STACY AND STEVIE/SNOOK'S EYES
VILE SELF PORTRAITS, CHAPTER TWELVE/THIRTEEN
STACY AND STEVIE
"You’re really beautiful," she said.
I looked around, confused. "Me?"
"Yeah, you have a beautiful face. And your hair is unique."
"Wow, thanks. I appreciate that."
The outpatient cafeteria resembled my middle school’s. Straw sunlight dove through the windows. Sanitizer radiated from every surface. Milk cartons, skim or chocolate, were fifty cents each. Beastly lunch ladies wearing hairnets with fetid crevices shoveled slop onto plastic trays. The greasy meat oozed a strange orange slime.
"I’m Stacy. This is my fiancé, Stevie."
"Nice ta meetcha, kid. Whatcha here fa?" He never looked at me, just chewed and sipped his skim milk.
"Depression… drugs. That kind of thing."
"Yeah, us too," Stacy said. The cafeteria hummed. "We’re gettin’ married," she added suddenly, twirling her fork. "I’m pregnant!" She broke eye contact.
"Yeah," Stevie said, swallowing hard, scrutinizing his tray.
"Congratulations."
"Yeah, congratulations," he said.
Scrutinizing his tray.
SNOOK’S EYES
(Starts at 1:34 in the audio.)
Dopesick thoughts are fleeting, never to be finished or remembered again. One thought prevails, but it’s more of a being that lives and speaks. It says, "Go," whispering and commanding it vehemently, smothering your senses, inching you closer and closer to that awful, beautiful brown powder. The longer you last without it, the louder the being becomes.
Hellish screams disrupted my circuitry.
The spoon waited impatiently in The Saturn’s center console, black-bottomed and mummified in toilet paper. My clammy fingers clasped the wheel while chills snaked my shoulders and spine. I swerved through lanes, whizzing past commuters, parents, children, and other ordinary citizens.
Everything leaked, all of my openings and holes, sticky, sickly fluids that varied in consistency. I stopped short at a red light. Cars surrounded me, but I suddenly needed to puke. Like a sock to the stomach. I took a look for cops. There was no holding it in. If there were cops, I’d just puke on the passenger seat and pray the light didn’t turn green.
All clear.
My head darted. I opened the door and let it fly. Corrosive bile pounded the pavement. Innocent eyes pried at the back of my skull as I mopped my mouth with some used napkins. The light turned green and I floored The Saturn, letting every morsel of disgrace plummet into the blackest chasm of my mind. I drove on toward Snook. I owed him $40, but he said he would hook me up.
He always said that.
Pony introduced him as "my boy Snookie." He was black, around forty-five, stubby, and bald. Had a neat gray beard and always wore a beanie. Smoked Newport shorts. Preferred the soft pack. Usually had a Fronto blunt tucked behind his ear full of seeded weed. Sold crack and dope. Hard and brown. His bags were short and weak. Came bundled in Keno tickets he’d take from the corner store on Centre Street. I’d park on Walden Street and go into the projects to meet him in a stairwell. The project building doors were invariably locked, so he’d have to let me in. He’d be waiting and looking mean.
That’s just how he was.
The gas light illuminated as The Saturn squeaked to a halt and I cut the engine. I bounced out of the car and bolted to the door, meeting Snook’s minacious eyes in the narrow window.
He opened the door.
"Hey, man. What’s going on?" I said, wiping a stream of slime from my nose.
The door closed with a finite thud.
"Where’s ma fuckin’ money?"
His hands were behind his back.
Under his jacket.
His eyes were fatal.
"I have sixty…"
I backed into the corner of the stairwell.
Out came the pistol.
A black Beretta M9.
He pointed it at my guts.
"Face da fuckin’ wall an’ run ya shit."
"Okay. Sorry, man… I’m sorry, I—" My jaw chattered. I turned and emptied my pockets onto the stairs: spare change, a maimed spike, a lighter, my phone, wallet, keys, and a single cigarette ripped at the filter. "That’s all I have, man. Take it all," I said, as if Snook wanted my dirty needle.
I envisioned dying. It seemed easy. Trivial.
Living was the hard part for me.
"Shut the fuck up."
In my peripheral vision, I saw his free hand rummage through the pile, taking only the money. This will be my legacy, I thought. The suburban junkbox who got shot over a gram. "He was so young, with so much potential."
Snook dug the barrel into my back.
"Sixty-seven bucks, imma take dis." The pressure grew. He leaned in close to my right ear. "Fuck wit’ me again an’ imma kill you, ‘lil pussy ass bitch."
Silence.
The door opened and closed.
I slowly turned around. My sweaty palms left stamps on the wall. As I gathered my belongings, my adrenaline faded and unveiled a sickness far worse than before. I scampered to The Saturn and blasted the heat. Thick sweat settled throughout my body. The gas light heckled me. I rubbed my hands by the vents. Nothing would matter until I got a hit. The world would keep spinning through chaos. My head would keep pulsating. My eyes would keep gushing involuntary tears. The cold would keep getting colder, spawning shivers and chills over and over. I put The Saturn into drive and took off, hoping I could scrape up what I needed to scrape and maybe feel better again.
If only for a moment.
Paperback/ebook here.
VILE SELF PORTRAITS© AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO DRUG ADDICTION
I hadn't thought of listening to the audio! What a fabulous idea, actually paying attention to the writer!! Looking forward to some fine audio!
Reading your stuff, it doesn't quite hit as hard as listening to your audio recording of it. Completely different experience, very good stuff man.