Starve the Vulture

by Jason Carney

  “I got the hookup, thanks anyway.”

  “All right,” he says. “I got the straight drop.”

  I do not respond. The girl squirms in the backseat. She huffs with disgust at my refusal of their offer. Crackheads wear emotions on their sleeves. I can tell her energy level depends on how close she is to the next hit. I totally understand this sickness. She obviously thinks I have motives other than smoking dope. She sinks further down into the shadows of the backseat.

  “Where we headed?” The pickup puzzles him.

  “This dealer I know,” I answer.

  Not my regular dealer. I did not want to expose my regular connection. As we head the quarter-mile down the street, he counts the number of places where we could have scored. I turn in at number six.

  “They got good dope here,” he smiles.

  The truth is that most of the dope comes from the same two or three sources along this boulevard. Every package is virtually the same. The only difference is the size. Dealers around here are like oxygen. They compete ferociously for business. This helps if you are a loyal customer as the packages tend to be larger with consistent purchases.

  “Y’all wait here,” I say, removing the keys from the ignition. “Be back in a couple of minutes.”

  From where I stand in the dark cavernous entryway of my secondary connection’s apartment, I can see my car. Catch traces of the figure in the cab, the wash of a streetlight falling over the dark shadow of their ghostly skin. A shake pulses up my leg. A feeling of calamity shackles my mind. I have never picked up strangers before. An overwhelming urge to flee fills me.

  Run! Leave those panhandlers, the crackhouses, and this insanity I smoke.

  I begin to feel light-headed.

  Breathe. They are not going to hurt you. Breathe.

  I cannot stop, no matter how much I want to.

  Breathe.

  Marooned in my sickness, I want to run. I lack the strength. The sudden creak of the door jolts me.

  “What the fuck do you want?” the omnipotent voice from inside barks.

  I score two twenty-five-dollar solids.

  Driving. They do not know what is going on. Their silence says everything. I keep looking in the rearview mirror. The girl keeps moving out of my line of sight, as if my eyes can burn her flesh. She is very young.

  The dope in my hand makes me anxious. From the moment I receive the package, to the moment when the flame melts the rock, I panic for a hit or try to control it. I am tweaking in front of strangers, making it harder to hide. I constantly swivel around as if I have missed my exit. I do not know how to explain the voices in my head. The man keeps looking at the dope in my right hand. His tongue runs along the edges of his lips.

  They understand.

  “Do y’all have a place to stay?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “Y’all want to come to my room and get high?” I ask, as if any crack fiend would ever decline free hits. “I’m staying two exits down the highway, over in Mesquite.”

  “That’s where we’re from,” he says.

  The girl does not say a word.

  POETRY, SAID PATRICK

  1988

  “CAN I SIT HERE?” my faggot roommate asks. “You were very brave today.”

  I’m not brave. The muscles in my arms are rigid and snake-bitten. The legal pad bends under the force of my erratic scribbles. My insides are a pretzel. I am so full of emotions that the act of crying is painful. I keep writing, don’t answer.

  “Debbie is not mad. She understands what just happened was about you,” Patrick says as he sits in the chair next to me. “Jason, you really need to start talking about your feelings.”

  When is my fucking life not going to be about feelings?

  The group therapy sessions are finally getting to me. My outer shell is cracking like a Jordan almond in the hands of a five-year-old. The daily onslaught of the staff’s emotionless smiles, the vain attempts of the therapists to lead our discovery of the insides of our bowels, and the medicated grimace of the patients’ secrets and fears on full display, the horror of it all has worn me down. I have nowhere to hide from my loneliness anymore. Debbie’s story sent me over the edge. One second I was staring at my fingernails, the next is a blur.

  “Leaving her daughter with that man makes her sadness seem empty,” I say. “If she really loved me, then she wouldn’t have left me there.”

  “Left you there?” Patrick replies. “You are transferring. Do you know what that is?”

  “No.”

  “Haven’t you been paying attention in group?” He laughs. “That’s when you project your feelings onto someone else. That’s what you just did. Why would you feel so strongly about her daughter’s sexual abuse?”

  I do not answer. I don’t know. At least I will not admit the truth to myself. I stare at the yellow pad in my hands. Drops of tears cover the page. The page wrinkles in small circles, the blue lines of the paper are faintly fuzzy as they smear under the weight of my hand when I wipe off the droplets.

  “I don’t know where that came from. I feel bad for being so mean to her,” I say.

  Patrick reaches out and touches my arm. His kindness to me over the past few weeks has taken me by surprise. He is always in a good mood, always has a story or anecdote. He shares his snacks, never folds under the pressure of his illness. His strength is immeasurable, even more so when he shares with the group.

  “I was supposed to share this in group today. My doctor said I have to speak up or lose my privileges,” I explain.

  “Oh, you did share,” he says. “I think everyone felt you today.”

  I nod, making abstract patterns on the corners of the page.

  “You like writing a lot.”

  “I guess. Poems.”

  “Who would have thought you like poetry? Can I read them?”

  “No, it’s not important,” I say.

  “I hear you up at night, writing. Hear you reading the words aloud as you write them. I don’t understand most of it, but it sounds good.”

  I can feel him smiling at me, I do not respond.

  They sound good is the typical response I get from my family, when I read them my poetry. I resent the answer even though I very rarely offer them a poem to read, preferring that the words come from me.

  “That’s what you’re writing at night, isn’t it?” he asks. “About what? What are your themes?”

  What does he mean about themes?

  I never consider my subject when I start writing, I just write. Writing is a kind of disassociation, a tapping into what I call imagination, letting go to where I just allow the words and form to flow out of me. The poems start out elusive and contain little meaning to anyone other than myself. The act of writing is the only time I trust myself.

  “Some,” I say, “some are this affirmation bullshit my doctor has me doing.”

  “I hate those things,” he says as he fixes his legs Indian style in the chair.

  “I do too. My mother has been writing them for over a decade,” I scoff. “They’re useless.”

  “Not really, there’s a lot of power in redefining yourself through writing affirmations. I just hate writing, not one of my strong suits.”

  I look up, intrigued by his statement. My hand relaxes on the pen and something very true connects inside my body.

  “How so?” I ask.

  “Affirmations are a visualization of what you would like to become,” Patrick states, sounding more like a therapist than a patient should. “What do you want to become? If you think about it, poems are affirmations.”

  “I guess, but I don’t really think about what I am writing, I just write. Had a teacher tell me to edit my work and understand my emotional content to enhance reader experience or some bullshit. I just write.”

  A couple of months ago, one of my teachers took time to ask about a poem I spent a month writing instead of paying attention in my classes. I think some of my teachers were just happy I was no
t a noisy distraction during algebra, geometry, English, and French, so they did not say anything about it. I must have changed each word four or five times, more so in the sheer enjoyment of using my new thesaurus than anything else. The poem was far beyond dark and cryptic; my English teacher read the long-winded megasyllable wreck once—she asked if anything was wrong in my life. Clueless.

  The teacher that I had for advanced reading, an honors course (the only one I ever qualified for due to a lucky score on a standardized test), invested in me; she took time to question each line, to show me how to ask the right questions when editing; how each line pertains to not only the poem as a whole, but also to each line surrounding that line, most importantly every line’s relationship to itself. I am not that evolved yet as a poet to understand this. I paid as much attention to her as I did the clueless one. She tried to tell me that through editing, a poet can create a more concrete piece. I was more enlightened to know there are eighty-eight different words I can use for run.

  “You just write. No reason? No purpose?”

  “I guess. Sometimes.”

  “Do you write about yourself?” Patrick asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “What are your affirmations about?”

  “I’m lonely. I’m angry. I’m lost. I’m a thief. I’m tired.”

  “Not very positive.” He laughs. “They’re supposed to be what you want for yourself.”

  “If I have to share them, I would rather they be short and to the point.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “I sat in my doctor’s office on that plush couch listening to my mom sob while she affirmed herself to the doctor’s approval. Every statement long and drawn out. They would spend an hour and only cover one or two things. The whole thing was very sad. The less I write, the less the doctor has to talk about and the less time I have to be there.”

  “You’re not showing them to the doctor, you’re showing them to yourself. By writing affirmations, you’re giving yourself permission to heal. Isn’t it about knowing who you are, writing for you, defining the world you live in so that you have a better understanding? I mean, fuck everybody else.”

  He sits back, his body full of grace and fluidity. Almost regal without effort, his smile exudes more confidence than my whole body has ever known.

  “Dude.” I pause, stuck with the strength of his statement. I have never thought of writing like that before—just for me, not for a reader or audience.

  “Why do you write poems?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I like poems.”

  “But why write them?”

  “I guess I’m good at it. Never thought about it.”

  Deep thoughts or examinations of life are not too viable for me. Most of my life has been about keeping up appearances while hanging off the edge of a cliff; any attempts to stop and examine the color or meaning or the scenery might have led to a devastating free fall.

  “You have to define your love of something to truly know why or how deeply you love that person or thing, right?”

  “I guess . . .”

  “The words you write are from you and for you. A conversation with yourself can be the most freeing of experiences.”

  “Yeah, but what I am writing now is not for me. My doctor told me to write it.”

  “What is it?”

  “A list,” I say.

  “Like a grocery list . . . ?” He laughs.

  “The ten reasons I don’t like homosexuals.” I feel uncomfortable saying this to him.

  “See how much progress you’ve made? A few weeks ago I was just a faggot.” He laughs again.

  “I have to share this with the group.”

  “Can I read it then?” he asks. “Maybe I can help you understand what you’ve written.”

  I never allow anyone to read my yellow pads. My handwriting is rushed and in many cases hard to decipher. That’s the excuse I used to dismiss the attempts by my family and friends to show interest in my legal pads’ contents. I look into his face and find only kindness—almost motherly is his expression. He removes the yellow notepad from my hand without any effort. He begins to read.

  As he studies the list, he lifts his head a couple of times and smiles a somewhat confused smile. My fingernails pry in and out of my clenched teeth, I try to pretend I don’t care. I do not take my eyes off of him.

  “You have ten things here, Jason. Ten things you don’t like about homosexuality. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” I say, ashamed that these are my true feelings.

  “Number four: Slapping myself in the face when I feel gay after I jack off?” he questions.

  I explain. As an eleven-year-old I would stay home from school and masturbate nine or ten times during the course of the day. Before I could even ejaculate, each euphoric release brought forth the burden of humiliation from inside. Each time I tried to beat the pain of it out of me.

  His face puckers with sadness. “That isn’t homosexuality.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Jason, what I feel for men is no different from what you feel for your girlfriend,” he says. “Being gay is not about sex—well, it’s about sex a little—but more importantly, being gay is a way of describing an emotional attachment to people of the same sex.”

  “So am I gay?” I ask. This fear has consumed me most of my life.

  “Are you attracted to men?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I don’t think you’re gay. I have seen how you interact with women. You are definitely a straight boy.”

  “Why do I feel so gay after I jack off?”

  “How does that feel, when you’re done?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Yes, you do, just think about it. You’ve got the answers.”

  We sit in silence for a minute or so, our eyes connecting and glancing away.

  “Well, what is the first word you think of?”

  “Ashamed.” I mutter. “Dirty. You know, wrong, gross.”

  “Being gay isn’t feeling dirty,” he says. “And it’s definitely not wrong. Jason, when I read the list I think you’re talking about incest. Has someone hurt you?”

  I do not say anything. He knows the answer, even though I don’t.

  “Number six: Green shirt, glasses, and a chick with a dick.” He smirks.

  “That was me hurting someone else.”

  “Number nine: The blind girl in second grade, and my fantasies of having a sleepover with her.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Do you think it’s an accident that you’re here?” Patrick asks.

  “No,” I say. “I belong in here.”

  “You’re very lucky. Most people don’t get this chance to start over, especially at such an early age.”

  “Lucky? I don’t feel lucky. I feel like I’m crazy.”

  “Well, you probably are, but not incurable. You’re not as tainted as you think you are. I see hope inside of you.”

  A little feeling of peace begins to spread in my belly. For the first time in years, I do not feel like I am consuming myself with each breath I take. The way he is talking about me is full of hope, a hope I have never given to myself, a flicker of possibility that makes this place seem like it can be a distant memory someday.

  “You’ve been wasting time in here. They won’t let you go home until you start to show progress. How can you do that?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “That’s bullshit, you do too.”

  He sounds a lot like my doctor. I roll my eyes. Now I just want these feelings to go away. All my life, I have understood that if I do not look at how I feel then I do not have to worry about it.

  “Do me a favor, write about this: write about your life through poems. You can change your world if you just write about it. You have a really neat gift; believe in it.”

  “I feel crazy writing about all of this,” I say.

  “
This isn’t going to be easy. However, I promise if you write down what you feel, it will get out of your head. You’ll see your feelings clearer; have a better understanding of who you are.”

  “Where do I start?”

  “Start with number one. When you finish, go to number two. Just think about what you are writing as you write it. Give it purpose. Each word you write is a piece of insanity that you are bringing into the light. Each word makes you free.”

  “Okay, I can do that.”

  “Pinky swear,” he says, holding out his little finger.

  “You’re such a fag,” I reply with a smile, wrapping my finger around his.

  “Yes, I am, but you’re not.” He smiles back. “You’re just bat-shit crazy.”

  “Right.”

  “Jason, you don’t see this yet. Your strength is in your poems.”

  HALF AS DIRTY, TWICE AS SMART

  1988

  I STARE INTO THE TOILET BOWL. The contrast of the stark white porcelain, the clear sparkling water, and the delicate nature of the cotton swab, submerged at the bottom of the toilet, heightens my fear of the bright orange-yellow disease stuck to the swab’s bulbous end.

  What the hell is that?

  The bathroom carries the feel of sudden illness, the air around me congested with invisible germs.

  I know I’m going to get sick.

  The runny scrambled eggs and coffee from breakfast bubble in my stomach.

  What the hell is that? Did that come out of his ass? That is so fucking gross.

  My eyes scour every surface—the tile, the sink, the shower floor, my towel on the rack, and the sides of the commode—searching for more signs of this Day-Glo funk. In my mind, I am convinced there is AIDS at the end of the Q-tip.

  He is going to make me sick.

  Although rooming together for two weeks, I still feel uncomfortable. Everyone else seems to like Patrick; he tells funny stories. They don’t seem bothered by his gayness or his sickness. I smile and try to play along. His honesty has made him a dependable member of the unit’s community. He doesn’t struggle when talking about how he feels in group therapy. There is a softness about him: his body gestures as he converses with the other patients, the constancy with which his eyes connect to the person who is talking, and the hugs he offers when they finish sharing their pain. He would never hurt anyone. From what I gather, other people have hurt him a lot; his last boyfriend was very abusive. Patrick reminds me of my mother. Most of the time he shares in the group sessions, I try to ignore what he says. I can handle feeling only so much compassion for fag shit.