Once out of the car, the officer reveals that he and his cop-in-training have been tailing me ever since I left the first bar. I glance over my shoulder at his partner, who is standing behind my car and a little off to the side, and something suddenly begins to feel off. The partner is watching my every move, almost too carefully. I lean against my car with my arms folded to show that I’m not a danger in any way, and then the words come pouring out of my mouth, explaining that in no way, shape, or form had I been threatening bouncers down by the river. I can’t figure out what their game plan is. Did the bouncers report us? Or are they trying to catch me driving drunk or carrying drugs?
I act so calm that the officer sees no need to give me a field sobriety test, but he does search me and my vehicle. He finds nothing but a new title certificate and a copy of the old one, proving nothing was stolen.
He then circles back to the awkward comments I made about the bouncers. His stern look changes to contorted confusion as he asks me to explain what happened with the bouncers. At first I try to retreat and say nothing happened, but when he pushes, I explain the entire encounter in detail. It makes him laugh so hard that I swear a tear falls. He even slaps me on the shoulder as if I’m an old pal. “Well, that’s definitely a new one,” he says, and I smile. It seems like we’re getting along pretty well, but then he tells me he’s going to have to have my car towed because of the plates. He hands me a piece of paper with the location of the tow yard and tells me I’m free to go.
“You’re not even going to breathalyze him?” asks the other cop.
The guy says, “Hell, no,” and then turns back to me, “Be careful on your walk home through these neighborhoods, son.”
“Yes, sir, thank you.”
It’s a pretty shit thing that a cop can take your car away from you and leave you on the street without a ride home, but I’m grateful that this encounter with the cops hasn’t led to an arrest. I begin walking the five or six miles home and decide to stop at a twenty-four-hour gas station along the way to pick up some whole milk; I’m having one of those serious late-night cravings. It’s about 3:00 in the morning, so I try to stick to busy streets, but eventually I decide to take a shortcut and cut through a black neighborhood on my way to the Hispanic section of the east side, where my townhouse and the gas station are. I jog briskly at first then slow to a walk when the gas station comes into eyesight. The neighborhood is eerily silent and I try to recall who or what movie coined the phrase, “It’s quiet, too quiet . . .” which replays again and again in my mind.
As I catch my breath, I notice two guys in dark clothing walking toward me from about forty feet away. They begin across the street, and now as they get closer, I notice that their hands are tucked in the front pockets of their black hoodies, which are tied tight around their heads. I don’t have to be Einstein to know that I need to get the fuck out of here, and quick. I stop walking and start to run.
The guy on the left takes out a Glock pistol and a high-pitched mosquito sound goes past my ear, followed by a very, very loud, pop! I sprint down the middle of the street in a zigzag pattern without looking back, running faster than Usain Bolt. When I near the gas station, I cut left down a side street and then back around another block before heading inside, where I purchase my gallon of whole milk, and then I run or speed-walk the few blocks necessary to get home. I have no idea why I was fired at, or what their intentions were. I’m guessing it was to rob me at gunpoint, but perhaps they were upset when they realized that this white boy has speed.
Most of the guys I sell heroin to, and occasionally buy from, live in a way similar to me. One guy, Brian, tragically lost both his parents in a drunk-driving accident and inherited something like a million dollars. He or I host most of the parties our crowd goes to, and one night I find myself at his townhouse with a bunch of people I’ve never met; they’re all also in the dope game. All through the night, people stop by to purchase or sell dope, and some of them even stay to party all night. I pretty much just hang out and get to know the crowd, going around the room nursing a shitty ice-cold light beer so I don’t puke from the combined buzz of alcohol and heroin. Alcohol and opioids don’t mix well.
Anyway, as I’m hanging out, I meet a few younger guys who went to my high school. I’m shooting the breeze with them when one guy breaks out a small mirror and heads to a table in the corner of the room where he chops a line of some white powder with his driver’s license. I watch jealously and then shout across the room to the guy, in a voice loud enough to be heard over the ruckus, that I am running low on brown and if he lets me crush a line, he can stop by my place anytime and I’ll hit him back. With his eyebrows raised, he looks at the friend of his who knows who I am. The friend nods, encouraging acceptance.
Now feeling good, I nonchalantly take off my jacket, remove the wallet from the breast pocket, and step across the legs of some eye candy to get over to where the line is. The guy surprises me by pouring me an entire pinky-size line and then hands me the mirror, but with a caution that it’s some pretty strong H.
I lean forward and the palms of my hands begin to tingle and perspire. I think to myself, Man, I’m about to get so, so lit, which to an addict is the meaning of life. As a drug user falls down the rabbit hole, his brain changes—namely, the chemical makeup of the pleasure center and the reactions that occur there. In order to feel excitement, the edge of the seat thrill, the drug of choice becomes a necessity. With continued use, the drug is necessary to feel happiness, and then to just feel normal.
I roll up a bill and decline the guy’s offer to chop it finer for me, leaning over the table as I insert the crisp bill a quarter of the way into my left nostril. I slowly lean back, exhale all the air from my lungs, and then begin to slowly work my way up the line. I watch the tiny chunks of white powder fly toward the bill and up my nose as I inhale. I’m hit by the familiar sour burning sensation in my nostril followed by total numbness in my face. Time seems to fade as I make my way back to my beer and jacket, floating and completely, comfortably numb. The top of my skull melts down the nape of my neck, tickling my entire body and turning me inside out.
After banging the line, I know I’m not doing anything hard again for the rest of the night. Even though purity fluctuates, heroin is much more potent than anything else that can be snorted. With heroin, you have different potencies and really different kinds, similar to pot, but heroin is so much more powerful than any other drug when it comes to the amount needed to get wasted, at least the kind on the streets where I’m from. Just the sight of it triggers me, regardless of the quality or quantity I’ll get. With cocaine, for instance, I could consume a line the size of a pencil and consider it to be standard (though I would have no desire to do anything further after that). I need much less heroin to get high.
The guy walks back across the room with me and I thank him again. Then I pull cigarettes from my pocket and am about to head out to smoke when I notice my jacket is missing. I’m surprised, but it’s not a huge deal given that I emptied my pockets before dumping it, taking my Newports, lighter, phone, and wallet with me in my jeans pockets. Plus, I’m enveloped in euphoria and nothing gets to me when I’m high like this. I decide to not spend my time searching for my jacket, but instead to borrow the jean jacket lined with fleece that I see. It’s the dead of winter and freezing to death would be a real buzz kill. Its owner is playing beer pong and I can return it before he even notices.
With the jacket on, I step through the sliding glass doors and onto the second-story balcony, joining the large group of smokers there. On the balcony, a young blonde girl with tight jeans and heavy makeup is wearing my jacket. I give her a crooked smile and call out, “Hey, pretty lady, where’d you get that coat?”
“Sorry, man, we just stepped outside for a sec,” says the guy who must be her boyfriend. “Give him his jacket, baby.”
“It’s cool, I got this one. Wear it for a hot minute, I don’t mind,�
�� I smile broadly, happily, and wink at the girl. Then I turn to face the railing and undeveloped landscape beyond. We are on the outskirts of the suburbs and there is an endless countryside gazing back at us under a full moon. I take a deep, calming breath and reach into the side pocket of the stranger’s jean jacket. My fingers fumble around inside, trying to get a grip on my lighter and smokes. It seems that I’ve completely lost dexterity. In fact, my fingers are stuck together. I pull out my hand and see that there is a needle stuck in it. It stabbed straight through my middle and index fingers, impaling them together and blood is now dripping down my skin. “What the . . .” is all I can say as bystanders notice that a handful of syringes have fallen onto the deck beside me, not to mention my bloody hand is quivering in the air in front of me.
“Oh, gross!”
“Damn, dude!”
People gasp and gawk as I hold up my hand, a grotesque twitching and impaled bloody limb.
I can’t feel a damn thing, yet the total lack of physical sensation is mesmerizing. I stare at my fingers, dumbfounded.
“Eww, get it out! I’m gonna be sick!” moans the girl wearing my jacket.
I snap back to reality. “Whatever,” I say, yanking out the syringe to finally enjoy my smoke. After the first one, I contemplate my next move, but I’m far too out of it to drive home, so I remain there and smoke an entire pack. At some point I puke over the railing and at some point later I make my way inside and pass out on the couch. I never recover my black North Face jacket, but that doesn’t phase me.
In fact, nothing ever really phases me. I’ve never even really considered my own life’s worth. After all, I know from my parents that I’m a totally unacceptable disappointment, and deep down I still think they’re right.
In retrospect, I later begin to understand how trapped and enslaved an addict can become to the lifestyle, but it’s hard to have any understanding of this while in the throes of addiction. That night, I would have been totally disappointed and unable to enjoy myself had I not been able to score some smack at the party.
About half of the people there were just drinking and having a good time socializing. I suspect many of them were exposed to heroin for the first time that night. Most of them were pretty young and probably didn’t know what to think of it being there. I assume quite a few of them were scared away from it; some may have thought it was exciting or invigorating just to be around people who were involved with the hard drug trade, but not necessarily the drug itself. I was elated to have scored some dope—but look at how I ended up that night . . . stuck with a dirty needle that belonged to some other addict, and puking over the side of the railing for an unknown amount of time while normal people looked on thoroughly disgusted and perhaps downright scared.
When I score drugs, I almost always end up humiliating and hurting myself. If I don’t score, then I get bored and start acting like a jerk, hating everyone and everything, unable to enjoy anything at all. If that isn’t a lose-lose scenario, I don’t know what is. Getting to know new friends, having a few drinks, and maybe even getting the phone numbers of some cute girls doesn’t satisfy an addict. Once the high so fervently sought is consumed, we are rendered useless, strapped into a roller coaster of physical pleasure, and racing down its track into oblivion. The worst part is that I desperately want to be normal, to enjoy the things that everyone else enjoys, but know full well that I can’t. The chemistry of my brain is hopelessly warped, thwarted in a way that renders me unable to live like everybody else. The vicious cycle for most of us addicts continues until we’ve chased the rabbit all the way down to the very bottom of the rabbit hole, wherein lies a cramped concrete cell with steel bunk beds surrounded by scary men.
Chapter 9
As soon as I neglect the old adage, “Don’t get high on your own supply,” it is only a matter of time before I become my only client. If someone does drugs that have been designated for sale, they become enslaved to doing them rather than selling them, and that’s really a problem. I respected the Russos so I never stole anything from them that was intended for sale, but in general I didn’t take this principle to heart.
I become more and more antisocial as my tolerance for dope rises. To combat this, I limit my binging to every other week. I stay clean from brown for a week and go through withdrawals, getting sick, and then go to Giovanni for the purest stuff I can find. I save my money during the week, money I get from stealing, burglarizing garages and vacant homes, and selling pot (which I still smoke chronically), and then blow it all on dope.
Don’t get me wrong, I try to work jobs. I do work I find on Craigslist, like cooking or landscaping, but it just doesn’t mix well with being a heroin addict. I shiver and shake all night, and puke when I try to get out of bed. One time, I answer the phone and it’s Marlin, a local small business owner. I tell him I’m really sick, and I can’t work. He says that if I don’t come help him finish the job we started, he won’t work with me anymore, so I agree to meet him at the job site, an old lady’s home. Her backyard garden needs to be weeded and the dead trees need to be removed and replaced with new bushes and plants. We work separately and meet in the middle; I start out on the far side of the yard, behind all the dead trees. I feel like shit, but think I might be able to tough it out. It’s hot, and I start to call out to Marlin asking if he’s got any water, “Hey, you got any . . . ” but I puke my guts out mid-sentence.
“What?” asks Marlin.
“Water. I need water or I’m gonna die.” He hands me an empty milk gallon and tells me to fill it up with water from the hose. For hours I work, chug water from the container, and puke it out without any warning. I can’t keep anything down and I can’t tell when I’m going to vomit, it just comes out. It feels like there is a person inside my body squeezing my organs and boiling my brain. I try to hide it and scurry into the shadows whenever I start puking, but before the day is done the backyard smells like the inside of my stomach. Puked up water saturates all the bark we had spread out and the soil where we planted the trees, it’s everywhere. Marlin knows, even if he didn’t see me puking, which he very well may have; he knows.
When we’re done, I say, “Well, whatever, I guess you’re done working with me.” This is the last time I see him.
I don’t know how to make a steady income after being unable to keep even the most menial job, so I resort to selling all my vehicles, which include a motorcycle, pickup truck, and car. Up to this point, I have been able to regain my paltry wealth by reinvesting what little I could into vehicles here and there, trading up to buy better ones, selling them off, and saving a little more to improve the model. But now I’m getting around by bus and bike, and living from dope binge to dope binge and getting violently ill in between. It’s no way to live, and I know this.
The only way out I can think of is to enlist in the military. I send out applications, but the Air Force, Army, and Navy won’t accept me due to my criminal record. They refer me instead to the Marines, who say they will. The only problem is that the recruiter in my area has already filled his quota with high school graduates. He tells me I should try another city about an hour and a half away. This would be easy enough if I had some mode of transportation. The concern doesn’t last long though. Just a few days later, the sergeant calls me and tells me he’s found out I’m part of an open investigation by the police and also on probation. He says no branch will take someone with even one of these. The message that I’m shit out of luck comes across loud and clear.
Desperate to lay down my poisonous lifestyle, but unable to just “shake the habits,” I expand my search for a way out; I even look into joining the French Foreign Legion, which would require me to fly to France with money I don’t have.
Over and over again I think, I want out, I want to quit, I want to stop, but addiction is all consuming. People who’ve never had an addiction don’t know what’s it like; it’s like being in a well—knowing you want out, but des
perately needing a rope, a lifeline, or being backed into a corner with all the world caving in.
Without a future, I tear apart the past and what got me to where I am. Mostly, I wish that I could start over, but there are also times I am so down that I want to just give up—I want to join Allison. Sometimes at the most desperate times, I daydream about this, how I might do it. But I don’t do it. The truth is that I don’t even know how I would. And so the vicious cycle continues for over a year. I distract myself as much as I can. I try to numb the seething, gnawing pain that comes with such a broken life, but over and over again it’s drugs then crime, drugs then crime.
Repeat heroin binges are something not many people can pull off. Opioid withdrawals are so hard on the body that dealing with severe ones repeatedly can be deadly. Fever, shakes, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, hypersensitivity, blurred vision, cramping, the list of diabolical symptoms goes on and on, sometimes until death do us part. I hate my high tolerance for drugs because it makes it harder for me to feel high. It’s better to feel sick as hell and ride the tide to the next time around, rather than constantly doing brown and getting less and less high, even if that would mean avoiding getting sick. Besides, the good shit is a few hours’ drive away, and I don’t want to make the trip all that often, nor can I without a car.
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