sipping coffee, waving canes in the air. It was hideous, but the sight was familiar, amd it brought me some comfort 'cause I could already smell the dope. As I approached the crowds I ran into my friend Guerdo, a portly Hispanic man sporting a wooden cane who's dealt Xanax to me for the past 6 years. I hadn't seen the guy in months, but to my surprise, he remembered my face as well as my name, and gave me a hug before asking what I needed.
I'm looking for smack I said. His brow scrunched up for a second, and he unscrewed the lid to his bottle of clonazepam and popped two pills before telling me to follow him.
We walked towards another group of methadone patients, and Guerdo started asking around if "R" was still around. One highly intoxicated woman belched out something to the extent of "who's this white boy!?" I just took my portfolio (yeah I know, so very white of me), and leaned against the deli wall while my friend asked around for me.
After several phone calls to "R", that Guerdo made using ther people's cellulars, we were told to meet the mystery dealer at the clinic. Guerdo instructed me to hand him the cash, since "R" didn't know me, which I reluctantly did. Ive known this dude for a long time, and he'd always dione right by me, but there's nothing I hate more than having to cop through a middleman. At the time though, there was no alternative, as I had less of a chance getting beat in Brooklyn by a friend, then I would have in the Lower East Side.
Guerdo left me by a triangular shaped block, on a bench under a huge overpass. From my position I luckily was able to see him head up towards the clinic and meet up with the dealer. I still was insanely nervous though-whenever I cop dope, and things dont go completely as planned (which is 70% of the time), I enter this incredibly emotional and desperate state. As I sat on that bench waiting for my friend to come back to me with the dope, I began engaging in suicidal fantasy's. I imagined one of the trains derailing from the overpass above, and plummeting down towards my position, killing me instantly. My mom could say "At least he died clean.."
Well the minutes turned into an hour, and I was getting increasingly more antsy about the whole thing. Two DT's had just pulled over and began questioning a group of addicts sitting on another bench. Luckily I had my sketchbook out, so I passed off as just another yuppie waiting for the bus, sickened by the nearbye methadone clinic and it's patients for lowering real estate value. Soon after the cops left, I saw lumbering slowly across the street, one of my old heroin dealers from the year before, a fat, giant of a man named Anthony. I made sure to catch his eye, and he gestured for me to walk ahead of him and meet in the middle of the next block.
We stopped inside a small smoke shop, and Anthony asked me how much I was looking for. "Two" I replied, and then went into a corner where I fished out a crisp twenty. We left the smoke shop, and made the deal. I took down the fat bastards number, and then headed up towards the clinic to find out what was going on with Guerdo.
As I crossed the street I saw him standing in the middle of a large crowd of people, who were all yelling frantically in Spanish. As I came upon them, Guerdo's face was red, as if he'd been crying. An African American lady said "Check your fuckin' wallet dumbass!"-My heart sank. Guerdo pulled his wallet out of his back pant pocket, and sure enough, my sixty dollars was wadded up inside, he looked up to the sky and screamed something in Spanish, with tears rolling down his face. A brutish fellow with a wife beater and a bandanna then grabbed the money and shoved bunch of baggies tied together with a rubber band into the wallet and took off.
"Oh my God Znegative! I thought I had lost your money!" I patted him n the back and told him it didn't matter now, all was good.
We got back towards the buss stop and Guerdo handed the dope over to me. I wrapped it in a ciggarette plastic, and quickly cheeked it before I parted ways.
I went to the nearbye McDonalds and bought two apple pies, then asked for the bathroom keys. I locked myself inside the stall, through out the works, and mixed up my shot. My hands were shaking from the anticipation, but I managed to steady them enough to hit a vein and shoot for the stars.
