Your vision is snowy, like the reception is all fucked-up. You touch the back of your head. The blood is cartoon red.
Douglass watched the news. “It’s that knockout game. From the back you were wearing all black, so they thought you were Jewish. These young, stupid teenagers, mostly black kids, hit Jewish people in the head.”
“Shit, that’s why they ran when they saw my face.” The fact did not bring any of the relief I would have expected. It only made me think, If I were Jewish, would I be dead? What would they do to an actual Jewish person? This then led to an uncomfortable quandary. “Should we call the police?”
“I don’t know.”
I slept for the next two days, awakening only to snort a few lines. My stomach hurt. It felt like my ribs were broken, but if they truly were, I probably wouldn’t have been able to stand it. The hardest thing to deal with was how ugly and stupid people could be. My attackers were sadistic and cruel. I wasn’t a real person to them, but like an extra in Grand Theft Auto. All I could do was lie there. Sometimes I thought about taking a shower, but sitting up was a nightmare.
“You’re so lucky you’re a writer,” Elizabeth said as she lifted up a part of the floor. Like a piece of the fucking floor. One of the wood planks was cut in half, and she lifted it up. She pulled out a dusty antique box and started going through the stuff in it, putting the occasional empty bag to the side.
“I haven’t written in forever,” I said. “I don’t even think of myself as a writer.” I was thinking, How did she do that? Could I just make a hole in my floor? That was so cool.
“But you can write, you have a place where you can put everything. I don’t know where to put things. You can make something out of all the ugliness.” She looked up at me. She had tears in her eyes. “What am I supposed to do with all the shit that happens to me?”
There isn’t much you can maintain when you have to worry about scoring every day so you don’t get sick. My life was a waiting room, a TV room, and then back to a waiting room.
When you’re around other junkies, no one speaks while everyone is waiting. Come back after the dope arrives and no one can stop talking and laughing. Everyone talks excitedly about their plans, and no one talks about how addicted we all know we’ve become.
You could turn to another junkie and say, “I really need to stop.” And you will be met with a knowing nod and the words, “Yeah, me too.” Everyone always says it. Everyone probably means it.
Only one of my johns knew about my drug use. He talked to me about NA, and once when I snorted a bag in front of him, he said, “C’mon. Please don’t do that. I don’t want to take your ass to the hospital.”
There were no track marks to hide.
I got cash from dudes and then gave my cash to dudes who sold me drugs.
I wanted regulars. Every time I saw a guy, he talked about seeing me again, but I got used to not hearing back from them. I got used to never believing anyone. They wanted variety. That’s why they contacted me to begin with.
Also, I wasn’t thin and blond. I could have cleaned up if I was.
Men hate when you talk about your body. This guy Kevin said, “Shut up. I don’t care at all.”
The more money they had, and the more money they gave me, the nicer and more respectful they were.
My days continued: getting high, either going out for a date or not, either getting more drugs or not. Sometimes I read.
Sometimes it felt like there was blackness underneath everything. Like a Rothko painting, how the blackness bleeds through. Feeling everything led to nothing, and there was nothing I could do about it. Day after day of being alone and numb and fucking strangers and having cash and blowing it all, and then knowing in a day or so I’d have plenty more. It would just go on like that till my teeth fell out, till I didn’t even have the strength to pull myself out of it. No kids, no family, me alone except for the growing terror my dreams weren’t in the future but somewhere far behind me. I had to figure something out, because I knew this couldn’t last forever — but whatever, if I didn’t get a bag today, it would be fucking horrible, so I got another bag. I needed a break just from thinking about it.
One more day, and then I’ll stop. Wait, I should taper down a little. Wait, I need to get Xanax first. Wait, I have a date in two days, so why shouldn’t I use a little longer to make a lot more money? Always thinking, One last big score. Go out with a bang.
* * *
I didn’t mean to kill myself, but nobody believes me. I did a lot of dope, but not more than I’d ever done before. Maybe it was the Xanax on top of the dope and the not eating or sleeping. I never would have thought Douglass would call 911 on me, so I must have scared him.
I come to vomiting white shit on the floor of the living room. Then the ambulance shows up, and I try to tell everyone I’m really okay, but once I’m in the ambulance, the EMT leans in and says, “My advice to you is if you really want to get home, act normal.” She says this with an air of confidentiality, like she is relaying a secret code. I take the advice to heart and go with it.