by R. P. Lester
In addition to a heavy drug addiction, Raptious was anchored with a host of unchecked health issues. It caught up in her mid-30s. She died in a grimy bathroom on her knees, her head in the toilet, hair licking the surface of the water, cold left arm draped over the side of the tub with her body crumpled in an unnatural position. By that time I’d changed my ways and had a friend on the police department who told me more details about the scene. It appeared that she’d tried to call for help.
Her stiff right hand lay on the dirty tile next to the toilet base, cradling a cell phone with a dead battery.
***
Ages ago, a friend and I spent a night inside a bottle of Maker’s Mark. On a drunken whim, he asked me, “Coxman, what’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done?” The answer came slurred but immediate.
I can say with concrete conviction that through prison, the passing of a parent, bad women, fair weather friends, dodging a couple of bullets, being stabbed a few times, and fifteen years stuck in the mire of hardcore drug addiction, the most gut-wrenching thing I’ve ever done in my life was tell my daughter that her mother was dead.
Coxman’s Log: 7:36 PM
I’m lying here under the bane of fever with mucus pouring out of holes that God didn’t mean for mucus to pour from.
I know he didn’t.
Supine as I find myself on the bed, I stuck the index finger of my left hand up my left nostril in a vain attempt to clear it out. What I whipped out was a string of snot resembling a hoary alien beast. It sling-shotted from my nose and smacked against my finger with a retching kooeeeck! I studied it for a moment, holding it directly over me as I lay helplessly on my back. Dark green and mildly transparent it was, with bits of chunky green goo embedded in the middle. It hung from my finger like a monkey on a trapeze, dangling back and forth, daring me to fling it across the room. Then it fell into my left eye.
I almost cried.
Chapter Three
The Drugs Never Have You
(Until You Try to Quit)
I grabbed the trash can and held on to both sides as I braced for another tidal wave. Every muscle in my body locked like a set of brakes on wet pavement. My head felt like it was about to explode, and I swayed like the suicide jumper on a windy bridge. The last gush of bile had been more voluminous than the previous three, and I was pretty sure I saw Monday’s meal in the chunky river of red regurgitation.
Good Christ! I don’t remember eating chili & chicken burritos!
What the hell? Red? I don’t drink red beer.
No, wait. Is that?.....
Fuck me, that’s blood.
Like all good binges, it started out with the best of intentions: half a sheet of Timothy Leary, a dash of coke, two eightballs of glass—light bulb and straw optional—an ounce of weed, and an ocean of beer. All for a party of me.
As you’ve gathered by now, I don’t like people.
Those were my narcotics.
After getting up close and personal with the bottom of my Sesame Street trash can, I viewed the zombie in my bathroom mirror: five layers of body grease shrinkwrapped my skin, eyes recessed so deep they looked like charcoal briquets, and my heart was pounding so hard I couldn’t wait for it to splatter all over the sink and get it over with.
I was three days into my six-day bender and it felt like I’d been going for ten. After seeing the mixture of blood and beer splash violently atop the used condoms and tossed issue of Big Butt Magazine, I told the corpse staring back at me to quit mixing Bud Ice with his acid.
***
I use to dabble in drugs a little bit.
Okay, I use to dabble in drugs a little lot.
Well, to be more exact, I’ve done my fair share of drugs.
If we’re being totally honest here, one could suggest I’ve endured a hell of a lot of drugs.
Fine—I’ve occasionally been known to ingest the inventory of a pharmacy.
Look—fuck you. At one point my body rivaled New Orleans in toxicity, alright? Your mom’s snatch still beat us both…..
And that’s a point to the Coxman.
***
So you’ve never partaken of any illicit substance and you find yourself at a pivotal crossroads: you’re at a high school party in the woods where you pay some redneck for a few hits off the joint he’s smoking with six other people. Not even catching a buzz because now you’re smoking a joint with seven other people. Next thing you know, you’re deepthroating a Liza Minnelli impersonator you’re reaching depths you never thought possible to feed your wretched addictions.
This was my existence for many years. I stole from family and friends. (They were doing it to me, too. Circle of life.) I borrowed money with the intent of never giving it back. I sold dope just to skim off the top for personal use—which got me into trouble more than once when it was on the front. I held jobs by applying the fiend's logic of “working to buy more dope.” The arrangement kept me and Uncle Sam happy for years. And—surprise!—I pawned shit. Just not always my shit. Including a buddy’s guitar he’d left at my place. Told him it was stolen by a drug dealer I owed money to and I’ve never told anyone about it. Good thing I’m taking that one to my grave.....
Fuck!
***
Yes, yes, yes, I did all these things and more to obtain leafy buds, multi-colored powders, and trippy hallucinogens, as well as a few things known only to myself and whatever accomplice joined me in the crime. However, I can look anyone in the eye and say I never performed acts of sexual debasement to catch a buzz. Even at my lowest, I maintained a semblance of standards.
But if your crackheaded ways did lead you to be the guest of honor at a bukkake party, whatever, man. It’s cool. You won’t find any self-righteousness here. Drug addiction is a heavy burden for anyone, and the stiff middle fingers of judgment shall not extend from my scarred and battered hands.
You fag. Quit reading and move on. That’s nasty.
***
Point is, I was a No-Good-Lousy-Drug-User.
A Wastoid.
Speed Freak.
Pot Head.
Drug Head.
Motorhead (no disrespect, Lemmy).
Radiohead (fuck you, Thom Yorke).
Junkie.
Tweaker.
Addict.
Those of you who were unlucky enough to fall into that lifestyle know that’s not even the tip of the belittlement iceberg. If you’re reading this, then that probably means you quit all that nonsense and can afford to buy books and other recreational shit now. Congratulations.
It’s better on this side, isn’t it?
When you’re under the influence of psychedelic/life-threatening/fun-as-shit narcotics, you inevitably put yourself in situations that are removed from the scope of normal, everyday living. Simply put, you’re going to be exposed to some volatile people under some horrendous circumstances.
The Proof is in the Pudding
I used to mule for cash and free cocaine. Nothing heavy, mind you, just the occasional cookie wrapped in clear, sterile packaging. I would perform this activity only when it was most beneficial to me, and I never transported across state lines. Mostly, my routes stayed within the city limits.
For anyone unfamiliar with the vernacular, a “cookie” is roughly one ounce of cocaine molded to resemble a Keebler product with a sugar rush from Hell. At first glance, it appears to be a white, undersized hockey puck. They’ve also been known to be oval or oblong, but are typically the shape of a circular, artery-constricting treat.
That enables you to curl a fucking Volkswagen.
Muling for Alfonse was easy and provided me extra funds with a wealth of free talking powder; anyone who’s ever been weighted with a healthy drug habit knows how strong the allure of free narcotics can be. I did this intermittently for a few years until the night Alfonse lined a load of coke into his cock. His girlfriend had informed him that injecting cocaine into the penis enabled men to fuck "for a really long time." The amount of yayo shot into his dick o
n that evening, however, indicated that she wanted him to fuck her forever.
He didn't.
He was forced to amputate his manhood after a five-day erection piggybacked with gangrene. He and my cousin subsequently ended their relationship before he got out of the game altogether, thus ending our reciprocal arrangement.
Now by and large, smuggling a cookie in your person provides only mild discomfort. Their modest size and huge illegality dictate they be shoved in your ass. This may sound difficult, if not invasive, but is really as simple as ABC: Always keep things loose, Bend at the waist for easy access, and Cram it in like Elton John at a gay pride parade. Depending on how they’re shaped, one can grab some K-Y and be done in a matter of seconds.
I never had any issues with shoving a deadly toxin up my starfish. Periodically, I would even get a wild hair up my ass (ha!) and take on a heavier load in my supple buttocks. I must admit, though, there were many times when I questioned whether a free sniff was worth it.
It was usually when Alfonse tried to turn a single cookie into more of a baker’s dozen.
***
The cramps threw me to the cold concrete floor. I was as bloated as that red-head in the Bendy’s hamburger commercials. The load trying to push its way through my abdomen didn’t give a fuck-all about the mechanics of human anatomy. My tummy was dangerously distended, pushing the silver snap buttons to bursting. Sweat streamed from dirty pores and a thready pulse beat my temples into submission. From my hands and knees, I strained upward to look at the red brick wall four yards away. I didn’t know what the hell I expected to see—there weren’t any clocks in there.
I figured it was about an hour until I could take care of all this.
Leaking tear ducts blurred the “FUCK DA PO-LICE” mantra next to the “I (heart) Sherry” profession written on the cinder block. Some forgotten woman missed by some forgotten sad sack. Ironically, what came through crystal clear were the five scrawled sets of chalk, remnants of another unfortunate counting down his days.
Fuck Sherry, that cheating bitch!
I couldn’t even look at the sink anymore. A lot of places had moved to aluminum fixtures, but this place was just a step up from Mayberry’s jail. It was porcelain, with old-fashioned silver twist knobs. One was rusted shut and the other had been ripped off during a riot. It’d never been replaced, leaving a serrated shard jutting to the sky. I noticed it just in time before gashing my palm on it the first night. Neither side was functional, yet the broken faucet had a constant drip that left a green streak on the oily basin. No water except for what I was given, not that I could drink anyhow.
If I have to listen to that goddamn thing one more night I’m going to rip it out of the fucking wall!
They said they’d ran out of pillowcases the day before.
And sheets.
Pretty sure my pillow had lice.
I didn’t even want to know what the too-white-to-be-piss stains were on the bare blue mattress.
I crawled to the toilet and heaved again. The results were the same—nothing but a sharp belly pain and long lines of drool hanging from my cracked lips. I wiped my mouth with the back of my orange sleeve and recoiled in disgust as the reek from the nauseating bowl punched me in the nose. It almost made me faint headfirst into the brown water.
I would’ve welcomed the release if I knew I’d drown quickly.
As I lifted my face out of the foulest, most disease-ridden shitter to ever have a stranger’s blood caked to the seat, I silently cursed myself for committing such a stupid traffic violation, the arrogant pigs who pulled me over for it, and my own addiction for allowing Alfonse to talk me into five cookies instead of one.
That greedy Mexican-Latvian-Irish-African-Norwegian-Saudi-American halfbreed.
***
When Alfonse asked me to transport five cookies I gave him my best Scooby Doo. I didn’t really want to, but his offer was most compelling: an ounce of coke and five hundred bucks for an inner-city trip.
That’s as sweet as a prostitute doing butt stuff without charging you extra.
I readily agreed and held my breath for the old grease and go, loading up my shipment with minimal bleeding straining and setting out in my sky-blue Studebaker while smoking a hooter enroute to the dropoff. I exited I-49 and took a left at the intersection of Stoner Avenue (I swear to God that’s a real street). So far, so good. Until I fucked up, of course.
As carelessness would have it, I ran a stop sign.
As fate would have it, there were two cops tanning their leathery asses across the street in a Frisky Dream parking lot, inhaling donuts like they were the last ones the place was ever going to make. I didn’t even notice them as I drove by. They saw my violation, driving out of there to fix themselves behind me. We traveled three blocks, my body a jumble of nerves as I took note of their unwavering position in the rearview mirror. When the time was ripe, they hit the lights and pulled me over in a Booger Fling parking lot.
I would’ve shit my navy-blue Dickies if my asshole hadn’t been plugged with five ounces of cocaine.
The first little piggy got out of his city patrol car wearing a pressed blue uniform, dark Raybans, and a smug exterior. He shifted his duty belt, placed his left hand on the taser, and kept it there. I saw him eyeing my plates and rear lights as he slowly made his way to my vehicle. Once on the driver’s side, he knocked on the window, rotating his melded thumb and index finger in the universal symbol to roll it down.
What the hell was I going to do, punch it? The Police Interceptor would’ve snagged my mammoth Studebaker like a cheetah to a gazelle.
I sat looking straight ahead and exhaled a deep sigh. Reluctantly, I complied as I felt metaphorical batons knocking on my asshole for an unwelcomed entry. (I cannot tell you how much I yearned to avoid this scenario, good people. The smoke filled my cab like a poker game and I knew I was fucked.)
As well as driving a fogbank, I’d stupidly left joint roaches in my ashtray from a couple of days before. It was ajar, and Piggy #1 could see them from his vantage point. Not that it would’ve mattered; the stench of cow flesh searing on a commercial broiler couldn’t hide the vapors of fresh Blueberry Kush wafting from my cab. The funk gave him all the probable cause he needed for a search.
Piggy #2 had stayed in the cruiser running my tags. When Piggy #1 realized that their traffic stop warranted an arrest, he motioned for him to come assist with my detainment. There was no point in protest. I begrudgingly exited the truck, was cuffed, charged with possession of CDS I, and thrown in the small back seat of their Interceptor with knees in my chest because it’s common knowledge that midgets are the only people to ever go to jail. The fast food joint’s parking lot welled with gawkers and rubberneckers searching for free entertainment. Before we left, the first little piggy radioed for a tow truck to come impound my beautiful ride.
On the way to parish jail, Piggy #2 informed me that since it was Friday afternoon, I wasn’t seeing a judge about bail until Monday morning. Upon arrival to the clink, I was booked, stripsearched—absent a cavity search—printed, and handed a dapper orange jumpsuit to sport for the weekend. I was mad, but grateful for what the cops hadn't found, thankful I’d deflected a latex finger jammed up my ass.
So then.....
I’m in parish lockup. Sitting on five tightly-wrapped ounces of fresh cocaine. Hoping nobody tries to force the love. At least with all that coke in my rectum it’d be numb to the abuse.
***
Friday night faded to Saturday afternoon without a hitch. The only fight-or-flight I’d felt was in the showers. I’d shaved my head the evening before my arrest, and my sleeved arms and painted torso elicited glares from some of the homies. Luckily, the absence of swastikas bought me a pass.
I was concerned about the load I was packing, but fortunate enough to have a cell to myself. At least the grub didn’t have sand in it that time. The weekend staff treated everyone like humans and accommodated reasonable requests, allowing rec time to extend p
ass normal hours if everyone maintained an even keel. They even gave the inmates extra desserts due to a surplus in their foodstuffs. Oddly, that’s where my troubles worsened, my weakness for creamy Jell-O pudding cups teabagging me like a senior in the locker room.
Did I mention I’m lactose intolerant?
***
Saturday Night
Haven’t shit since Friday morning. No laxatives in the clink. Wouldn’t ask for them anyway. A small tummy ache. Feel trouble brewing. Lower intestines locking up and I think I greased a little bit in my jumpsuit. Trying hard to maintain. Face stays twisted. I snarl a lot. Other inmates avoid me because they think I’m possessed. Yay for small miracles.
Sunday
Tummy is starting to bulge. Pain becoming unbearable. Can’t eat anymore. Fearing an OD from a leaky package soaking into my rectum. Question whether death would really be a problem. Exhausted. Haven’t slept since Thursday night Wednesday night Tuesday night can’t remember due to heavy consumption of coke prior to arrest. Keep to myself and wait to get out. Hoping I can make it. I look like shit, thus am deemed too unattractive to rape. Motherfucker, will tomorrow ever get here?
Monday
Thank God!
***
A sheriff’s deputy in a wrinkled beige uniform retrieved me from my cell around 8:45. He stood inches away from the bars and called my name from an old wooden clipboard: