Within a few minutes I am back in the car, returning to the restaurant. On the floor of the car, hidden from a possible police search, in an old cigarette pack are the bags of Heroin…. All but one. After all, I need my fix. As I drive down the street, I press the bag in between the steering wheel and my lighter, crushing the rocks into powder. As soon as I hit the first red light, I find a small scrap of paper in Alexia’s glove compartment, roll it up, place it into my nostril and snort half of the bag. The bitter drip that hits the back of my throat makes me gag uncontrollably. Relief.
Then, the mentality of an addict kicks in. Why bother to save half a bag? Why not just do the whole thing? As I hit the next red light, I polish off the rest.
Within two minutes, I am so high that my eyelids will not stay open. I roll the windows down and let the cool air hit my face, praying it will wake me up. This works, but only momentarily. I scan the car for a bottle of water, remove the lid, and douse my hands and face. But soon the weight of my eyelids is becoming too burdensome.
My eyes snap open from the impact of Alexia’s car against the Acura Legend sitting at a red light in front of me. A woman of fifty, conservatively dressed, steps out to evaluate the damage.
I am not sure what I am saying to this woman…. Some kind of bullshit excuse about how I just got finished working my third double shift in four days and I’m on my way to the hospital to see my sick grandmother. The woman seems to receive my story with a degree of doubt, but, by the grace of God there is no noticeable damage to her car, and she tells me, “Maybe you had better go home and sleep this off.” I thank her and drive away before the cops arrive and ask for licenses and registration.
As I proceed down a four-lane road, I light up a smoke. Okay, now everything is fine. I’ll just drive along, calm, cool, collected…wait, what is that burning sensation? Is that my imagination, or is that real physical pain? One look downward brings the realization that I have dropped my cigarette onto my lap, and yes, I am on fire.
Swerving back and forth across the heavy traffic fighting the flames on my legs, I realize that I am about to run head-on into a row of parked cars, the closest of which has an unsuspecting gray-haired elderly woman stepping out from its driver’s side! Manslaughter! I jerk the wheel as fast and as hard as I can, sending Alexia’s gray Toyota tumbling violently as it rolls two and a half times across the four-lane road!
When the car stops moving I find myself in a state of urgency. Panic! Where is my Dope?! Did it fly out the open window?! Oh, my God, where is it?! I search through the mounds of shattered glass on the ceiling of this upside-down automobile until I locate the small cellophane bag. Thank God! I crawl out through the car window.
All the traffic on this four-lane road has now come to a dead stop. Every driver and pedestrian are now gathering around, in shock to see that I am still alive. I wave everyone on, praying that they all just walk away so I can escape before the cops show up. “Okay, everybody. This was no big deal. Don’t bother calling the ambulance, I’m fine! You can all just go about your business…” Yeah, right! This is the most devastating accident that most of these people have ever seen, and the spectacle is compounded by a driver, who should be dead, trying to rid himself of the gathering audience.
Police sirens can be heard in the distance, and I am still holding my Dope. In the center of the awe-stricken crowd that has formed, I spot three sixteen-year-old girls. I approach them. “Look, I need you to hold this for me until the scene clears or the police leave.” I grab the prettiest girl’s hand, pull it toward me, and palm her the Dope. At first she is nervous, but I shoot her a wink and her teenage rebellious side overcomes her discretion. She takes the cellophane bag and retreats to the sideline.
Just then I notice it: a penny-loafer, oxford-blue-shirt-wearing frat-boy, filming me with a video camera! Jesus Christ, can this situation get any worse? If he gives the tape to the cops, I’m done. “Hey, you! I didn’t give you permission to film me! Give me that tape!” I yell. I grab for the video camera, but he is about a foot taller than me, with long arms, so he extends his reach, holding it above his head where I can’t get to it. He is smiling and laughing at me, and keeps the videotape rolling, filming me as I chase him around the wrecked car. To him this is a game, and he knows this is going to be great footage for all his frat buddies to watch over a few beers. It probably would be pretty funny to watch, actually.
As the police show up, the frat-boy steps off to the side and films from afar, not wanting to run the risk of the cops confiscating his tape. Thank God.
Six cop cars, two fire trucks, an ambulance, and a tow truck line the street. As the police question me, I offer excuses why I do not have my license. One officer writes down my mother’s home number and Alexia’s work number, and begins to call them. A second police officer says, “Son, would you mind stepping over here to our vehicle while we have a talk with you?” I comply. As I sit in the back of the squad car, the cop asks, “Son, are you under the influence of anything?”
“Like what, Officer?” I ask as innocently as possible.
He looks at me, sternly. “Anything. Drugs? Alcohol? Dope?”
“No, sir, Officer.”
“You seem to be acting funny, are you sure?” he asks.
I call on what I know about the psychology of police. Police are trained to observe the insecurities in people. They feed off human weakness and use it to their advantage. If a lack of confidence is shown in the first answer, the questioning continues until the policeman can break down the alibi, expose the flaws of the story, and uncover the truth. So, in answering this first question, I show no weakness as I look right into the cop’s eyes and say, “How the fuck do you expect me to be acting? I just rolled a car two and a half times. How would you be acting?” The cop raises his eyebrows, unprepared to give a response to this type of answer. He pulls his partners to the side. They whisper to each other, and they glance at me.
I look over at the three girls who are holding my stash; they seem excited, wondering what will happen next.
I examine the crowd, watching with anticipation.
Behind the crowd is the frat-boy, still filming, with a shit-eating grin on his face.
The cops break their huddle and walk toward me, and I think, I’m going right to jail!
The cops surround me. The first officer says, “Well, I guess you’re okay, son. We called the girl who owns the vehicle and your mother, and it looks like your story checks out. I’m sure you are pretty shaken up so we’ll let your mother take you home.”
“Thank you, officers,” I say with a smile.
My mother arrives with Alexia in the passenger’s seat. As the officers exchange information with them, Alexia stares at me. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. We both know where things stand.
I approach the three girls who are holding my stash. As they hand it back I give them each a hug and thank them for their help.
As my mother drives Alexia and me away from the wreck, I spot the frat-boy who is across the street, still filming. I give him the finger and he laughs at me. Enjoy the footage, fucker.
Alexia, Mom, and I sit in silence. I have not even told Alexia I am sorry. I grab her wrist and place two bags of Dope in the palm of her hand. By feel, Alexia knows exactly what she is holding, and her rage is diminished. It no longer matters that I just totaled her car. The only thing that is important is how soon we arrive home so we can shoot up.
chapter seven
Dying Love, Decaying Life
Four months ago, I was kicked out of my mother’s house for the last time. Prior to leaving, Alexia and I had secretly opened her checkbook, noted the balance, and cashed checks for the entire sum of the account. Last week, the forty thousand dollars had dwindled down to the very last bag of Dope and vanished.
Alexia has been kicked out of her house as well. Her father did not want to resort to this, but had to. He could no longer keep up with the game she was playing. The lies, the stealing, the conniving. He still
loved her, but the pain ran too deep and separated the bond of family.
Alexia and I are now homeless. It is miserable, but in a way I really like it. Even though I have lost everything and everyone, I know I have someone who truly loves me and understands what I am.
Every hustle I once had is dead. I have burned all my bridges. Every person I had once considered a resource has caught on and cut me off. Alexia now pulls the weight. She is the maternal figure who carries both of our habits on her back like a small child. When I shoplift, her beauty is the ultimate distraction to the clerks. When we make a drug trade, she can offer bad product and not get called out on it by virtue of her charisma. When we need a place to sleep or shower, she can charm our way into almost anywhere. And, bright girl that she is, before getting kicked out of her father’s house, Alexia had made a spare key to his front door, which she thought she might use sometime down the road. And that time is now, because this week, her dad is on a hunting trip.
A house, any house, is a luxury now foreign to us. When we have access to one, we take full advantage of it. We shower, wash our clothes, brush our teeth, and eat as much as our stomachs can possibly hold.
On this particular day, each of us has injected our gate shot. We are high, but not for too much longer, and time is running out. We have to make a move, and fast.
The sincere and genuine love Alexia and I once shared has evaporated like steam from a cooker. An hour ago we had loved each other. Now we have just gotten through screaming at each other, wishing we had never met. I have heard it said that the love soul mates share never dies. I used to believe that until Heroin was added to the equation.
The love two Dope fiends share is twisted. When they are high, they are warm, compassionate, kind, and considerate. But as soon as the Dope runs out, they transform into two vicious and deadly pit bulls trapped together in a ring. Within hours, “I love you, I miss you, I need you” turns into “I fucking hate you! Why am I with you? It’s your fault we’re like this!” When two people are strung out together, they see the evil sides of each other. They are at their worst, and they bring out the worst in each other.
I want nothing more than to storm out of the house and leave Alexia behind forever, but I need her to score our next fix. After an hour of arguing and shouting, she grabs the cordless phone and storms off into her father’s bedroom, slamming the door.
I sit in silence, pondering what Alexia might be up to. In the quiet of the house, her voice carries as she speaks into the phone. Although the words themselves are muffled, her intonation has changed from malicious and hateful to pleasant and loving. The sweetness of her voice brings me back to a time in our relationship when we had first fallen in love, innocent of the evils of this diseased junkie lifestyle. The wave of comforting emotion diminishes as I face the possibility that Alexia might be trying to score without me!
I tiptoe to the bedroom and press my ear against the door. To my dismay, I hear her ask in a flirtatious voice, “What do you want me to wear?” She responds to the answer with a contrived giggle and concludes the conversation with, “Okay, I’ll see you soon. Bye, honey.”
No…this cannot be. Without thinking, I throw a punch and my fist slams into the door, sending it wide open. Alexia is lying on the bed, staring at me. Caught. Stunned. Trying to calculate her next move.
“Who the fuck was that?” I demand.
“Brandon, stop being so paranoid. That was my friend from rehab.” She laughs.
“Sure, like hell it was! I can tell when you’re lying! Who was it?!” A very uncomfortable silence falls over the room, and although Alexia tries her hardest to stop them, tears run from her eyes.
“Who the fuck was it?” I draw close to her. “Alexia, I’ve never placed a violent hand on you in my life, but God help me, in three seconds, that’s all going to change if you don’t answer me right now!” I am staring at her mouth, waiting for an answer.
Alexia jumps up and grabs her father’s bedside lamp, yanks the chord from the wall, and wields it like a baseball bat. “You want to know what that was all about? Okay, curious eavesdropper! Leech! Junkie! Parasite! I tried to protect you, but okay! You asked for it! It was a man on the phone, are you ready to deal with that? It was a man, and it wasn’t you! How do you like it? And do you know what he is to me? He’s my client, okay? I’m a whore, all right?! Is that what you wanted to hear? Your girlfriend is a fucking prostitute!”
She stands there, crying, angry, hyperventilating, ready to fight. But her words took all the strength out of my legs. I fall to the bed. Now seated, wearily, meekly, I ask her, “How could you?”
Alexia explains in a voice that lies somewhere between that of a mother offering consolation, and a schoolteacher delivering factual knowledge. “Brandon, look, you need to face something. You have nothing, I have nothing, we need a fix, and Dope isn’t free. So I have to go now. I have to take care of business.” She drops the lamp and walks out the door, leaving me alone, trembling. Just like everything else in life that was once important to me, Heroin had now taken Alexia. But by now, I am used to failure and accept it as normal. I have built such a high wall around my feelings that I no longer recognize them.
Before I get a chance to examine what my life has become, I think of a way to drum up some cash. I have an idea. I pick up the phone and start dialing.
Three hours later, I am in the passenger seat of a 1969 V.W. microbus with a tie-dyed shirt and hemp pants–wearing hippie nicknamed Swimmy. Swimmy is a piece of work. He is an undergrad at Johns Hopkins University and also the resident weed and LSD dealer, which is painfully obvious at a single glance of his Woodstock wannabe gear and stupid-looking peace-sign necklace. He earned the name Swimmy because one day he dropped acid and thought he was swimming through water as he ran around the hallways of his dorm. I guess he took one trip too many. I loathe the fact that he only plays the Grateful Dead on his stereo, as if the 1960s was such a wonderful era that it needs to be refabricated in every possible way. He wears John Lennon–type eyeglass frames, but no lenses since his vision is perfect. What a dipshit.
Swimmy is the least cautious drug dealer I have ever seen. He even smells like pot. Here we are, on our way to a major drug deal, and his car ashtray is full of old joints. He even has pot-related bumper stickers, one of which reads, “Grass or ass, no one rides for free!” Hell, it may as well say, “Pull me over, Pig, I have drugs in the car!” The fact that this guy has never been arrested is proof that God has a sense of humor.
As we stop at a traffic light, right in front of a police station, the idiot begins rolling a fucking joint. I tell him, “Yo, put that away! You should be a little more careful. Aren’t you afraid of being arrested?”
“Why?” he asks. That answer describes Swimmy to a T.
In his glove compartment he has $7,500 in a brown paper bag. We are on our way to rendezvous with Jah, who has five pounds of brick weed to exchange for Swimmy’s cash. I am to see the deal through, and for my efforts Swimmy is to give me five hundred bucks, a hundred a pound. Sure, if the police catch me I could get a fifteen-year sentence, but this fact matters little right now. “Pull over behind this hospital,” I instruct.
“So, this is a lot of money,” he tells me. No shit. “It’s not all mine, most of it’s my partner’s. He’s pretty nervous about this whole thing; he’s scared the pot’s not gonna be any good.”
Okay, here’s the part where I reassure him he is not going to waste his money, and I know just what to say. “Oh, don’t worry about that. These guys are Jamaican; this shit’s direct from the land of Bob Marley!” Actually, I am pretty sure the weed is from Mexico, but I was just telling him what he wanted to hear, and it worked. He is licking his lips with anticipation.
Jah pulls up to the loading dock in his white cargo van. “Okay, give me the money,” I tell Swimmy, who hands over the paper bag full of cash. I peer into the bag and note that the money is not in bundles or stacks; it is unorganized, like Swimmy. Just a paper bag of
hundreds. Hmmm. This gives me an idea. I bet I can scam Jah and pawn off the blame on Swimmy here. Sure. All I have to do is grab a handful of these hundreds before I hand the bag off to Jah. True, eventually Jah will count it and realize he has been ripped off. But that will probably be much later tonight when he gets home, and at that point I will be long gone. And when I see Jah again I can just tell him I didn’t count the money, either; Swimmy here had shorted him. Yeah, it will work. I know it.
I climb into the passenger’s seat of Jah’s van. “Hey, Jah.”
“Ey, Brahn-don. Ow’s id ghoin, mon?”
“Great, thanks.”
“Five pounds, rhight?”
“Yep.”
“Oh-kay, one seh-cond.”
Jah man climbs into the back with Dudly, a five-foot-five, hundred-and-fifty-pound dark black man who works for Jah. He is about thirty-five, wears a lot of gold jewelry, and always has on brand-new clothes and white Nikes. He rarely speaks. Together the men open a garbage bag of compressed marijuana bricks and place five of them into a second bag. The van reeks of the pungent scent of weed. While Jah and Dudly are occupied, I seize the opportunity to separate a handful of hundreds from Swimmy’s money and stuff them into my pocket.
As Jah passes me the garbage bag containing five pounds, I tell him, “Great. Thanks a lot, Jah,” and in handing him the bag of Swimmy’s money, I throw him a distraction. “So, I’ll call you tomorrow at around noon. I have some buddies who are looking to get like ten or maybe fifteen pounds. Okay?”
“Oh-kay, Brahn-don, tha’d be alright,” he replies, reclaiming the driver’s seat, and, looking into the paper bag, continues. “Whait ah seh-cond, Brahn-don. Huld ahn, don go no where yet. Led meh cound dis, Brahn-don.”
“Okay, sure. I’ll be right back. I’ll just drop this off to Swimmy first,” I tell him. As I start to open the door, Jah grabs a hold of my shirt, looks into my eyes.
Now, in retrospect, I can explain that what I had intended to do was to force down the lump in my throat in as silent a manner as was possible. But what happened, in actuality, was that Jah could, with great clarity and audibility, hear me gulp.
Dreamseller Page 6