FIFTEEN
Today when I wake up, I do a line of coke off the plate on my night table. I’ve been buying grams from the bouncer at the after-hours joint. I think he cuts it a lot, but he’s the only person I know who sells coke on a regular basis. He’s also reliable, as drug dealers go. I’ve managed to have a steady supply all week.
Right now I’m not what I would consider high. I just have some extra energy. It’s like a cup of coffee, but with more of a drip.
I wrap myself in a blanket and wander out into the living room, where Barry is awake and watching some movie on cable.
“Good morning, precious,” he says as I sit down. He kisses the top of my head. “You off tonight?”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “What’s for dinner?”
“Give me money. I’ll go shopping.”
I scowl. “I want a receipt.”
He scowls back. “Fine.”
I look around the room. “Hey, Barry? Where’s the VCR?”
“I sold it to a crack head for forty bucks the last time you threw me out. I needed cab fare,” Barry explains, as if that’s perfectly normal.
“Fuck, Barry! You told me that was a five hundred dollar piece of equipment!”
“Yeah, it was. And I stole it myself, so it was my five hundred dollar piece of equipment.”
“I’m not buying us a new one,” I say.
“Then don’t. I don’t care,” Barry exhales a mound of smoke. “So, do you want me to go shopping or not?”
“Yeah, go shopping.”
“Give me money.”
I groan, and go to get it. I know that Barry still pilfers from my earnings whenever he can. It’s his only source of income. Nothing really changes with us. Nowadays, I just hide the bulk of my wad and look the other way when he skims a few bucks off the grocery budget. I’m willing to lose it, though I speak to him sternly so that he won’t take any more. Playing this game is cheaper than hiring a housekeeper. Although, you get what you pay for.
“Here,” I hand him a hundred bucks. “I’m serious about that receipt.”
Barry gets up to go out. “I’ll be back in half an hour. Anything specific you want?”
“A new body,” I muse. “Should I get a boob job?”
“Not for a hundred bucks,” Barry quips, and he’s out the door.
My new friend Dahlia calls while he’s out. It turns out she lives nearby, so I invite her over.
“And you get to meet the ass on the couch,” I tell her.
“I can’t wait,” she laughs.
“Hey, Dahlia?” I don’t even know her real name.
“Huh?”
“Bring something.”
“Sure, okay.”
I met Dahlia at the club last week, and I like her a lot. We spent half of a slow night sitting up against the wall, talking frankly about our real lives. Dahlia’s thirty-six, and she says she still passes for twenty-eight, which I think is fabulous. She doesn’t get involved in the club’s politics. But we both find the same people annoying. Neither of us has any patience for the girls who brag about making over a grand a night and then swear that they don’t turn tricks.
Dahlia confessed to me that she’s on methadone maintenance the first night I met her. Translation: she gets methadone when she’s unable to score heroin. Hell, I’m not going to judge her.
If anything, I’m curious about it. A lot of my favorite musicians have been smack addicts. There has to be a reason they like it so much.
When Barry returns, Dahlia and I are sitting on the couch together.
“Hey, you didn’t tell me we were having company,” he says.
“This is Dahlia. Dahlia, that’s the ass on the couch,” I reply.
“Well, technically right now you’re the ass on the couch, baby,” Barry smiles without missing a beat, the portrait of debonair. Oh, brother. He leans forward to shake Dahlia’s hand. “Would you like something to eat?”
“I would,” I interject.
“God, she’s rude, isn’t she?” Barry asks, indicating me. This is halfway in jest for both of us. For some reason, we seem to enjoy putting on a show for people.
I follow him into the kitchen to put the groceries away.
“I like her. She’s cute,” Barry says.
“Yeah. She’s your age,” I tell him.
“Well, then we’ll probably have something in common somewhere.”
“Oh, you do.” I pause. “Hey, Barry?”
“What’s up, angel?”
“You know how you’re always talking shit about junkies, right?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Please don’t say anything bad in front of Dahlia, okay?”
“You know I wouldn’t do that.”
I laugh. “I know nothing.”
“Well, at least you’re finally admitting it,” he crows, leaning down to kiss my forehead again.
“Fuck off!” I throw a potato at his head. He ducks, and it rolls onto the floor. He puts his arms around me. We both snicker.
“Barry?” I mutter into his elbow.
“Yeah?”
“I’m gonna try some. Don’t say shit, okay?”
He pushes me from him and holds me a foot away from his body, gazing at me intensely.
“What have I always told you about heroin?”
“Cut it out,” I whimper. His fingers are digging into my shoulders. “It’s gonna have to happen sooner or later. I’ve read some Burroughs, and I want to know if it’s like that, okay?”
“It’s like that for Burroughs,” Barry says. “It’ll be different for you. One line, and that’s it.”
“I’ll be careful. I’ll just do enough to get high. Might be more than a line. Dahlia has works, anyway.”
“You are not shooting up. Do you hear me?”
“What’s the difference?”
“A lot. I will kill any bitch that is stupid enough to put a needle in you. Do we understand each other?”
“Fine, Barry.” I brush him away. “Just don’t interfere, and don’t be mean to my friend.”
“I have no problem with your friend. On the same token, that’s her life. I guarantee she’ll be the first person to tell you that being a junkie sucks. You don’t want to have her life.”
“Oh, yeah, like mine is so much better,” I say.
Barry shakes his head. “Honey, child, precious, baby. Love of my life, and my worst fucking nightmare. You have no idea.”
I’m bored with his high and mighty crap, and I don’t want to leave Dahlia by herself for too long. I roll my eyes in answer to the soliloquy and walk away. In the living room, she’s sitting on the couch with the cat in her lap.
“She’s friendly,” she says, indicating the cat.
“She’s slutty,” I grin. “That cat is so loveable it’s sickening.”
“I love cats. You know, Dahlia was my cat’s name when I was a little girl.”
“Really? I thought it was your real name.”
“No.” She whispers her real name as if she’s saying a swear word in church.
“Can I keep calling you Dahlia? I’m used to it now.”
“Sure, I don’t care.”
That’s how it goes with all of the girls I know from work. We use each other’s stage names even outside of the club, so it doesn’t get too confusing for anyone. It’s just one more way that Angels crosses over into real life. Oh, well. At least we picked these names ourselves.
Dahlia pulls out a small baggie made out of what looks like waxed paper, and dumps it on the glass plate I’ve set down in front of her.
“Do you have a razor?”
“Barry does. Hey, Barry!”
He pokes his head into the room.
“Gimme one of your straight razors.”
Barry shakes his head. “You’re on your own, Miss Thing. I’m not getting involved with this. Oh, and Dahlia, do me a favor – don’t let her shoot up.”
I groan. “I think I have a credit card somewhere.”
I dig into my wallet and pull out my ATM card. Barry is still watching us.
“Well, if you’re not going to help, then go away,” I scold.
Barry ducks out of the room, muttering, “Don’t ever let me have to say ‘I told you so.’”
“He does downs,” I inform Dahlia, who is trying to act normal around us. “He’s a total hypocrite.”
She smiles sympathetically, and starts cutting the tiny bit of cream-colored powder up into lines with the ATM card.
“I’m going to shoot mine, if that doesn’t bother you,” she says.
“Do what you need to do.”
“I can’t even get high if I snort it anymore,” she explains. “Do you have a spoon and some water?”
I get up again to get her what she needs. Barry is standing over the stove top, ignoring me. When I return, she has the syringe out on the coffee table.
“I don’t really want to watch the needle go into your arm, though,” I say. “I’m squeamish.”
Dahlia shrugs. “So was I. You get used to it.” But she obliges, turning away so that her back is facing me while she fixes.
I roll up a dollar bill, put my head down, and snort a line of dope off the plate. Then I tilt my head back and wait to be dazzled.
Minutes later, I’m disappointed. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this is no different from really good pot, if you ask me. I’m a tiny bit lightheaded, and I have no urge to ever get up off this couch.
We stare at the TV screen in front of us. My brain doesn’t register a thing that’s on it. Pretty soon, the feeling subsides, and all I am is tired.
I get up and go into my bedroom, returning with the baggie that contains my leftover coke.
“Do you want to do some of this?” I ask Dahlia. She shakes her head. I pour a pinch onto the plate, soften it up and snort it.
Better.
“Let me try some more of yours now,” I suggest.
“Help yourself.”
The resulting feeling is closer to what I was hoping for. The dope sends calm warmth throughout my whole body, but now the coke is keeping me alert. I feel strong and in charge. Maybe this is what I’m supposed to feel like all the time.
Dahlia and I make small talk about the club while we watch TV. Barry puts heaping plates of food in front of us. I think it’s supposed to be some kind of stew that he’s made. We barely touch it. He sits down in one of the folding chairs to read, and ignores us.
I still don’t see what the big fuss is about heroin, and I definitely don’t understand how people would want this drug so badly that they’d collapse their veins to get it into them.
Dahlia tells me that it’ll never make sense unless I shoot up, but that she agrees with Barry about how I shouldn’t start. Barry looks up from his book. “Sensible girl,” he nods in Dahlia’s direction.
As soon as we’ve polished off the rest of our stash, Dahlia calls a cab to take her home. She stands in the vestibule with her coat on.
“Thanks for having me over,” she says.
“Yeah, it’s cool that you live so close. We should see more of each other. Are you working tomorrow?” I ask her.
“Not till Thursday.”
“I’ll see you Thursday, then. Hopefully there’s some money in the club, huh?”
She rolls her eyes. “That’d be nice.”
“You’ll come over again, right?”
“Yeah, of course. I’m going back to L.A. next week, though. I’m not sure for how long.”
“Oh.” That’s just great. I finally make a friend, and she’s on her way to somewhere else. “What’s in L.A.?”
“My family.” She looks at the floor. “You don’t want to hear about it, believe me.”
“I know how that works,” I agree, ruefully.
We hug goodbye, and then she’s gone.
“Too bad she’s got a boyfriend,” Barry comments. “She’s just my type.”
“Oh, please. So now junkies are all right?” I mock.
He stretches and yawns. “Nobody’s perfect.”
Continue reading:
| « Previous: FOURTEEN | Next: SIXTEEN » |
Subscribe via RSS
Subscribe via email
January 10th, 2009 at 7:04 pm
shit. well prosaic.