by Cleo Odzer
By morning, people started to leave. Perfect Blonde stayed. He was still there when everyone had left. Then, with sunlight streaming on the bedspread, we made love without taking off our shoes. OOOO, Perfect Blonde! After all that time he'd ignored me! Ooo, OOO, Perfect Blonde.
Over room-service scrambled eggs, we discussed the expense of hotel living. "I five outside Toronto on a farm," he told me. "A bunch of us share a house."
"I always wanted to five on a farm."
"You can come visit, if you want. Or you can stay there. That way you won't have to spend money for a hotel."
Stay there? Had Perfect Blonde invited me to five with him? I couldn't believe it. "I can stay with you? Really? That would be fantastic."
Perfect Blonde didn't work, and I wasn't sure what he did for money. When he asked to borrow fifty dollars, I thought he wouldn't have trouble living off women who'd be thrilled to support him. On our way out, I stopped! at the hotel's safety deposit box and gave him the fifty.
"I'll pay you back in a day or two," he said. "I hate to borrow."
I didn't mind. I doubted I'd get it back, but he was worth it. And I was going to five on his farm for free, wasn't I?
We arranged to meet that night at the club. Meanwhile I needed to purchase more dope. It was a good thing to be moving out of the hotel. Between that and the dope, I'd soon be broke.
I spent the afternoon on Dealer's doorstep, waiting for him. Ho hum, humdrum, growl, growl, growl. Using drugs in the West was definitely annoying. When Dealer finally showed up I asked him to fix me again.
"How soon should I feel something?" I inquired when it was over.
"You still didn't feel anything? I gave you a lot that time. You have a habit, lady."
I sighed. "Oh, well, I guess if it just prevents me from getting sick, it'll have to do till I return East."
I left to meet my new love, Perfect Blonde. Would he be there? Had he really meant I could stay on his farm?
Yes. Perfect Blonde entered the club after 1 a.m. He helloed his way through the crowd, found me, and asked, "All set?"
He had a beautiful red Sports car. What a match with his blonde pair. After collecting my luggage it took two hours to drive to the farm. Farm? It looked like a regular-sized house to me. No one was awake when we arrived. Perfect Blonde carried my suitcase and led me, whispering, through a hallway and up some stairs. The second-floor landing was small and narrow and confirmed my impression of "just a house." He opened a door and led me to a tiny room barely wide enough for the mattress on the Floor, which was all it had.
We slept most of the next day and awoke in time for dinner. In the living room, I met five others who lived there. More people came and went, and I was never certain who lived there, who was visiting, or who was with whom.
I didn't know how I was supposed to fit in. A few of them cooked the meals together. Was I supposed to help? Meals weren't my thing. I decided to act like a guest. They were polite and friendly.
Uh-oh. I spotted a round red thing being chopped. Egads—a tomato. Of course. I should have realized they'd eat vegetables on a farm. Oh, well—it might be better this way; if I couldn’t eat the food, no one would. I expect me to cook it or wash up after it.
We sat around a wooden fable in the kitchen, and everyone thought it an oddity that I didn't eat vegetables. I had a slice of pumpernickel bread, and someone found me salami. It was trés countryish. At the end of the meal they took out a bhong—used exclusively for marijuana—and discussed, at length, the quality of Panama Red and Acapulco Gold. I groaned inwardly as they recounted a groovy high they'd experience once on grass brought from Tijuana. Oh, please!
Now I had a different problem. I had to return to the city to score dope. I hoped Perfect Blonde didn't plan on staying at the farm for days. It was an okay place to sleep, but I didn't want to spend all my time there.
"We can go into town if you want," he said. "Or we can hang out here."
"I'd like to go in. I have to see someone."
I told him about needing smack.
"Are you addicted?" he asked.
"In India it's practically legal. You should see—opium dens on every corner. Here there's only garbage dope."
I told him my vocation.
"PROFESSIONAL DRUG SMUGGLER?" he exclaimed. "Aren’t you afraid of being arrested? That's a serious crime."
"IT SHOULDN’T BE A CRIME!" I shouted emotionally. Perfect Blonde's remark unleashed a tirade, spurred by feelings I'd been holding in. I hated how it felt to be a smack user in the West, very different from in the East. "Drugs shouldn't be against the law! Look at this arm," I wailed, "it's full of holes! That's what happens when you make it illegal! It becomes impossibly expensive! That's why people rob and mug. Only the Mafia benefits from those stupid laws. Those laws make gangsters rich! And gangsters don't care what they cut their product with! The result is garbage dope that people commit burglaries to afford and gives their arms full of needle holes! Now, that's the crime!"
I believed drug laws were evil—evil structures that made evil people rich and condemned innocent users and independent entrepreneurs like myself to the status of law-breakers.
When we drove to town, I left Perfect Blonde at the club while I went to Dealer's. We returned to the farm at the completion of my errand.
It soon became apparent that farm life wasn't for me. Talking to the residents didn't please me in the least. Not my types. And what was there to (10 on a farm? It wasn't a real farm, anyway. No crops, no animals. What kind of farm was that? Ugh, and I didn't want to sit through more of these dinners, either.
No, not for me the country. Driving into town every day was a hassle. By the time we got going I would already feel sick. Since I'd be anxious about scoring, I couldn't be charming. Poor Perfect, he didn't deserve my irritability. I wouldn't feel like conversation—just GET ME TO THE CITY!
And the cash was almost gone. This couldn't go on. I called Jewish Connection.
"I still don't have your money," he said. "You have to wait."
"I can't."
"I'll tell you what. I can probably give you your five thousand at the end of the week, but if you want, I 'll give you four thousand today instead. But then that will be it. Five thousand next week or four thousand today."
What a choice! I would spend a thousand dollars for two days of dope. I accepted.
I bought a couple of grams from Dealer and met Perfect with the news that I was leaving Toronto. We spent one more night at the farm (ugh!), and the next morning Perfect drove me to the train. He even paid back the money he'd borrowed.
I couldn't wait to say goodbye to Canada. Even New York had to be heuer than that. Half a day later, I arrived at Grand Central Station and taxied to Momsy's. It was great to see her, and we chatted excitedly for a while.
"Oh, Momsy, I wish you could see my house in Goa. I have a safe behind a picture, a Laotian wedding canopy over my bed, and my toilet flushes. Stairs . . ."
"You didn't notice," she said, pouting and waving her arm in a peculiar fashion.
"What?"
"My new ring! How do you like it?" She see-sawed her hand. "Onyx and diamonds in gold."
That evening I pondered the problem of finding a dope connection in New York. I needed one fast. What if I couldn't contact the guy who'd helped me last time? Uh-oh!
"I forgot to tell you," came Momsy's voice through the door of the bathroom, where I sat rationing myself a sniff of dope. "You had a phone call last night. That's why I wasn't surprised to see you. I knew you couldn't be a liar."
"Who was it?"
"MENTAL!" I flew Out of the bathroom. "Oh, Momsy. This is important. Mental is here! Where? Oh, please say you know where."
"I have his phone number."
"Oh, Momsy. You saved my life! Where's the number? Where's the number?"
I called immediately. The number was of a hotel. I asked for the name Mental had given Momsy.
"Hello? Tee hee."
"Men
tal! I can't tell you how glad I am to hear your voice. I'm desperate here, you have no idea. I’m dying to see a fellow Goa face." I told him I'd be on the next flight to L.A. Saved!
I kissed Momsy and told her I was sorry I couldn't stay longer. I call Aunt Sathe. I'd already written her an apology for stranding her in Bermuda. I still had no clue about Lila's disappearance, and I didn't want to hear the details of Aunt Sathe's harrowing journey. Within hours I was airborne.
Mental had given me the name of a hotel near his. As I taxied from the airport, I dreamed of a snoot of real dope. I couldn't wait. I'd inhaled my last crumb on the plane and fervently hoped Mental would be in his room when I called.
He was. I leapt on him as soon as he entered my door. "MENTAL! I've never been so happy to see anyone in my life!" I kissed him hello. "Got any dope? I'm dying!"
"Tee hee, of course. You paid for it. Comes from Chiang Mai."
"You can't imagine the garbage I had in Canada," I told him, "and it was probably the dope I'd brought in myself—cut three times. I low discouraging. Oh, heaven! This tastes so good. Tell me about Giuliano."
"Giuliano's out to get you for ripping him of. He . . ."
"RIPPING HIM OFF? I did not!"
"That's what he says. Tee hee, said you took his suitcase."
"That's RIDICULOUS! I hadn't even SEEN Giuliano for weeks before I left Bangkok. How could I have taken his case? I had Mitchell's case."
"Tee hee, then maybe Mitchell took Giuliano's case. Somebody took it."
I gasped. "Mitchell and Giuliano shared a hotel room. Mitchell must have taken Giuliano’s case and told me it was his. But I had no idea."
"Tee hee. Whatever. Giuliano's upset. He's blaming you."
"I would never rip him off!"
"Don't worry about it. Tee hee, there's not much he can do."
Mental considered me a partner. I hadn't realized when I'd seen him the money that I was investing in a scam. To me, I was helping a friend. But I certainly needed help myself at that moment. If I'd had another few days of the way I'd been spending money, I couldn't have afforded the airfare hack to India. Here was a Goa friend treating me like a partner in his successful scam—neat-o.
He left me a generous stash, and we planned to meet the next day.
It wasn't long, however, before I realized things wouldn't be so easy. Mental wasn't called Mental for nothing.
The next day, the two of us set out to prepare our product. Since Mental had carried the dope into the country stuffed up his ass, it had compacted into cylinders as hard as rocks. Each one had been encased in several layers of condoms, and while he'd already disposed of the outer layer (thankfully), each cylinder was still sheathed in two rubbers. Mental spread newspaper on a table, and we began to unwrap our treasure.
"Don't you have something better than newspaper?" I suggested.
"Tee hee, it'll do."
"What if the powder absorbs ink? Nobody will want inky black smack."
"Don't worry about it. Man! This stuff is really hard."
I poked at the oblong roll of powder Mental had freed from its rubbers. It was impossibly hard. "This is like granite," I said. "I can't believe your body took our nice soft heroin and turned it into sleet balls. How long did it spend inside you anyway?"
"Tee hee, eons. I drank a bottle of diarrhoea medicine to make sure I wouldn't have to shit."
I laughed loud. "How much time was it that you didn't go to the bathroom?"
"A lOOOOOOOOng time. Maybe a week."
As each load came out of its rubber package, it maintained its shape exactly—we had eight white forms, each in the exact shape of a turd. I fell sideways on the carpet laughing. "Wasn't that uncomfortable?" I asked.
"You're telling me! I couldn't wait to crap. Tee hee, that's all I dreamed about on the flight in . . ." I bent double with laughter as Mental continued. "As soon as I got to the hotel I ate a box of Ex-Lax. Most have spent five hours on the toilet the next day. What a relief, tee hee. Aren't you going to help me with this?"
Barely able to sit up, I looked again at our concrete-like product. "I think it's petrified." My next guffaw New a dost cloud from the turd ball nearest me, and I fell to the carpet in hysterics again.
Now Mental laughed too. "It took a day to clear the stink from the bathroom," he said. "No wonder the maid forgot to clean the tub. Tee hee, I bet the people next door moved to another floor."
Mirth soon left me, though. "We have a real problem here," I said. "This stuff isn't crumbling like it ought to. It's remaining turd-shaped."
"People like rocks," said Mental. "That means it's pure. Maybe they'll like it better this way, tee hee."
"These aren't rocks, they're boulders. And they're shaped like shit."
"Yeah, and we have to make it powder to cut it." He retrieved a shoe from under the bed.
"Uh-oh. What are you going to do with that? No, no . . . Mental, wait." I jumped as Mental slammed the heel onto a turf-ball. "NO . . . " The ball shattered into pieces, spraying fragments in all directions. "No, Mental . . . The dope's flying away, and not with your dirty shoe . . ."
BAM. "It's working, tee hee, see?" BAM.
"You're losing too much . . ."
"It's okay." Mental folded the newspaper over the dope and whacked it again. The newspaper ripped, and our precious smack spewed off the table into the rug.
"Wait! At least let me find a plastic bag. Maybe there's a shower cap in the bathroom . . ."
Eventually I limited him to gentle taps, and an hour later we had the stash in more-or-less powder form. We spent the rest of the afternoon digging bits out of the carpet and snorting layers off the curtain and nearby furniture.
"Now we have to weigh it," said Mental.
"Do you have a scale?"
"No, I guess . . . buy one tomorrow. I'd like to know how muck is here, though . . . Maybe I can weigh it somewhere . . . Tee hee, maybe a store . . ."
"A store? What are you going to do, go in and ask to borrow their scale so you can weigh your heroin?"
"There's a health-food place around the corner. Let's go."
I wasn't sure what he had in mind as I followed him out of the hotel. "Mental, what exactly are you planning?"
"You’ll see."
At the health-food store. Mental strode briskly down the aisle. He circled a vitamin counter, peering this way and that, picking up packages of seeds, and scrutinizing the other entities.
"I don't see what you can possibly do here," I said as he peered over the top of a display. "Let's get out of here."
"Tee hee, there's a scale at the end there."
"That's for weighing produce, and it's in the middle of the store. You can't use that!"
"Why not, tee hee." He marched to the scale and plopped his see-through plastic bag of heroin right on it.
"MENTAL!!" I rushed to his side and tried to block the sight with my body, but there were people on all sides of him. "Are you insane?"
"Shhhh, just watch for shoppers. Tell me when someone comes."
"Comes? They're already here. There are people all around you."
"Seven ounces and a little more."
"Okay. Now put it away and let's go."
"Tee hee, one more minute . . ." He left the powder on the scale and went to tear a plastic bag from the vegetable display.
"Oh, no . . . Mental, no! Someone will see you!"
He came back and proceeded to measure an ounce into the vegetable bag. I thought I'd the. I looked frantically at the other shoppers, but no one seemed unduly concerned that we were weighing something. "Will you hurry up?!"
"I'm almost finished." He poured more in and used a nut scooper from the nut display to scoop some out. "Now I need something to cut it with. Tee hee, where's the sugar?"
I was relieved to see him leave the scale, but my alarm grew again as I spied him tearing into a box of confectioners' sugar. "What are you DOING? Don't open that here! Mental, we're carrying; we've got to be a little cool, you know
. Stop! Buy it first, take it home, and then open it."
Flabbergasted, I watched him return to the scale and weigh out confectioners sugar from the ripped-open box. Still using the nut scooper, he scooped the sugar into another vegetable bag. This time I stayed a few feet from him so I could walk nonchalantly away when the guard came to arrest him. But no guard came. Eventually Mental strode off, leaving the torn box sitting an the counter. I followed.
"I'm finished. Tee hee, it worked didn't it?"
"Put it away, now. Put it away!" I said in a strained voice as I noticed the plastic bag of powder still in his hand.
Sweat coursed down my cheekbones as we finally walked toward the exit. Now Mental was headed for the door! I tried to stop him. "Mental! We've got to buy something. We've been in here half an hour. We can't just walk out with nothing."
But that's just what he had in mind. He was already past the wrong side of the checkout counter, and he kept going right out of the store. "Tee hee. See, you got all wrought up for nothing."
It soon became apparent that business with Mental would not be a simple undertaking. He was even having trouble with the great connection he allegedly had. Three days later he still hadn't made contact. The situation did not look promising. I certainly didn't trust Mental's ability to make a new connection. We needed someone who could handle quantity, and that was harder to find than your run-of-the-mill street dealer. Oh, dear—this was not going to work.
When another week went by without a sale, I decided to convince Mental to let me take the dope to Canada. I knew Jewish Connection was a good connection, however unpleasant our relationship had been, and felt confident I'd have no trouble disposing of the stash in Toronto. It would also be a relief to remove myself from Mental. I didn't wart to go to jail because of his dumb shenanigan.
Mental was not pleased with the idea, but it was obvious even to him that something had to go down soon or we wouldn't have a product left to sell. The only way this business worked—when you had your own habit—was to fly in, sell quickly, and return pronto to where the dope was cheap and plentiful.