Dreamseller

by Brandon Novak

  “Wait, wait, Brahn-don, don go no where, I nheed to cound dis.”

  “Okay, no problem,” I comply. As he counts the money, I become increasingly nervous. Every bill he touches brings me closer to the realization that I really fucked up this time. I look at Dudly, whose facial expression is a blank stare. No feelings here. What am I going to say? What am I going to do?

  As Jah finishes the count, he looks confused.

  “What? What’s dis? You’re eight hondred short, Brahn-don! Wha da fuck?” He looks at me, enraged. His forehead is wrinkled, his eyes wide and bloodshot.

  “Eight hundred short? Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure! Coh-mon! Whad da fuck is ghoing ahn?”

  Jah man gives me a long, hard, knowing stare. I break the uncomfortable silence. “Look, man, I don’t know what’s going on, either. I don’t, I swear! Look, I’m going to go check with my friend to find out what the hell is going on.”

  As I reach for the door handle, Jah hits the LOCK button. Click!

  “You are ghoing noh place!” He tells Dudly, “Git out an tell this odder guy to ged da fuck oudda ere!”

  As Jah begins turning my pockets inside out, I watch Dudly knock on Swimmy’s microbus door. Swimmy hesitantly unrolls his window, and as he does, Dudly has a few words with him and pulls up his shirt, revealing a thirty-eight holstered in the belt of his jeans. Swimmy peels out at a speed I had thought was impossible for a V.W. microbus to travel. Just then, Jah digs the money from the bottom of my pocket.

  “Ow could you do dis to me? Ow could you rip me off, Brahn-don?” I offer no excuses. There is nothing left for me to say. The answer to his question is simple: I got greedy. But the question I have for myself is, Why? Why did I have to push it? Why couldn’t I just have been happy with my five hundred dollars?

  Dudly climbs in the back of the van. Jah orders, “Dhud-lee, take dis modderfocker and give him some licks hee-ll never forghet!”

  “Come on, white boy!” Dudly yanks me by the hair and violently slams me to the floor. He then sits on my chest and delivers a pistol whip to the top of my skull. I see a flash of white; my body yields and goes limp.

  “What were you thinkin’, you dumb white boy? What the fuck were you thinkin’?” yells Dudly in a relentless monotone. He punches me in the face, over and over. My lips split, the skin of my cheeks cracks open, my nose flattens. I have to breathe out of my mouth, which is filling with blood and causing me to choke. Suffication. Dudly continues. “Where you live, white boy, huh? Where you live? We know you got a momma! Where she live?”

  I beg, “Please, don’t bring her into this!”

  Dudly cocks his gun and points it in my face. “I’ll pull this shit, white boy! Don’t think I won’t!” I believe him, I am sure he has done it before. “Whatsamatter, you too fuckin’ stupid to be scared?” Dudly jams the gun in my mouth so hard that it pins the back of my throat to the floor of the van. “I’m gonna ask you one more time, you dumb white motherfucker! Where your momma live?”

  “God save us both,” I pray as I give them my mother’s address. We drive on.

  In twenty minutes, I can tell by familiar scenery that we are close to home.

  “Well, well, well! Lookee what we have here!” Dudly announces, pulling me to the window of the van, forcing me to view my mother on her knees, working in the garden.

  In my beaten, semiconscious state, my mind tries to escape with a memory, or perhaps a fantasy, in which I am a child riding in the passenger’s seat of my mom’s car on our way to the park. I am excited, cheerful, happy, and I reach across the seat to hold my mother’s hand. Then, when I regain my sense of reality, I realize it was Jah’s hand I had grabbed. I clench his hand for dear life. “Please, Jah, please! Don’t hurt my mother, please! I know you’re a good man! Kill me if you want, but don’t hurt my mother! Jesus, please let this man, this killer, have some sympathy for my weakness somewhere in his heart!”

  Jah stares at me in terror, his eyes holding the expression of a man facing judgment before God. “You’d bedder tank Gohd you did-dent ghet away wid stealin mah money! Dhud-lee, ged im oud of mah sight!” The van is traveling about twenty miles an hour as Dudly throws open the back door and kicks me out onto the street.

  When my eyes open, my mother is standing over me with approximately fifteen neighbors. She is in tears, frantic. “Brandon! Oh, my God, Brandon, are you all right? Brandon, you’re so beat up, I can hardly recognize you! What the hell’s going on?”

  There are levels of such vulnerability, such desperation that will compel even a liar like me to come forth with the complete truth. I break down and admit to my mother that I am a drug addict, that my girlfriend has resorted to prostitution, and that my life is hopeless. I weep and cling to her, bleeding all over her clothes.

  I wake up in my mother’s house, in my old bedroom, lying on my back. My mother is nursing me with ice, bandages, and first-aid cream. I know my mother can not let me stay here; this is temporary, just for tonight.

  My forehead is swollen like a basketball. My eyes are black, my cheeks are split, my lips are fat and bleeding, my knees are torn open from being kicked out of the van. But what matters to me the most is the fact that I am sicker than I have been in a long time. I need a fix so bad that I am shivering.

  “Someone’s here to see you, Brandon,” my mother says. The door opens. Alexia. When she sees me, she tries not to cry. I can tell she wants to, but she is strong.

  “It’s okay, Brandon,” Alexia tells me in a sweet, comforting voice. “It’s going to be all right.” She sits on my bed and holds my hand, secretly palming me a few bags of Heroin, right in front of my mother’s unsuspecting eyes.

  “How lucky I am to have this girl in my life,” I say to myself. I could not wait for my mother to leave the room so I could shoot up.

  A month later, in a Best Buy, Alexia and I are stealing some CDs. Although the store employees and security guards know our faces by now, we are too sick to care, so we decide to take our chances.

  Alexia and I split up in the store, and I peel the security tags from a few CDs. As I near the front door with the stolen merchandise in my pockets, I hear what sounds like a walkie-talkie behind me. I turn to see a heavyset security guard on my tail. I break for the door. I am fast and manage to run away without a problem.

  Across the street, I hide behind a parked eighteen-wheeler, from which I have a view of the store. Twenty-five minutes pass, and still there is no sign of Alexia. Soon, a police car pulls up and Alexia is escorted to the backseat in handcuffs. Damn, I feel so bad for her. I know she is just as Dope sick as I am, but there’s nothing I can do. She has warrants in two counties, so I know I will not be seeing her for a few months. But that’s how it goes sometimes. We knew the risks of this game called Heroin, and played it to the utmost.

  So this is how I am to part ways with the first love of my life, I think. It’s a sick way to end the relationship, I know, but to a junkie, it all seems so normal.

  As I watch Alexia being driven away in the back of the squad car, I wonder why, in the end, she had made the decision to throw her life away. She, like me, once had everything going for her, and now had nothing. Perhaps she simply was not happy with a life she once had created for herself, and through her allegiance to me and my lifestyle, she had finally found escape.

  My memories of my relationship with Alexia fade out.

  Now my mind brings me back to the 7-Eleven parking lot as I wait for Scott, who is pulling to the curb in his white Mercedes. Somehow, I feel that all this misery might come to an end.

  chapter eight

  The Road to Rehab

  Scott arrives. In my psychological condition, without the benefit of proper rest and nutrition, I see his white Mercedes as a vision, and Scott an angel. But in the next instant, the hallucination ceases and I am restored to a conscious state.

  A big hug. I am repulsed at the thought that another human being might even consider touching my filth.
Cleanliness is one of the qualities I am looking forward to achieving with my sobriety. Usually, I pay a black lady in the neighborhood ten dollars for the use of her shower, but my finances have not allowed such luxuries as of late. Sometimes, before I shoot up in a local Burger King restroom, I take a bit of a “bath.” I splash water on my face, wash my ass, my hands, under my armpits, my balls, and if there are enough paper towels, my feet. Sometimes, I imagine the voice of an announcer over a loudspeaker, narrating the scene for an imaginary audience.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! One and all! Behold! Upon this unfortunate soul has been cast a cruel fate! For, this ex-skateboarder, Brandon Novak, who once held the world in his hands, lived in a nice home, had a car, and a beautiful fiancée, is now, with dampened paper towels, about to clean the filth from his balls and ass! Gaze upon him and consider his misfortune, in this special, worldwide-televised broadcast event brought to you live from the local Burger King restroom!”

  After Scott’s hug of unconditional love, he releases me and looks into my eyes. His expression conveys sympathy. His smile gives me a sense of hope that I will one day be in an improved state of mental and physical health. He says, “Man, I’ve been waiting for this call for the last four years! Now I can’t believe it, it’s actually happening right now! I’m so proud of you. You can do this! Come on!”

  Kindness. It’s been so long since someone has shown me compassion and wanted nothing in return. As Scott opens his passenger door, I climb in.

  As Scott drives, a multitude of doubts race through my mind. He asks, “How do you feel, brother?”

  I reply, “Like shit.”

  As I have mentioned, Scott is four years clean and has been in my position several times, so I take him at his word when he tells me, “Just stay strong. If you do, you’ll never have to feel this way again. Just stick it out; it’s worth it.” Again he forces a smile, a practice which is sometimes necessary for him to draw forth actual sentiments of inner contentment.

  We pass a gas station, and Scott asks me if I want anything. I reply in a weak whisper, “I’ll take some smokes, man, a pack of Marlboro Reds.”

  He says, “Is that all?”

  I am starving and thirsty, but my pride will not allow me to ask for anything else.

  Scott goes to the trunk, takes out a black-white-and-gray striped shirt, and tells me, “Here, take off that dirty sweatshirt you’re wearing and put this on. It’s clean; it’ll make you feel better.”

  As Scott goes in the convenience store, I change shirts, throwing away the hooded sweatshirt I have used for the last few months to hide the color of my skin.

  I sit in the car and take inventory on my life. I am twenty-five. I own nothing besides a needle, a lighter, and a cooker. I have nothing to offer this world. If I died today, it would not make a difference.

  Scott exits the store, sipping coffee. My eyes fixate on the pack of Marlboro Reds in his hand, the closest thing to a drug I can get. He tosses me the pack. I take one out; he lights it and starts the car.

  Once we are on the road. Scott hands me a bottle of water and napkins, telling me, “Here, use this to clean up a little bit.” I pour water on the napkins and begin to wipe the layer of dirt from my hands and face, leaving the napkins almost black.

  A look out the window tells me that the rehab is one block away. I know this for two reasons: I have copped Dope on this corner many times, and two, this is not my first time being admitted to this rehab; I have been here several times before.

  The rehab where I am about to admit myself is called the Tuerk House. And, like a holy sanctuary in a devil’s pit, it is situated in the heart of a neighborhood where street thugs sell Dope in abundance. I look out the car window, watching several men copping on the corner. Now that sobriety has a hold of me, I can see a bit deeper into each junkie’s eyes. I empathize with them, understanding how they feel to shoot up their last ten dollars, trying to enjoy the high while it lasts, but knowing they will start to feel sick in another eight hours. So while they are high, they are compelled to hustle for more money. This is the endless cycle of addiction, which continues until the junkie either recovers or dies.

  Most people begin using Heroin because they want to escape themselves and the burdens of their lives. However, being an addict is a full-time, twenty-four-hours-a-day, seven-days-a-week obligation for which the responsibilities never end. In a way, this makes sense, because, if a person assumes the slavelike mentality, and his existence is controlled by the never-ending cycle of mindless tasks he must perform to serve the master Heroin, then he’ll never have to face his life, or himself. In this way, Heroin addiction offers the ultimate escape from reality, by replacing it with the worst alternative.

  As I take each drag of my cigarette, we proceed closer to my new life. My whole body is shaking. I feel a need to call my mother. But my senses force this urge to subside. It is a common practice for junkies, upon admitting themselves to rehab, to call their loved ones and proclaim their intention to get clean. This can be attributed to several equal and opposing forces acting upon the junkie’s mind: First, the junkie is compelled by his innate desire to experience the heartfelt emotions of which he has deprived himself for so long. Second, it is the junkie’s conditioned reflex to seize all available opportunities to salvage relationships in order to acquire resources for drug money after discharge. I recall several prior rehab experiences during which I was successful throughout the initial fourteen-day program, and how, upon release, I immediately scored Dope and shot up by the time the sun had set. And so, I suppress the urge to call my mother, refusing to build her hopes only to decimate them once again.

  We pull up to the curb in front of the Tuerk House and head toward the front door. As we climb the stairs, I recite a simple prayer over and over in my head. God, please help me, watch over me and make sure I’m okay!

  Scott smiles. “I’m so happy you’re going here; I promise you, it will be worth it. I haven’t lied to you yet and I’m not going to now.”

  “I know.”

  We make it to the door. I look at my cigarette, take one last big drag, throw it down and say, “It’s got to be done, and now’s the time.”

  “Well, then, Brand, are you ready for a new way of life?”

  I say, “Yep, let’s do it!”

  chapter nine

  Tuerk House

  Scott grabs the door handle and opens it for me. I enter first; Scott follows.

  The short hallway before me doubles as both a waiting room and a reception area. There are four chairs against each longitudinal wall. At a desk sit two older black ladies. The first woman, with phone against ear and pencil in hand, seems far too occupied to take notice of my arrival. The second, heavyset and wearing glasses, has the presence of a sweet grandmother. She asks, “May I help you?”

  Scott replies, “I’ve brought my friend in for treatment. His name’s Brandon.”

  She looks at me and says, “How do you feel, baby?”

  “Not too good.”

  She says, in an assuring manner, “It’s gonna be all right, I promise. My name is Mrs. Evans. If you just have a seat, I’ll be right with you; I won’t be long.”

  Scott, who must have a crew on a construction site awaiting his arrival, looks at his watch. “Do you need me for anything else?”

  Mrs. Evans replies, “No, we’ll take good care of him.”

  Scott gives me a big hug and says, “I’ve got to get to work,” and in leaving, adds, “you have my number. Call me as soon as you get a chance.”

  “All right, thank you again for everything, Scott. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  “Yes, you could have, you’re a strong person. Don’t ever forget this. You can do it. I love you.”

  As I watch Scott, my last remaining friend walk away, my loneliness is intense.

  “Come on, let’s do this paperwork so we can get your cute behind upstairs and make you well,” Mrs. Evans tells me, trying to put a smile on my face. She
reaches for my hand. I give it to her and she escorts me into an office, where we begin the induction procedure.

  “How do you feel, baby?”

  I reply, “Like shit.”

  Mrs. Evans says, “What’s your drug of choice?”

  I answer, “Dope.”

  “I know exactly how you feel. I shot Dope for twenty-eight years, so I’ve walked in your shoes. I’ve been in your position several times before. And I’ve been clean for twelve years now, and I got clean by going through this very same rehab. I just hope for your sake you get it this time.”

  I’m shocked. This sweet old lady, with her soothing voice, once sat in my seat, feeling ill, being asked the same questions.

  “Have you brought any personal belongings?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Will anyone be bringing anything for you?”

  Again I shake my head. “No.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Oh, son, it’s that bad already?” Mrs. Evans asks with a sad but understanding look on her face.

  I say in a weak whisper, “Yes.”

  She then instructs, “You have no choice, baby, you got to get it or you’re gonna die a lot sooner than later.” I know this and she knows I know it, but she needs to reinforce it anyway. She then says, “I have a nephew your age. I’m gonna get some of his old clothes and bring them in for you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m okay.” Really I’m not, I could use those clothes, but my pride is speaking for me.

  She says, “Boy, don’t forget, I’ve sat in that very same chair. You’re not okay, you’re far from okay, but that’s all right ’cause we’re gonna do all we can to change that and push you in the right direction. You’re gonna make it this time, Brandon. I have a special feeling about you.”