by Tony O'Neill
“You interest me,” he said eventually. “Your case interests me.”
Champagne smirked at him. As she did, he noticed the Adam’s apple. Slight, almost imperceptible, but definitely there. He noticed that his skin was clammy. He felt like a bumbling fifteen-year-old boy again, and he liked it. He hadn’t felt like this in as long as he could remember.
“My case? There’s thousands like me in this city alone. My case isn’t very special. Now”—Champagne opened her legs slightly when she said this, and he followed the smooth brown of her inner thigh up, up until just below the crotch, where it became engulfed in shadows—“I’ll ask you again. And if you don’t answer me honestly, then you better call me a cab. You call me up, out of the blue, telling me that you want to help me. You want me to keep everything on the down low, and you pick me up from a side street in a car with tinted windows. You take me back to your big, empty house and pour me a drink. We’re all alone. Nobody knows we’re here. So . . . what exactly are you looking for, Doctor?”
They stared at each other in silence. The moment went on and on. After what felt like an unbearable number of minutes Dr. Mike said, in a low, strangulated voice, “I don’t know.”
“Yeah, I figured that. I think I know what you want. You said you maintain a private practice?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“You see, I’ve been having some problems. Trouble sleeping. Back pain. I don’t have health insurance. Do you think that you might be able to help me out?”
The doctor shrugged. “Well, it would be hard to make a diagnosis without seeing your medical history. . . . I suppose, uh . . .”
“Maybe you could write me a prescription? A little something for my back, a little something for my nerves? Something to help me sleep? You know, Doctor . . . I would be very grateful.”
Dr. Mike paused for a moment and then crept toward Champagne like a guilty schoolboy. He stood before her. There was barely a foot between them.
“You know . . . for someone like me—it’s difficult. It’s difficult because I have much that I need to keep quiet. Discretion is of the utmost importance to me.”
“I understand.”
“I have something I could give you. I keep some medication around the house, for emergencies. I suppose we could come to some kind of . . . arrangement.”
“An arrangement. Yeah, I like that. An arrangement sounds good. Come closer. Close your eyes.”
Dr. Mike was about to talk, but then he thought better of it. He closed his eyes. In the darkness, he listened to the beating of his own heart, the roaring of the blood in his ears. He waited. He started to feel foolish. He thought about opening them again. He had never felt as self-conscious as he did at this moment in time. He fought the urge. He waited. Then he felt her, tugging at his belt. She opened it and pulled it out of the loops. He heard it land on the floor with a dull clunk. He sensed her repositioning herself, closer to him. He felt the pants unbutton, the zipper coming down. Then they fell to the ground, followed by his underwear. He felt momentarily embarrassed by his hard-on. He shivered slightly when he felt the cool air against his bare flesh. He felt like he might faint as the blood rushed from his head.
“My, my . . . ,” he heard Champagne mutter. Then he felt her lips, and the furnacelike heat of her mouth closing around him. He felt confused. He still had the glass in his hand. Should he put it down? Should he stay put? Should he . . . oh, Jesus.
Dr. Mike let out a low, guttural groan. It was a groan that—to him—felt as if it had been inside of him for many, many years. He dropped the glass on the floor, allowing its contents to splash out over the wood. He felt the furious heat of her mouth as she began to work him expertly. She took his penis from her mouth for a moment and said, “I think I’d like some of that medication now. It helps me to concentrate . . . Doctor.”
· · ·
He opened his eyes and looked down at her. She was looking up at him, those sad brown eyes meeting his gaze, her mouth half open, resting against the head of his cock, smiling a little. Dr. Mike stammered something and started to straighten his clothes.
“Hurry up,” Champagne said, “I’ll be waiting.”
As the doctor hurried off to locate the pills, Champagne smiled to herself, finishing off her drink with a long slug.
Chapter Ten
After five glorious days in detox, Randal was transferred to population. Detox was always a breeze for Randal. Unless you were kicking cold turkey in some shitty charity ward, the stimulant users had it much easier in detox than the heroin addicts or the drinkers. The physical habit to meth is negligible. Once you are removed from your sources of supply the drug craving becomes disembodied and futile. There is nothing much else to do but eat sleeping pills and watch television in your pajamas. Occasionally they would have him attend a twelve-step meeting, held in the “smokers’ lounge” outside in the mild, cricket-chirping California air, but these too seemed more bearable than usual with the addition of a steady supply of downers.
Harvey arrived on day three, with Randal’s clothes. Randal regarded his brother through heavy, medicated eyes.
“How’s Lori?” Randal asked. “Is she mad at me?”
“Everybody’s mad at you,” Harvey sniffed. “I mean, the family starts to get used to what a fucking animal you are, and you always find some way to lower our expectations even further. She’s threatening never to see you again.”
“You got a cigarette?” Randal asked.
“Since when did you smoke? No!”
“I’m starting today. If I can’t get high, then I’m gonna smoke. I gotta do something to pass the time in here.”
“Why don’t you concentrate on getting better, dickhead? You’re getting too old for this shit. I haven’t touched a drink in fourteen years, and I feel better than ever.”
Randal laughed sadly to himself. He walked slowly over to the window.
“I like this place,” he said softly. “They don’t treat you so bad in here. I could make a go of this if they’d let me move in permanently. Give me my meds three times a day; let me watch the Tyra Banks Show. Thing is, that bitch is a whole lot more bearable when you’re on medication, you know?”
“Randal, I’m just telling you—if you can’t keep it together this time, then you’re out. You’re on your own. The family can no longer support you. We’ve done all we can do. We have spent hundreds of thousands of dollars trying to help you, but you won’t even meet us halfway.”
“I know . . . I know. Look, I want you to know that I wouldn’t be doing this if . . . if I had any choice in the matter. I’m not in control of this anymore. I’m struggling, bro. I’m struggling.”
Harvey smiled, coldly. “I know. And I’ve heard this from you before. I’ve seen sorry-ass Randal, just like I’ve seen don’t-give-a-fuck Randal. If you want me to believe that things will be different, then take this program seriously. We cleaned out your apartment, because when you come out of here, you’re moving in with me. I’m gonna personally monitor your recovery.”
“Oh, come on!”
“You don’t have a choice. You live under my roof, you stay close to the family, or you go your own way. I’m not having everything my father worked for pissed away by a selfish fuckup like you.”
Harvey stood and walked over to his brother.
“I can help you. Just let me.”
Randal shrugged. He looked out the window again. Harvey didn’t move.
“If you’re waiting for a hug, or some fucking thing, you’re out of luck,” Randal snapped after a few awkward moments.
“Whatever, bro. Your clothes are in the suitcase. I guess I’ll see you on visiting day.”
“Don’t bother. I don’t wanna see anyone right now.”
“Whatever.”
When Randal was moved to population he was taken over to the main building by Jay, another one of the long-term patients. Jay was an enormous Mexican. He walked with a limp, and had an “LA” tattoo on his cheek.
He didn’t go in much for small talk. The lobby was bright and stark, a kind of faux Frank Lloyd Wright glass structure. Once you made it to the dormitories, the surroundings were slightly less palatial. He was taken by elevator to the third floor. They walked a little down the corridor, stopped outside of a room, and knocked. From the other side, the sound of reggae music was reverberating. The door opened, and a tall, skinny white kid stood there, with tiny little dreadlocks sticking out at angles from his head.
“Levi,” the kid said, slapping Randal on the palm when he held out his hand. “Respect, mon.”
Randal’s new roommate was Levi Stanson, a twenty-year-old heroin dealer, in for an addiction to the same substance that he once sold. He wore a baggy T-shirt with an image of a lion wearing a crown, and spoke with an accent that was some strange bastardization of Jamaican patois. When Jay split, Randal was left with this kid, who was blasting his music on an expensive-looking stereo system and dancing around the room examining a sheet of paper.
Randal said, “What you listening to?”
“Yah man, it a Dennis Brown selection, init?” Levi said, with an easy grin. “Ah say one. You into da reggae?”
“I don’t know much about it.”
“Ah Dennis Brown, ’im a bad bwoy. Check it doh—dis ’ere is my sound system. I listen to reggae, yeah? If you ain’t down wit’ dat, you better get some earplugs, init?”
“I don’t care about music,” Randal said, putting his case away. “You can listen to whatever the fuck you like. I don’t follow that shit.”
“Yeah? So whatcha like, mon?”
“I like getting fucked up. You?”
Levi laughed. “Bash! You a bad bwoy, Randal. First time?”
“Nope. Yours?”
“Yup. First and last, mon.”
“How long do you have left?”
“Tree months. I’s on parole, yeah? Me nah finish treatment, me gets a tek back to jail. . . .”
“So you’re here for the long haul. . . .”
“Da long haul. Ras. . . .”
“You from LA?” Randal asked. “You got an accent.”
“Nah, mon. I an’ I from Philly. You a from LA?”
“Yeah, born and fucking bred,” Randal said. He pointed to the paper in Levi’s hand. “What are you doing?”
“Essay. On mi higher power. For di doctor. Him a big bout yah. Nuff money ’n’ fame! You met him yet?”
“Nope.”
“Him a smart bwoy. Chatting ’bout how Jah-Jah has a purpose for us, yeah? You, him, an’ Levi.”
“Really,” Randal said, “I don’t have the first fucking clue about what you’re saying.”
“Ah. Take it easy, mon. Unpack. I don’t wanna chat you with the good stuff too soon.”
Randal started unpacking, and the kid bopped around the room, examining the crumpled sheet of paper in his hand, occasionally pulling his pen from behind his ear, and crossing something out, adding a word here or there.
Once he was done, Randal looked around the room. Two twin beds, separated by a nightstand. Anonymous furnishings, and a single window that looked out over a parking lot. There were two pictures on the nightstand. One was a photograph of a beautiful young black woman sitting on a beach towel. She was squinting in the sun, smiling at the camera. The other was a black-and-white image of a bearded man wearing some kind of tall, ceremonial headdress. “Who’s the guy in the big hat?” Randal asked.
“That is Haile Selassie I, Conquering Lion of Judah, Lord of Lords. Jah Rastafari.”
Randal looked at the picture again. He seemed like an unassuming kind of guy. “What about the girl?”
“Mi likkle jubee, Michelle. She’s waiting for me. She’s a good girl, mon. When I get out, I’m gonna take her home.”
“To Philly?”
“Bloodclaat! Nah, mon. To Jamaica. We gonna have a bunch of little café au lait babies runnin’ around in the sand, yeah? It’s gonna be beautiful.”
“You’re gonna go to Jamaica? For real?”
“Yeah, mon. Dere’s nah way I an’ I can stay clean here. All the good stuff that Dr. Mike teaching us in here is one thing, mon, but it’s a nuff problem if there’s people slinging dope just down the road from my crib, yeah? I mean, what iz I gwan do when I get out? Me can’t go back to selling shit no more. There’s nuthin’ for me here, mon.”
“So what are you gonna do in Jamaica?”
“Jah will provide. I’m a singer, yeah? A DJ. My gwan rock the dancehalls.”
“They got drugs in Jamaica, too.”
“Not drugs,” Levi said with a smile. “They got that good Jamaican collie. For Rastafarians, collie weed is sacred. Nah an impure drug, like heroin. They naw got heroin on di island.”
“No heroin on the island? What about speed?”
“Speed?” Levi laughed. “Dere’s nah fuckin’ speed in Jamaica. That’s your shit? Speed?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a baldhead drug, mon. Nah offense. We a naw tek speed in Jamaica. We likes to take our time.”
· · ·
Randal looked at this kid again. He felt bad for him. He obviously was going through some kind of intense identity crisis.
“So you’re gonna complete your time here, and split to Jamaica with your girl. That’s cool.”
“Big up! Dat’s the shit that keeps me going, mon. Three more months of dis, and we’ll be outta Babylon. Easy.”
Somewhere outside of their room, a bell rang.
“Come on, mon, forward . . .”
“What is that?”
“Time for our morning meeting, mon. Come wit’ me. I’ll get you orientated.”
“So what does the good doctor say about weed being a sacrament?”
“We disagree on dat. So I tell ’im what him want to hear. Only one man can judge me . . .” Levi turned his eyes up to the ceiling fan. . . . “The creator. The root of David. Ites . . . me nah want all da bagels to be gone by the time we gets downstairs.”
Chapter Eleven
The girls sat around and talked. It was early afternoon, and Crazy Girls seemed even more lonesome, the air a little more stale, and the darkness a little more pervasive at this time of day. The stray sliver of sun that crept in past the doorman had an accusatory look about it. It made the holiday garlands that hung from the entrance to the stage shimmer slightly. They drank vodka to combat the effect of the uppers. Onstage a chubby Dominican girl called Lupita danced to Lil Wayne’s grunts and implorations. Trina had just started her shift. She was drinking with some of the other girls, waiting for the club to start to fill with the early-afternoon crowd.
“Look at this shit,” Trina said, putting a crumpled piece of paper on the table.
“What is it?”
“A fucking eviction notice. That bitch is trying to throw me out of the apartment now. Says I got three days to vacate or they’re gonna change the locks.”
· · ·
The saga of Trina’s apartment was an ongoing topic of discussion at Crazy Girls. The actual landlord was a hunched-over little soft touch with a beaten, hangdog face called Manny. Manny wasn’t the problem, though. The problem was his wife: a fake-titted Eurotrash cunt who had shown up on Trina’s doorstep a week after she’d moved in, brandishing an early ’80s copy of Greek Penthouse in which she was the centerfold. She was there to warn Trina away from her husband.
“Manny say you are model . . . ,” she had said through tight lips. “Well, I am model, too. And Manny is happy with this model, yes? I don’t want you to come shaking your ass around my husband thinking you get special treatment. If you have problem with apartment, then you come to ME.”
After a month or so when a virtual army of cockroaches and mice had emerged from the walls and taken over the apartment, suddenly Manny was nowhere to be found. She could hear armies of creatures scuttling across her ceiling in the small hours, and the poison that she put down for them only seemed to turn their shit neon blue. Aside from that, the little bastards seemed to q
uite enjoy it. “This is Los Angeles, darling,” the wife told her when she complained. “You must get used to vermin, yes?”
When Trina retaliated by withholding the rent, a standoff ensued. The neighbors, all Armenian like the landlord and his wife, became openly hostile to her. The men spat as she walked past, and the women would not make eye contact with her. Her car was often boxed in, and nobody ever seemed to know who owned the offending car. There were drunken phone calls in the middle of the night from the wife: “You pay what you owe us, bitch, or you get what comes to you!” And now notice to quit the apartment. This was not a good day.
A hard-faced redhead called Cherry picked up the paper and looked at it.
“I got these before,” she said. “Go to the courthouse downtown. If you file the right papers, you can drag this shit out forever. . . .”
“Bitch, just pay your rent!” chimed in another girl, who danced under the name Foxy. “You ain’t broke!”
Trina snatched the paper up.
“I ain’t paying shit! The place has fucking mice, roaches, nothin’ works. The city TOLD me to stop paying rent until they fix that shit.”
“Don’t sweat it, girl,” Cherry said. “They can’t do shit. They’re just trying to scare you.”
Trina said, “Fucking A. That bitch can suck my dick!” She picked up her glass.
“Talking of being scared . . . ,” Cherry said, “you know that little jackass Derrick? Last night, he more’n got his ass handed to him. So he was drunk, as usual. Over by the bar. He was talking shit. . . .”
“He’s a pervert,” Foxy said. “He keeps asking me to touch his dick and call him Daddy.”
“Well, anyways, he’s pretty drunk—you know when he gets all sweaty and red-faced? And all of a sudden he makes a grab for my titty! And the little fucker spills a beer all over me. I told him to keep his goddamned paws to himself, and he gets up in my face—bitch this, and bitch that—I thought the little fucker was gonna take a swing at me.”