How I Spent My Time in County Jail
It was the Winter of 2010 in Lowell, Massachusetts. My hometown was a little rough around the edges, many would say. We were 26 miles away from Downtown Boston as the crow flies. Being a junkie had taught me to measure distance "as the rat scurries". I had always dreamed of the the day I would get out of my parents' house and strike it out on my own. My Father was an Alcoholic/Cocaine addict. I had always wanted to show him how wrong about me he was by starting a life of my own. The fact that I was now fully dependent upon on Heroin and Alcohol and now terrorizing my very own woman with my addiction took a lot of the would-be wind out of my sails, however.
Maria was my girlfriend of about a year. She was half-Dominican, half-Puerto Rican and she was a bitch on wheels. She was the first woman to ever throw a knife at my head. I still love to reminisce about those halcyon days. We had our things we did as a couple. She would castigate me for being so damn tired all the time. I would tell her that my history studies were kicking my ass. I would take the rent money, buy Heroin with it and then spar with my landlord for 5-6 days until I was able to come up with the money. Mr. Agnostoupolos was the only landlord I had ever rented from to use the phrase "I know where you live" in correspondence with me. I used to have nightmares that he would break into our apartment in the middle of the night and murder me. I had spent my youth boxing and wrestling. I had seen Rocky 1-4 no less than a dozen times. It goes without saying, I was prepared for anything.
I lived in a triple decker in the city's Acre district about a mile from where I grew up. I lived with 4 others, my high school best friend, Cori and two random dudes. One is a guy named Taylor who I knew from having bought lots of Ecstasy off of him. The last one, I can't even remember his name; clearly and ancillary character no? My landlord would call the three of us "Dopey, Scrawny and Fuckface". I lived in a single room with Maria. She was everything I had always loved about latin women. She had the fiery passion in her heart enough to make me feel loved and occasionally, terrified. I was young enough and not yet using enough dope that my sex-drive was still occasionally present. I was also young enough to still put such a premium upon "sex-on-demand" that I was willing to forego that feeling in the pit of my stomach that would tell me to run away and change my name. I couldn't do that though. I knew if I did, she would undoubtedly murder my best friend.
I was doing a good enough job keeping myself alive at UMass, attending every single mandatory class and doing my best to learn the same math my peers had mastered back in the 8th-9th grade. I dreamed of being a teacher. At this time, I was so confident I was going to die or end up in prison or something, it just didn't seem possible. Fuck, I didn't think I was going to live to be 30 years old and look at me now, I'm 35 bitches!
I had started using Opioids, at that time, we still tended to refer to the whole lot as "Opiates", but I'm showing my age here. Lowell was a destination for drug users from all up and down the interstate corridor. However, people from Lowell knew to go to Lawrence for the best and cheapest Heroin. Lawrence was a bit smaller than Lowell, but highly dense in population. It was 70% Latino back in the day. We would go there and buy grams of Heroin for 40-50 bucks; less if we bought more. I would make money by bringing back the cheaper Heroin and selling it to the people unwilling to go into Lawrence. See, Lawrence had an almost entirely Caucasian police force and they would profile White folks in the city and find reasons to pull them over. When we would go, we would call our dealer. Almost all of the dealers were known as Papi and I took would be referred to as Papi. This could make the logistics of communication complicated, but it felt nice to be included in another's culture.
We would end up waiting on the side of the road until the SUV would pull up alongside us for just a second. That was the signal. We would put the car in drive and follow them on twists and turns throughout the city until they would suddenly pull over. I would run up to their window. Papi would then spit plastic wrapped "grams", always weighing 0.8g into your hand. You didn't really have a choice in the matter. Flu season or not, you had to then put the dope in your own mouth. Yes, there was a sexual element to this for me, but that is something for discussion on a different forum, perhaps, "Keif's Late-Night Homoerotic Confessions". We will save that material for later episodes.
I got into the passenger seat of Renee's late, late-model Toyota Corolla. We should've known better than to go into the town after dark, but dope waits for no man. See, Renee was a complete fucking moron. I believe he was probably born addicted to all of the drugs, was dropped on his head a couple of times and the fact that he was fully French-Canadian didn't help. His parents had immigrated during the great Dry-Wall Rush of the early 80's. They say French Canadians are the Mexicans of dry-wall. I wouldn't know, because I don't say shit like that, because I am not a racist. He had only two teeth left in his mouth, right in front. The roots were so black that I feel infection had somehow fixed the teeth permanently in place. I'm sure those two teeth reminisce of the days in which the molars were still available to help chew. There's no point pining over what once was though. Renee flashed me a snaglle-toothed grin as I sat down on a bed of Doritos crumbs and receipts.
I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Storm clouds of sheer discomfort formed over Middlesex County that night. I had hoped it was just gas. I became so certain we were going to get pulled over in Lawrence. I swore to God that I would never go back to Lawrence again if he would just let me make it out of there and back home to my borderline-abusive girlfriend. Then I could get high, turn on some King of the Hill and pretend like I was listening until we would inevitably have angry, loveless sex and go to sleep. Well, the universe had other plans for me that night. Remember how I told you about how stupid Renee was? That is what is known as foreshadowing in the writing game.
I had to run over the New Hampshire border to drop off Heroin to a guy in Nashua. As we got off the highway, I noticed we were slowing down for no reason on the exit ramp. Renee is already visibly sweaty by the time I look over to see that we are indeed, out of gas. Renee forgot to put gas in his piece of shit car and we were now slowly rolling to a stop literally on the exit ramp. I begin freaking out trying to think of a way out of this. Not more than 5 minutes later did the New Hampshire state Police roll up on us. They took one look at Renee and his snaggle-toothed smile and asked to search the car. Renee had already swallowed the entirety of the Heroin, about 6 grams. I knew we would be fine. All I had in my pocket was a syringe. There was no getting rid of that and it would be a ticket at the very least... in Mass.
In New Hampshire, things were different. I politely informed the officer of the syringe in my pocket. He removed it. Several minutes later, the trooper returned to informed me that they had swabbed the inside of the barrel and it had tested positive for Heroin. I was like "so?". The trooper than told me to turn around and informed me I was under arrest for Felony possession of Heroin. I did not have a criminal record of any kind. I was in college and hoping to be a teacher. My life flashed before my eyes as the situation seemed just too surreal to be happening. I started the day with hopes and dreams. Now, I was on my way to the Hillsborough County Jail in Manchester, NH aka "Valley Street". It had a reputation even over the border. You didn't want to go there if you had to go somewhere. I went through waves of denial and bargaining with the Universe. I would be out by morning. I kept telling myself. They were going to medicate my withdrawal. Surely, they wouldn't be so uncivilized as to let a white Jewish boy in college withdraw amongst the riff raff?
I intended to use all of my guile, charisma, intelligence and white privilege to get myself out of this situation. Little did I know, I was about to be put into a dark hole where nobody gave two fucks about any of my wants, needs or desires. Next time, I'll break down one of the most utterly terrifying, miserable periods of my entire life. Coming soon in Part 2.
It was the Winter of 2010 in Lowell, Massachusetts. My hometown was a little rough around the edges, many would say. We were 26 miles away from Downtown Boston as the crow flies. Being a junkie had taught me to measure distance "as the rat scurries". I had always dreamed of the the day I would get out of my parents' house and strike it out on my own. My Father was an Alcoholic/Cocaine addict. I had always wanted to show him how wrong about me he was by starting a life of my own. The fact that I was now fully dependent upon on Heroin and Alcohol and now terrorizing my very own woman with my addiction took a lot of the would-be wind out of my sails, however.
Maria was my girlfriend of about a year. She was half-Dominican, half-Puerto Rican and she was a bitch on wheels. She was the first woman to ever throw a knife at my head. I still love to reminisce about those halcyon days. We had our things we did as a couple. She would castigate me for being so damn tired all the time. I would tell her that my history studies were kicking my ass. I would take the rent money, buy Heroin with it and then spar with my landlord for 5-6 days until I was able to come up with the money. Mr. Agnostoupolos was the only landlord I had ever rented from to use the phrase "I know where you live" in correspondence with me. I used to have nightmares that he would break into our apartment in the middle of the night and murder me. I had spent my youth boxing and wrestling. I had seen Rocky 1-4 no less than a dozen times. It goes without saying, I was prepared for anything.
I lived in a triple decker in the city's Acre district about a mile from where I grew up. I lived with 4 others, my high school best friend, Cori and two random dudes. One is a guy named Taylor who I knew from having bought lots of Ecstasy off of him. The last one, I can't even remember his name; clearly and ancillary character no? My landlord would call the three of us "Dopey, Scrawny and Fuckface". I lived in a single room with Maria. She was everything I had always loved about latin women. She had the fiery passion in her heart enough to make me feel loved and occasionally, terrified. I was young enough and not yet using enough dope that my sex-drive was still occasionally present. I was also young enough to still put such a premium upon "sex-on-demand" that I was willing to forego that feeling in the pit of my stomach that would tell me to run away and change my name. I couldn't do that though. I knew if I did, she would undoubtedly murder my best friend.
I was doing a good enough job keeping myself alive at UMass, attending every single mandatory class and doing my best to learn the same math my peers had mastered back in the 8th-9th grade. I dreamed of being a teacher. At this time, I was so confident I was going to die or end up in prison or something, it just didn't seem possible. Fuck, I didn't think I was going to live to be 30 years old and look at me now, I'm 35 bitches!
I had started using Opioids, at that time, we still tended to refer to the whole lot as "Opiates", but I'm showing my age here. Lowell was a destination for drug users from all up and down the interstate corridor. However, people from Lowell knew to go to Lawrence for the best and cheapest Heroin. Lawrence was a bit smaller than Lowell, but highly dense in population. It was 70% Latino back in the day. We would go there and buy grams of Heroin for 40-50 bucks; less if we bought more. I would make money by bringing back the cheaper Heroin and selling it to the people unwilling to go into Lawrence. See, Lawrence had an almost entirely Caucasian police force and they would profile White folks in the city and find reasons to pull them over. When we would go, we would call our dealer. Almost all of the dealers were known as Papi and I took would be referred to as Papi. This could make the logistics of communication complicated, but it felt nice to be included in another's culture.
We would end up waiting on the side of the road until the SUV would pull up alongside us for just a second. That was the signal. We would put the car in drive and follow them on twists and turns throughout the city until they would suddenly pull over. I would run up to their window. Papi would then spit plastic wrapped "grams", always weighing 0.8g into your hand. You didn't really have a choice in the matter. Flu season or not, you had to then put the dope in your own mouth. Yes, there was a sexual element to this for me, but that is something for discussion on a different forum, perhaps, "Keif's Late-Night Homoerotic Confessions". We will save that material for later episodes.
I got into the passenger seat of Renee's late, late-model Toyota Corolla. We should've known better than to go into the town after dark, but dope waits for no man. See, Renee was a complete fucking moron. I believe he was probably born addicted to all of the drugs, was dropped on his head a couple of times and the fact that he was fully French-Canadian didn't help. His parents had immigrated during the great Dry-Wall Rush of the early 80's. They say French Canadians are the Mexicans of dry-wall. I wouldn't know, because I don't say shit like that, because I am not a racist. He had only two teeth left in his mouth, right in front. The roots were so black that I feel infection had somehow fixed the teeth permanently in place. I'm sure those two teeth reminisce of the days in which the molars were still available to help chew. There's no point pining over what once was though. Renee flashed me a snaglle-toothed grin as I sat down on a bed of Doritos crumbs and receipts.
I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Storm clouds of sheer discomfort formed over Middlesex County that night. I had hoped it was just gas. I became so certain we were going to get pulled over in Lawrence. I swore to God that I would never go back to Lawrence again if he would just let me make it out of there and back home to my borderline-abusive girlfriend. Then I could get high, turn on some King of the Hill and pretend like I was listening until we would inevitably have angry, loveless sex and go to sleep. Well, the universe had other plans for me that night. Remember how I told you about how stupid Renee was? That is what is known as foreshadowing in the writing game.
I had to run over the New Hampshire border to drop off Heroin to a guy in Nashua. As we got off the highway, I noticed we were slowing down for no reason on the exit ramp. Renee is already visibly sweaty by the time I look over to see that we are indeed, out of gas. Renee forgot to put gas in his piece of shit car and we were now slowly rolling to a stop literally on the exit ramp. I begin freaking out trying to think of a way out of this. Not more than 5 minutes later did the New Hampshire state Police roll up on us. They took one look at Renee and his snaggle-toothed smile and asked to search the car. Renee had already swallowed the entirety of the Heroin, about 6 grams. I knew we would be fine. All I had in my pocket was a syringe. There was no getting rid of that and it would be a ticket at the very least... in Mass.
In New Hampshire, things were different. I politely informed the officer of the syringe in my pocket. He removed it. Several minutes later, the trooper returned to informed me that they had swabbed the inside of the barrel and it had tested positive for Heroin. I was like "so?". The trooper than told me to turn around and informed me I was under arrest for Felony possession of Heroin. I did not have a criminal record of any kind. I was in college and hoping to be a teacher. My life flashed before my eyes as the situation seemed just too surreal to be happening. I started the day with hopes and dreams. Now, I was on my way to the Hillsborough County Jail in Manchester, NH aka "Valley Street". It had a reputation even over the border. You didn't want to go there if you had to go somewhere. I went through waves of denial and bargaining with the Universe. I would be out by morning. I kept telling myself. They were going to medicate my withdrawal. Surely, they wouldn't be so uncivilized as to let a white Jewish boy in college withdraw amongst the riff raff?
I intended to use all of my guile, charisma, intelligence and white privilege to get myself out of this situation. Little did I know, I was about to be put into a dark hole where nobody gave two fucks about any of my wants, needs or desires. Next time, I'll break down one of the most utterly terrifying, miserable periods of my entire life. Coming soon in Part 2.
