Category : Books-Non-Fiction

Sub Category : Biography

June 2007

    Before all that mess, we had checked into a methadone clinic. Even though now, I am very anti-methadone, back then we felt like it was the only means for us to stop using dope. It was a hundred bucks a week, which was a great deal cheaper than our dope habit, which I can’t even recall how much was.
     They were open for about two hours daily, except on Sundays. They’d hand you a liquid dose that measured out to how much you were using. Most of the time, I’d pretend to swallow the pink liquid, then spit it back out into the cup and keep it, just in case we couldn’t obtain any dope.
     Yes, we were using at the same time. This became a back-up plan if we ran out of dope.
     One of the horrible things about the Methadone Clinic was that if you didn’t arrive in that two-hour window that they were open, you were screwed for that day. And you would pray to God, that you made it Saturday, where they gave you a take-home dose, because they were closed Sunday. If you missed that dosage, you were screwed for two days. Leaving you to have to go through Methadone withdrawal, which is ten times as hard as heroin withdrawal.
    You really don't want to go there
     So no, according to Mike, Scarlett was terrified of me—I don’t entirely blame her—but she couldn’t recognize it as an accident. I was merely trying to protect myself, without having to raise a fist at her. Though I nearly did, when red was all I could envision. After that night, she started staying at Mike's house, which was right down the street from my Dad's house, so if I had to, I could find her. 
     But she wouldn't even speak to me, not even through a phone call. I had to talk to Mike, who would be the middleman in our conversations. Our weak conversations that didn’t last more than a minute. Every feeble call, which seldom lasted more than thirty seconds, would end with, “She’s too scared to go back.”
     I had an intuitive belief that this was absolute bullshit. She was merely looking for any excuse to stay with Mike, so they could be together and bang each other’s brains out. And, well, I gave her that excuse, doing what I did.
     One day, a co-worker had hooked me up with some Molly—straight MDMA, that makes up the primary ingredient in Ecstasy. I bought two of them for us, thinking everything would be fine and we could be "rolling" together, thus reanimating our relationship.
     That had never happened.
     I ended up driving all the way to Mike’s house, begging her to come back, while I was rolling. I spent the rest of the intense roll listening to electronic music in the car and apartment, by myself. That’s how the next few weeks were spent, alone.
     I didn't understand. How did she become the victim? She cheated on me. Something I would never have done to her. She was the only person I wanted to be with. She had my heart. But then she vandalized it with Mike's name. I was done with him. What kind of friend does that? 
      I started to think about my clique of friends. A few of them were true to me but others, not. Back when I was drinking, I had gotten into a few fights, but no one ever had my back. I'd be on the ground with two guys kicking me in the head, but not one of them would jump in. I could see them too, watching as if there was popcorn being passed around. 
     I felt like I had nobody. Everyone knew I was shooting heroin. I had lost friends due to the original rehab stigma, but not near as many as when they found out about the heroin. 
     I thought about just dumping her and leaving her things outside. But, she was my only way of obtaining any dope, which I still wanted and needed because I was doing a terrible job of making it to the clinic. I didn’t know where I could get dope anywhere else without her. I even tried asking people at the clinic, but all of them had flaked on me. She was my only connect.
     Thus, I was stuck.
     Trapped.
     In a net of love,
     and a demand for dope.
 I know, you’re probably thinking, why didn’t you just break up with her?
     The truth being, I still loved her. I had a huge heart, even though she crushed it, leaving it to die. But like my father, I couldn’t just let her go. I still loved her. Even though I was alone and somehow it was my fault. 
      Until one night, I had ran out of cigarettes so I drove to the gas station a few blocks from my house. I had no energy to walk. There, I had heard a knock on my car window. 
  “Hey man, d’you know if you’z could gimme a rides a-downtown, man?” He spoke with a Boston-Hispanic accent, but didn’t look Mexican; although, it was dark out. I wanted to tell him "No," but it was only a ten-minute drive, plus he could probably hook me up with some alcohol. That’s plausibly why he wanted to go downtown since it was past midnight and the gas station stopped selling beer.
     “Yea, dude, get in.” In hindsight, I have no clue how he could've brought me any alcohol downtown.
      Sure enough, I gave him a ride downtown.
      It was a quiet drive, for the most part. He asked me what my name was and what I did for a living. I’m sure I asked him the same questions, but I don’t recall any of his answers. I only remember asking him if he could get me some alcohol once we got down there.
      “Sure, no prollum man,” he told me.
      I brought him to 7th street and reminded him to not forget about my beer when he got out of the car.
      Once again, he said “No problem.” And so I waited.
      It wasn’t but a couple minutes when he came back empty handed, it looked like.
      “Yo man, I couldn’t get no beer or liquor man, but I gos dis shit.” He stuck out his right hand, then opened it, showing me a clear, straight pipe and a few square bits of what looked like solid blocks or crystals even. I had no idea what it could be, or I didn’t have enough time to think of what it could be, before he told me. “It’s crack, man… You cool?”
      “Yea man, I’m cool.” I certainly didn’t want him to think I was a cop, or snitch, or anything like that, hence when he offered it up, I couldn’t help but say, “Yes.”
      He handed me the pipe already loaded with a smaller, broken piece of a bigger block. He was going to light it for me and told me to slowly inhale.
      So I did.
      He then told me to hold the smoke in as long as I could and to blow it out through my nose.
      As I blew out a thick cloud of that dirty smoke, I felt it immediately. My body had become weightless. My head was a balloon flying up towards the roof of my car. My entire body was relaxed. It didn’t make me talkative and pepped-up like cocaine usually did. It mellowed me out, but this wasn’t like any other high. This high was off the charts. But two minutes later, it was gone, and I wanted another.
       Bad.
      I was instantly hooked right then and there.

    After two weeks of blowing all of my money on this new drug I loved, she came back. The days I spent without her were the most brutal days I’d ever experienced, at the time:
     I wouldn’t come off the couch.
     I scarcely ate.
     I worried to death about her, not knowing if she had fixed for the day or not.   
     But now, she was back; although, not entirely. She would come back for a little bit of the day, then leave, or she’d come stay the night maybe, then leave in the morning. Each time she’d come back then leave, my heart would endure another stabbing. It was savagely wounded by the time she stayed for a couple days because she told me she was pregnant, once again.
     She wouldn’t tell who’s it was, but I knew it wasn’t mine. We had not had sex in weeks. It had to have been Mike’s child growing inside her. I wanted to be sick and hurl out everything inside of me, which wasn’t much—some pink vitamin water and a few powdered donuts.
     “I’m gonna get an abortion.”
     Of course, she was. That would be the smart move since she was still on heroin, methadone, and who knows what else. Plus, she couldn’t take care of a baby by herself and there was no way I was going to help.
     “Babe, you have to help me,” she spoke in a quiet, but frantic voice.
     I was flattered she still called me “babe.” When I heard that, I felt my heart open back up, like it had sprung back to life. Perhaps there was hope for us after all.
     I ended up paying for half of it.
     I still don't know if the abortion was real or a lie.
     Then randomly, one day, she came home, but she wasn't alone. She was accompanied by two rancid, disgusting, dudes. They looked about our age, but also looked like they hadn’t showered in months. I believe Josh and Steven had helped her out, finding dope, therefore she invited them over to our house.
     After that, she started coming over every now and again. One day, she left once more, but left one of them with me.
     Josh was a cool dude. After I told him to take a shower, he wasn’t a bad-looking guy either. He was white, but sunburnt, with brown eyes and a big nose. His balding hair was a dirty-blonde mohawk that had fallen down—much like his life had, while being homeless. 
     Josh started off being my shadow, following me everywhere I went. When I went to work, he would find a place nearby to "spange," or spare for change. Eventually, he became my pal and sidekick.