I am writing while at least partially sober for the first time in weeks. This past month has been spent silently screaming at my constant waterfall of druggie debt. When you’re a heroin addict, -$250 in your bank account and no food on the table for a few nights seem like a necessary, damning part of life. I could say I’m done with it, but I’ve said it a thousand times and lit the foil up with no face of remorse half an hour later. I keep thinking that if I keep saying it, it might just come true, and I tell myself that it is not me walking to the gas station for more cash back that I don’t actually have; it is heroin. I also say to myself that I am not the one making the daily trek from convenience store to dealer’s house; that’s the heroin talking.
I write this as a cheap little weed pipe sits next to my computer, almost staring at me, asking me why it’s not accompanied by the $50 black tar bag from the night before last. I know it’s an inanimate object, but I feel that even this mediocre glass piece is judging me for going through a half gram of heroin in less than two days.
Crumpled foil and cached heroin remain on the coffee table. There is residue on all the baggies in my trash can, but I will not dig through the pathetic trenches of what should only be “normal person” banana peels and frozen dinner boxes. Dirty straws, leftover shooting supplies from my needle-loving cohorts, foil with black stains and soot and empty lighters; these comprise my trash collection, tucked neatly among the legal waste.
Listen to me; I’m talking about my trash can.
“Just one time!” Mr. Junkie Acquaintance throws a needle at me. His name is Tony. If he thinks a hit is shit, he’ll say so; “that dude sells the bunkiest of the bunk black, man.” Admittedly, for weeks I could not figure it if “bunk” was supposed to be bad or good. I didn’t waste too much time trying to get the meaning; Tony shot up every substance he found if someone told him it MIGHT be heroin. I’ve been seeing him a lot more lately. When I was buying my $50 bag a couple days ago, he was there trying to convince my dealer/part-time frenemy to trade an expensive stolen camera for a gram of the blackest drug.
“This camera’s worth $500, man. Look at how clear the pictures come out.”
The dealer in question, I’ll call him Donnie, decided to test that claim by taking a few pictures of himself, Tony and me. “Ooooh!!! This is nice!” Donnie said gleefully. Contrary to society lore, dealers are often not the smartest nor the most charismatic; many are simply the most addicted to their drug of choice.
Donnie didn’t take the camera. “I’m not made of black, dude; I’m sorry, but I’m going to bed now, and you’re going to have to go out the back door.” He then gave Tony a few farewell smokes off his tray and banished him to the outside world of No More Drugs.
After Tony left, Donnie turned to his video game console and continued his obsessive quest to be the best alien soldier in America. I took a few hits and then gazed at the dumb television screen. He shared some meth with me as well, so we got really excited and then he talked me into eating pasta with a side of salty chips. Sometimes I wish druggie life could be this easy all the time.
I remember when Donnie tried to pummel me, I remember the time he stalked me home, and I certainly recall his bouts of paranoia that make it hard for anyone to really be friends with him. But he gets at least five visitors a day: sometimes ten, sometimes twenty. They all say they’re his “friends.” I can see that they are not. They want the drugs that hide in the locked room upstairs, and they will do anything to get them.
“Just once! Just one time!” Tony’s teasing stuck in my mind. I recalled that he was there when I attempted to shoot up for the first time with a dirty needle. Only, I was told that I had horrible veins and that it would be a waste even trying on my arms or legs or feet. Whatever. Tony can make fun of me all he wants; he likes to do that. At least I don’t steal cameras and iPods from my rich parents’ cars, pretending to care about them all while snatching another tool for drug collateral. Tony does that, and sometimes I think he’s proud of it. Junkie with a lifeline, junkie with a bloodline, junkie with a direct line to the beyond-prized heroin heaven: valuables. MONEY.
But meh, wouldn't I do the same thing? Probably not.
I write this as a cheap little weed pipe sits next to my computer, almost staring at me, asking me why it’s not accompanied by the $50 black tar bag from the night before last. I know it’s an inanimate object, but I feel that even this mediocre glass piece is judging me for going through a half gram of heroin in less than two days.
Crumpled foil and cached heroin remain on the coffee table. There is residue on all the baggies in my trash can, but I will not dig through the pathetic trenches of what should only be “normal person” banana peels and frozen dinner boxes. Dirty straws, leftover shooting supplies from my needle-loving cohorts, foil with black stains and soot and empty lighters; these comprise my trash collection, tucked neatly among the legal waste.
Listen to me; I’m talking about my trash can.
“Just one time!” Mr. Junkie Acquaintance throws a needle at me. His name is Tony. If he thinks a hit is shit, he’ll say so; “that dude sells the bunkiest of the bunk black, man.” Admittedly, for weeks I could not figure it if “bunk” was supposed to be bad or good. I didn’t waste too much time trying to get the meaning; Tony shot up every substance he found if someone told him it MIGHT be heroin. I’ve been seeing him a lot more lately. When I was buying my $50 bag a couple days ago, he was there trying to convince my dealer/part-time frenemy to trade an expensive stolen camera for a gram of the blackest drug.
“This camera’s worth $500, man. Look at how clear the pictures come out.”
The dealer in question, I’ll call him Donnie, decided to test that claim by taking a few pictures of himself, Tony and me. “Ooooh!!! This is nice!” Donnie said gleefully. Contrary to society lore, dealers are often not the smartest nor the most charismatic; many are simply the most addicted to their drug of choice.
Donnie didn’t take the camera. “I’m not made of black, dude; I’m sorry, but I’m going to bed now, and you’re going to have to go out the back door.” He then gave Tony a few farewell smokes off his tray and banished him to the outside world of No More Drugs.
After Tony left, Donnie turned to his video game console and continued his obsessive quest to be the best alien soldier in America. I took a few hits and then gazed at the dumb television screen. He shared some meth with me as well, so we got really excited and then he talked me into eating pasta with a side of salty chips. Sometimes I wish druggie life could be this easy all the time.
I remember when Donnie tried to pummel me, I remember the time he stalked me home, and I certainly recall his bouts of paranoia that make it hard for anyone to really be friends with him. But he gets at least five visitors a day: sometimes ten, sometimes twenty. They all say they’re his “friends.” I can see that they are not. They want the drugs that hide in the locked room upstairs, and they will do anything to get them.
“Just once! Just one time!” Tony’s teasing stuck in my mind. I recalled that he was there when I attempted to shoot up for the first time with a dirty needle. Only, I was told that I had horrible veins and that it would be a waste even trying on my arms or legs or feet. Whatever. Tony can make fun of me all he wants; he likes to do that. At least I don’t steal cameras and iPods from my rich parents’ cars, pretending to care about them all while snatching another tool for drug collateral. Tony does that, and sometimes I think he’s proud of it. Junkie with a lifeline, junkie with a bloodline, junkie with a direct line to the beyond-prized heroin heaven: valuables. MONEY.
But meh, wouldn't I do the same thing? Probably not.
