The cash was burning a hole in my pocket.
Predawn air settled against my moist skin as I left my parents’ house and made my way downtown. Before catching the 34E bus to Forest Hills, I bought two packs of cigarettes at Mimi’s—one menthol, one regular. Nicotine was keeping me alive. I smoked two regulars once I arrived at Forest Hills, then took the Orange Line to Downtown Crossing, transferred to the Red Line, and rode it several stops to Davis, dozing from a sleepless night in withdrawal. My group therapy session for "artists in recovery" started at 9:30 a.m., so I planned to push through it and then head straight to the dopeman.
Straight to oblivion.
I lit a menthol as I emerged from Davis Square Station. The brisk autumn breeze cut through me and sent a battery of chills throughout my body.
"Hey, man, can I getta cig?" He was draped in rags. Had long, nappy brown hair, nearly dreaded. Scabs speckled his face—red craters on a pale moon. He obviously indulged. I could smell it on him.
"Sure." I handed him the full pack of menthols. "Keep ‘em."
"Really?" He smiled wide, wafting halitosis.
I flinched. "Yeah, they’re yours… you know anyone holding around here?"
"Holdin’ what? You a cop?"
"Nah, man. I’m not a cop. I’m looking for brown."
"You sure you’re notta cop? You have to tell me if you are… that’s like… the law."
"I’m not a cop. If you can’t help me, that’s fine—"
"You shoot it?"
"Yeah."
"Show me a track."
I lifted my sleeve. "There, happy?"
"Gimme a shot and I’ll help ya out. I’m sick, man. Really sick…"
"Yeah, yeah, we’re all sick. I’m not in the mood for bullshit. Are you gunna rob me?"
"Hey, no way, man. I’m cool."
"Where are we going?"
"We gotta meet ‘em by Alewife." The end of the Red Line. We were one stop away.
"Okay. I have to be somewhere in an hour, so this can’t take long."
"Won’t take long at all!"
I paid our fares and we boarded a vacant train car. He was excited.
I was embarrassed.
"What’s your name?"
"Skilly."
"Skilly?"
"Yep."
"All right, Skilly, call your guy." I handed him my cell phone and he dialed.
"Yeah, it’s me… Skilly… can I get one… a big one… yeah… almost there… fifteen… okay… call this phone."
"Gimme my phone back. Are we good?"
"Yeah, man. Relax, bro. It’s gunna be eighty. Can I get the money?"
"I’ll give it to you when we get there."
"All right, man. Just chill."
"You got fresh works?"
"Yeah, man. I got a whole pack."
"Like brand new?"
"Yep. I’ll show ya later."
We got off the train and walked along the highway as mid-morning traffic zipped by. It was a gray, dull day—perfect conditions for heroin.
"I need your phone and the cash," Skilly said, stopping at a wooded area on the median strip.
"Don’t fuckin’ rob me, I’ll give you a nice shot."
"I’m not gunna! Wait over there." He pointed toward a tangle of trees. "We can hit there, too."
"Fuck… fine."
I handed him my valuables and stomped to the center of the median. I watched him pace and chain-smoke menthols from behind a tree. I had three cigarettes myself before a jalopy collected him and drove off. I've been robbed, I thought. What the hell am I doing? I should be in group right now. I shouldn’t have touched that fucking safe. I shouldn’t have relapsed in the first place. This is what people expect of me. A junky shoots junk. La-ti-da. So it goes. I still have the combination. I’ll go back. I’ll go back and take the Glock and put an end to this. I’ll find the courage to delete myself. De-map. But first, I’ll stand here in the woods like some useless fool and wait for a homeless man to bring me heroin.
Centuries passed.
I was about to leave when the jalopy pulled up and Skilly popped out smiling. He ran to me holding out my phone.
"All good, baby!"
"Gimme the bag."
"Just let me take my shot."
"No. I’ll give it to you. Give me the bag." He handed it to me. It was bleach white. "Is this fucking coke?"
"No, it’s pure fetty! Way stronger than dope!"
"Fentanyl… let’s see your works." He produced a black shaving kit, unzipped it, and fished out a ripped plastic bag of neon-orange-tipped insulin syringes, an unopened water bottle, and another small bottle of cloudy liquid.
"What’s that?"
"It’s my rinse. I dissolved K-pins in it. Gives me a ‘lil extra… wanna try?"
"No. Just give me a spike."
He passed me a spike and I examined it to ensure there was no dried junky blood in the chamber waiting to infect me with an alphabet of hepatitis. After confirming it was clean, I immediately filled it with fresh water before he contaminated the bottle.
"All right, where’s your cooker?"
It was one of the metallic caps they gave out at harm reduction clinics, burnt to an abysmal shade of black. I tore open the bag of fentanyl and dumped a shot in.
"C’mon, man. A little more?"
"Goddamnit." I frowned and shook another grain out.
As Skilly struggled to find a vein, I fixed my shot and flicked away air bubbles in the anemic light breaking between two branches.
"Can you help me, man?" he asked desperately.
"Hold on…"
I wielded the spike in my left hand, extended my right arm, and stabbed my median cubital vein, aspirating for the crimson celebration. The chamber flooded. The plunger plunged. Warmth suffused my body and colored my face.
"Woah…"
Everything gray became graciously gloomy. For a moment, the rush was overwhelming, and I thought I was on my way out, that my looted corpse would be found in the woods near Alewife.
But that moment passed.
"C’mon, man! I need help!" Skilly cried, his arms streaming blood. I capped my spike, pocketed the evidence, lit a regular, and strolled away as he cursed: "What the fuck, man! Where are you going? I need help here you fuck!”
◆◆◆
It was 10:45 a.m. when I made it back to Davis Square.
The bus ride to Arlington was one long nod.
"We here!" the driver yelled at the last stop, eyeing me in the rearview mirror. "Fuckin’ junky," she muttered as I lumbered by.
I lit a regular and scoped out Right Way Recovery from across the street, mentally gauging if I was too high to attend group. Way too fucking high, I rightfully decided, turning away.
The front door opened.
"Joe? That you? We thought you weren’t gunna make it this morning."
Like a bullet to the back.
Run, I thought. He hasn’t seen your face.
"Oh… hey, Woody. I’m just running late… sorry…"
Vomit, I thought. I’m going to vomit.
"No worries, man. Why doncha finish your smoke and c’mon in when you’re ready? We’re about to start our second session."
"Yeah, will do."
"You all right?"
"Never better."
"Okay, see you in there."
The front door shut.
I lit another regular and took my time with it, fighting my drooping eyelids and lagging limbs. The fentanyl cackled from my pocket. The spike joined with a maniacal tone. Get a grip, I thought, slapping my cheek, feeling nothing but a numb spark.
The receptionist scowled as I entered the building and made a beeline for the bathroom. I splashed water on my face and stared into my pinned pupils. I heard murmurs of therapy, vulnerable people passionately sharing their stories, with Woody’s calming chords spouting dubious, enraging clichés to their pink, spongy, perfectly fucked minds.
"That’s all bullshit," the spike whispered.
"He’s right," the fentanyl agreed. "You’ve been working hard, you deserve another shot!"
"C’mon, load me up! Oblivion awaits! Let’s fuckin’ go!" The spike bit my thigh. I recoiled, smacked my pocket, and forced myself out of the bathroom.
The room fell silent as I inched the door open.
"Sorry I’m late…" I said, taking the last available seat.
The addicts looked angry.
Jealous, maybe.
"That’s all right, man. We’re just glad you made it. We’re talking about triggers, the things that make us want to use. If we can pinpoint why we use, we have a chance to change our behaviors and recover. What do you think your triggers are, Joe?"
My father, I thought.
"Uh, I’m not sure. Maybe… buses and trains?"
"Okay, tell us more."
"Yeah, Joey, tell us more!" the spike mocked.
"Uh…" The fentanyl had latched itself to my throat and lowered my voice a full octave. "I don’t know… my father… he would always take my car… that was when I still had a car… The Saturn… and I’d get sick… and I’d have to take the bus, then the train into Boston just to get right… it would take hours… sitting on a bus stuffed with normal people as my body attacked itself… I’ve puked on trai—" I looked up to various expressions of disgust. "Anyway… yeah."
"Wow, man. That must be tough. You take the bus and the train to get here, right?"
"Uh… yeah…"
"That’s a tough situation, Joe. Really tough. What do you think you can do to make it easier?"
"I know what you could do, Joey! I know! Pick me!" the spike blurted.
"I… I dunno… I thought you were supposed to tell me that…" The room fell silent. "Sorry, I have no idea. I’m… lost… probably hopeless."
"Don’t say that, Joe. Nobody is hopeless. We all need a little help sometimes, a little nudge in the right direction. You’re here, and that’s what matters. Thanks for sharing."
"Thanks, Jos—"
I couldn’t fight it anymore.
My eyelids crashed.
The world went black.
◆◆◆
I came to as the group filed out for break.
"There he is. You all right, Joe?" Woody said with genuine concern.
"Yeah… sorry, Woody. I haven’t been sleeping lately…"
"I don’t know, man. You’ve got us all worried."
"I think it’s this new medication…"
"Which one? The BuSpar?"
I didn’t recognize the name.
"Yeah."
"We still wanna do a drug test, just to make sure."
"Okay."
"And we’re gunna send you home to get some rest. Anything you wanna tell me before you head out? I’m here for ya, man."
"No."
"All right, man. Go see Cathy in the office and pee for us, then you can go."
Disgrace overwhelmed me as I rushed past the group. They buttered bagels with bayonets. I knew I’d never see them again. I knew most of them would relapse, too, and blame their families and lovers and the rehabs and the chills of sobriety, never accepting that the real cause of their misfortune was their own glaring incompetence. They’d restart the cycle and end up back at Right Way Recovery scorning the next junkbox who decided to shoot up before group.
"Just go, fuck that drug test!" the spike commanded, and I shot straight out the front door.
Outside, the day had returned to gray.
Dread descended upon me.
What the fuck do I do now? I thought.
"Find the nearest bathroom and shoot up?" the spike suggested before bursting into menacing laughter.
I'm already dead, I thought. This thing’s got me. I can’t let go. It just never fucking stops. Never ends. I shoot myself into a nod, wake up in nightmarish withdrawals, then steal my way into another nod. Over and over it goes. Until I’m one of the skeletons stumbling around Methadone Mile. Faceless. Sapphire-lipped. And my family. They’ll never forgive me. This is it. The last time. How many times has it been? Where did it start? Who was I before this? I can’t remember anything before the needle. Before yesterday. Before right now, this feeling, the fear conquering my mind.
But I can’t stop now.
I lit a regular and walked until I came upon a Dunkin’ Donuts.
"Bathroom," the fentanyl whispered.
I was suddenly ordering: "A small iced coffee with whole milk and two sugars… yeah. Can I use your bathroom?"
Bright lights. Bleach. Gunk in the drippy sink. This mirror reflects a liar, I thought. A possessed soul. Something hollow. The spike’s in my arm. It’s sucking the life outta me. The bag’s empty.
Empty.
I’ll need more. Is the money still in my pocket?
Yes, it’s still there.
The spike’s still in my arm.
It’s filled with blood.
I’m pushing it back in.
I’m pushing.
Thud thud.
I'm pushing.
Thud thud thud.
The voices are muffled by the door, but I know what they’re saying.
They want to break it down and kill me.
But I’m already dead.
I’m almost there. I just have to keep pushing.
I’m pushing.
Thud thud thud thud.
I can’t open my eyes. It’s taking me. I’m going. I’ll go. I won’t resist.
Trails. There’s no feeling here. There’s nothing.
I’m floating through the darkness. It’s taking me.
I’m going.
Pushing.
Floating.
Leaving.
Thud thud thud thud thud.
Buy the paperback/ebook here.
THE BARMAN© AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS
VILE SELF PORTRAITS© AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO TRIGGER WARNINGS
Red line representation! I was captivated by this.
Excellent, and your trigger was your dad's money. Junkies are probably some of the best liars, which sometimes become terrific writers of fiction.