by Lutzke, Chad
Dave looked up from the book, squinted at me. “I’m out. And I wouldn’t share it with you anyway." He saw I was holding a backpack. “You bring more food?”
“I did." I took off the backpack and started pulling out the food. “Sorry, I didn’t bring any honey buns, but I got some chips, more granola bars, and these." I handed Dave a box of Nilla Wafers.
“I’m a heroin junkie, not a junk food junkie. I told you about the diabetes, right?"
“Sorry, man. I don’t have a job. I grabbed all this from home.”
“Your mom don’t cook?”
“Yeah, but I tried to grab stuff that didn’t need refrigerating."
“You’re over thinking it, man. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in....well, in a damn long time.”
“Here, I brought this for you, too." I handed him the copy of Trout Fishing in America.
Dave kind of smiled, sideways like. “Brautigan...you read?”
“Not much. I did read some of that last night, though.”
“Great, ain’t it?”
I didn’t really want to get into my honest thoughts on the book. I just wanted Dave to get in the car, take a drive, and score some of this magic heroin he was talking about so I could be on my way, so I just told him I hadn’t finished it yet. He took the book and set it along with the others, then tidied them into a little stack, like he was proud of his growing collection. His smile went full.
“So you’ve got no money for some H?" Dave asked.
“No, I’ve got money for that.”
“Just not for food." He said it like I was an idiot. And for one quick moment I felt like a kid being reprimanded by his disappointed father. But this was a homeless junkie who tossed his morals out long ago, someone with no right to talk down to me. I wasn’t like him. I was better than him.
“Listen, man. I brought money for you and me to get some heroin, and I’ve got a ride parked outside behind the house, so if you want to show off that liquid gold then let’s go do it, otherwise I’ll do it myself.”
I think Dave realized the situation because he set the book down and stood up as fast as his swollen ankle would allow and said: “Let’s go.”
***
Dave had me head out to Mustang, an island across the bridge by the gulf. It was mostly upper class and certainly not an area you’d run into people like Dave. He had me stop two blocks from a street that led into a subdivision, then he walked on his own the rest of the way and disappeared around the corner. It was hard watching him walk with a limp, knowing Eddie had done that. Dave certainly didn’t deserve it. At least not from what I’d seen.
I sat and waited for Dave while The Rolling Stones played on about how it’s all right, in fact it’s a gas. The song ended and Dave still wasn’t back. I half expected him to be chased out of the subdivision by a group of middle-aged men with a beer in one hand and a golf club in the other, sporting plaid shorts and lawn-stained loafers. But regardless of why we were there, I almost felt safe in the neighborhood. A far cry from the dreary, rundown ghetto that is Hillcrest. Before the next song ended, Dave came around the corner up ahead, limping speedily toward me. He must have heard me start the car because he put his hand up as though telling me to stay there.
Once in the car, Dave told me that I didn’t want to get involved with people like this and the less they know about me and what I’m driving, the better. I agreed, even if this was a one-time thing.
On the way back to Limewood, there was silence between us. Again it was awkward, and I can’t really compare it to anything except maybe what it would feel like to be in the car with a prostitute. You’re both about to do something immoral and degrading, a low you both never thought you’d sink to and you’d rather not talk about it. But I think the silence was almost worse. At least for me it was. Maybe Dave just didn’t care. Maybe he was past that point, and nobody meant anything to him. I was just an opportunity to get high and he'd given up on himself long ago.
We made our way through the house and into the room before Dave broke the silence. He told me I would shoot first, then he would. He asked me if I'd eaten and I told him I had. He said he thinks I didn’t get sick before because of Chaz’s bogus supply but this time I most likely would so not to sit next to him. I started to tell him, again, that I thought the black tar was good stuff but kept my mouth shut.
I gave Dave the zippered pouch and told him everything we needed was in there. He emptied the pouch and said, “No water? No tie off?" He reached behind his nightstand box and grabbed a bottle of tap water that was only half full. I got nervous, not knowing if there was any way I could get AIDS or hepatitis from the water. I thought I'd been so careful to bring everything we needed, with it all being sterile. I was too scared to ask Dave if I was in any danger from the water. I didn't want to insult him. I convinced myself that if there was anything to catch that it would be from a needle, not from bottled water.
I watched Dave as he took the small envelope of heroin he bought and poured some into the spoon, the spoon being propped up onto one of the books he’d now set on the cardboard bed. It was strange seeing my mother’s silverware being used as paraphernalia for shooting heroin. I’ve eaten with that silverware my whole life. Shit, my mother probably fed me with it before I could even hold it myself.
Before I bummed myself out, Dave broke my gaze on the spoon by tossing a shoelace at me, telling me to wrap it around my arm a few times just under my armpit, tighten it, and hold it there. He said my veins were healthy and we’d have no problem, that they’d suck the H up like a sponge.
Dave mixed the heroin with water and stirred it with the plunger end of the syringe, mashing down any powder that had yet to dissolve. He then lit the small candle he had on his box nightstand and held the spoon over it, letting the flame lick the underside until the liquid inside bubbled. He quickly set it back down and uncapped the syringe.
As he was about to lay the needle in the spoon, I asked him about using the cotton first. He said: “We don’t need it. I’m telling you, this is the purest junk you’re ever gonna find."
He laid the needle into the liquid and slowly sucked the contents up into the syringe, then held the needle up and pushed the plunger, causing any air to exit. The whole process was done with almost muscle memory maneuvers, in a way only a veteran could do.
“You’re up," Dave said as he scooted toward me with needle in hand. I wasn’t quite as nervous as I had been the day before. I knew more of what to expect. Or thought I did.
I expected Dave to massage my arm like they do in the movies, but he didn’t need to. My veins were bulging, waiting. Dave held my arm, and with precision that could only be topped by the most skilled nurse, slid the needle into my arm, then pulled at the plunger and I saw my blood mix with the heroin. He told me to loosen the shoelace and then slowly injected the syringe’s contents into me. My body slouched against the wall, and that rush through my body, though similar to yesterday, intensified into something completely different. Something I’m not sure I have the words for, as though the very clouds themselves picked me up and held me closer to the glow of the sun, gently massaging me. It was hard to picture the high being any better than it was yesterday, but Dave was right. Here I was, floating in an invisible warm gel with not a care in the world, resting comfortably in the deepest recesses of my own mind.
Until I vomited.
It just came up, unexpectedly. The nausea was an afterthought, and though my stomach suddenly seemed to disagree with my current state, it still didn’t seem to matter. I was content. I wiped my face with the back of my hand and sat there against the wall in my own puke as though it had been nothing more than spray from a sneeze.
I could hear Dave tell me I’d be cleaning that up, but I was in my own world, living out vivid daydreams. Some were nostalgic where I visited my grandmother’s house in Springfield, sitting on her back porch where we would watch birds while eating popcorn and drinking ginger ale, her flower garden before us filled with h
umming birds, frogs, and squirrels. Another moment was completely fictional where I was living in California, walking down Sunset Boulevard, the sun paving my way as people on the sidewalks cheered me on, taking my picture, asking for my autograph, and kissing me. Everyone loved me, and I loved myself, was proud of myself for my accomplishments.
I could hear Dave taking care of the needles and the spoon and water, all of it. He was a real neat freak, even when high. Most the time he wouldn’t even kick back until everything was in its place. He didn’t like being disorganized.
Then I heard Dave say something about how Daisy is coming, and for a moment I was embarrassed that she’d see me this way but then knew she’d understand, so I looked forward to it. I opened my eyes—or maybe they were already open—and looked at Dave who had just pulled the needle from his arm, sitting back on his stack of cardboard. He was looking toward the doorway and there was a smile on his face. He mouthed something but I couldn’t make it out. He was speaking so softly I couldn’t tell if he was only mouthing the words or I was just too high to hear him.
Finally, I heard him say “I love you, Daisy." I looked around the room but saw no one. She was in the hallway, out of my line of sight. Dave tilted his head, and the look on his face was of both sorrow and gratitude. A tear ran down his face and was eaten by his scruff. I couldn’t tell if he was sad or in a euphoric state of pure joy. Then he closed his eyes and grimaced with an equally confusing look of either pleasure or pain.
Dave then grabbed a pencil and started drawing flowers while talking to Daisy, who at this point still hadn't entered the room.
“Some kids came in while I was sleeping. Don’t think it’s broke, though." Dave said. “No, it’ll be fine. Just need to stay off from it for a while. It looks worse than it is. Don’t you worry.”
As his conversation with Daisy went on, I still couldn’t hear her. Had I been on pot it probably would have freaked me out. But instead, I imagined the two speaking telepathically and deemed it a beautiful form of communication between two lovers. If that’s what they were, lovers. He never told me.
I kind of drifted in and out of these daydreams–more fantasies under the California sun, time with Grandmother. I couldn't tell which ones were memories long forgotten or things I’d made up. Nevertheless, each one was worth reveling in, if even while leaned against an unfinished townhome wall, a homeless man across from me obsessively drawing tiny flowers for no apparent reason.
I realized just how hot I was, like being cooked alive. I took off my shirt, which took some doing. It came in stages. First one arm out, pause. Then another, pause. Then over my head, where I kept it on like a mask for several minutes, lost in my high. Periodically I would itch. I pictured my skin rippling like water each time I scratched it. Warm water.
“His name is Chris."
I was alerted by my name being said, but not enough to peek around and through the doorway to see Dave’s friend-lover.
“I’m keeping him safe, but he’s killed himself. He’s a corpse now.”
Dave kept on talking but I paid no attention, and Daisy never came into the room.
After what I guess would have been the pinnacle of my high, I watched Dave draw his flowers. It was relaxing, but impossible to picture myself doing much of anything other than sitting perfectly still. No doubt Dave had a high tolerance. Perhaps drawing enhanced his own high, helped him forget, to get lost within himself. I remember a friend of mine once drew a bird's eye view of a small city on the tile floor of his bathroom while stoned and on the toilet. Buildings, cars driving down streets, pedestrians. All in different colored markers. Dave reminded me of that. But this was much more than envisioning something on a tile floor while shitting. This was pure obsession. Dave’s compulsion to draw the flowers would lead to my preoccupation with needing to know why.
As my high wound down, I grew tired and hungry so I ate some of the food I’d brought. Without putting too much thought into it, I blurted out the words: “It was me and my friends who broke in here and woke you up. My friend Eddie hit you with a tire iron.”
Dave stopped drawing and stared deep into his lead perennial garden. I wasn’t entirely convinced he would hear me. But he had.
“I didn’t touch you, though. Or any of your stuff. It was Eddie. I didn’t think it was cool. I’m sorry.”
Dave continued to glare at the wall, never looking at me. “I know. Daisy saw you." Then went back to drawing.
I’m not sure, but I think the hair on my arms rose. I doubted Daisy’s existence anymore. I hadn’t seen her, hadn’t heard her, and now I was supposed to believe she was watching us while my friends and I were here. I sat up and crawled to the doorway, looked out and down the hall. Nothing. No one was there.
“There is no Daisy. You’re messing with me.”
Dave stopped drawing again. This time he looked at me, rage in his eyes. “She left. She was standing right there, you asshole! Save your paranoia for the weed.”
Dave was convincing. I heavily considered that maybe I was too high. It made perfect sense to have my blood filled with the drug and miss out on things around me, I guess. Especially when it’s my first time. And I suppose it was possible that Daisy had been in another room, hiding from us when we were here before. We didn’t check all the rooms. As a matter of fact, except for the laundry room, kitchen and living room, we didn't look anywhere.
I told Dave I was sorry. He didn’t seem to care and went back to drawing. And because this was to be a one-time adventure with the heroin—excluding the black tar, that didn’t count—I spent the rest of the time keeping to myself and taking it all in, every moment.
Unfortunately, it didn’t last nearly as long as I had hoped. And by the time I came down, I didn’t feel good. I was nauseous, my head was pounding, and my legs were weak.
I cleaned up the puke as much as I could, using my shirt as a rag to wipe up the floor. It was a bit difficult without running water. I told Dave that the Brautigan book was a gift and that he could keep it—even though he’d already added it to his small collection—as well as the rest of the food. I told him one more time that I was sorry about his ankle. He said not to worry about it and then said if my friends ever showed their face here again he’d stick them with every needle he had. Then, just like last time, he said he’d see me soon. The words cramped my stomach and haunted me for the next few days.
4: Delusions
Over the next few days I continued to keep my distance from Eddie and Kent. We'd become different people. Eddie was a cruel bully and Kent was just a pussy along for the ride. My experience with Dave allowed for some empathy I’d never had before–sympathy for his situation. I’d seen a human side to him rather than the waste of space I admit to viewing him as before. In general, I started to look at people differently. Every one of us has our demons and we're all scared of something, running from something. Hiding something.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Daisy and how I hadn’t met her. And the more I thought of it, the more I thought Dave was out of his mind and hallucinating, talking to himself like those guys I see walking down Fremont Street near the adult foster care homes. After three long days, I needed to know. I headed back to Limewood with Dad’s car once again, food in hand. This time I had no money left of my own so I took several rolls of quarters my dad kept in a jar on his dresser, forty dollars worth. I also took a few clean needles. I thought maybe Dave could use them. I’d just leave them with him. I was only going there to meet Daisy. I knew he may want a ride to score, and I was okay with that. But this time it was all about Daisy.
It’s what I told myself anyway, right up until I had the needle in my arm a second time.
When I showed up at Limewood, Dave shook his head when he saw me. He seemed to have mixed feelings about me being there–disappointed in me but grateful for the company. I think I understood. We scored some H and went back to Limewood where we prepped and booted up.
This time I made sure to sit next to Dave in
front of the doorway. While he was helping tie me off, I asked him about Daisy. I asked if she was going to come around, told him I’d really like to meet her. He said that she’d be here and he felt good about me meeting her. I asked where she slept, then he stuck me with the needle and I didn’t care anymore.
After Dave shot, he sat still for a few minutes, taking in the rush, then went to drawing. The care he took on each petal of each flower was impressive. From where I sat I could see intricate details I hadn’t noticed before. He whispered quietly as he drew. Between the quiet of his voice and the gentle motion of his hand, I fell under a heavy daze, lost in the collage of flowers being birthed.
“Hey, honey." Dave’s voice startled me. My eyes had closed at some point, but I felt like I was still watching him. I looked at the doorway but no one was there. I looked around the room. Nothing.
“Don’t be afraid, Daisy.” Dave pleaded.
There was no one there. I made a bold move and confronted Dave.
“There’s nobody there, man. We’re alone.”
“Can you see her now? She’s crying, bro. She doesn’t wanna be here."
There was no one there. I wondered if this was mental illness or the drugs. Or worse yet, mental illness caused by the very drugs that now ran through my veins. He kept on about Daisy and how she was there and I should be able to see her and that maybe it’s because I’m not empathetic, maybe I don’t care about other people suffering. But that wasn’t true. I cared now. I hated people like Eddie and Kent—bullies and pussies.
“She’s losing her teeth." He said finally. “She’s pissing her pants, the poor girl."
His words were sobering. I became frightened. I wasn’t sure how to react. Do I humor him and pretend that I saw her? Or ignore him and hope his episode passed soon? I decided that ignoring was best and so I sat there, trying to enjoy my high while he sobbed, whispering “I’m sorry” over and over again. Eventually he stopped, said "Don't worry, you'll never be like this" and went back to drawing the flowers.