Problems

by Jade Sharma

  I’m getting sweaty, and I start feeling a little sick. I did two bags in a hurry before I left home, and I can’t tell if it was not enough or too much. Now I’m drinking wine on top of it. Careful, this is how people OD.

  I let the conversation lull. I should get the sex over with soon. It feels like that fairy tale where the girl turns into a pumpkin at midnight. I can tell I only have a few hours before I will need more dope or be sick. I put my hand on his leg. He says, “We don’t have to rush it.”

  I can tell he is lonely. I never get lonely when I’m using drugs. Obviously he wants someone to talk to, and it makes me feel bad that he is paying me to have a conversation with him. I kind of fall in love with how pathetic and sad and human that is.

  I let a few moments pass before I kiss him.

  I tell him how nervous I am because I’ve never done this before. How I had been scared of him being a nut. He says, “Well, I still could be.”

  Will I be able to tell when a real sicko wanders into my life? Will I end up chained to a pole and raped over and over for, like, ten years? Will I end up on Oprah? Find God? Will I write a book about my experiences? I would definitely write a book if I lived through something like that. I’m actually interesting, and I would have a story people would love to feel sick reading. Most people who are abducted or survive some harrowing, life-threatening experience are pretty boring, but everyone calls them heroes. Would it be heroic to save yourself if it was your own fault for being in that bad situation in the first place? Like, what options do you have, other than to try and not die? And if you do die, does that make you a loser instead of a hero?

  For example, Lucy Grealy. Lucy Grealy had a deadly cancer as a kid and had to have her chin removed. After surviving the cancer and numerous painful reconstructive surgeries, she attended the best writing program in the country. Her book got great reviews. She lived in New York City. She was talented, young, and on the brink of mainstream success. Then she overdosed on dope. It was such a waste, I remember thinking as I read the news of her death. It was like she had beaten these extraordinary and unlikely odds, survived disfiguring cancer, and all for what? To throw out a life that had been such an ordeal to live through? How could she take life for granted when she had experienced how much suffering just being alive could entail? She had made it, in my eyes. Why did she have to be vulnerable to the same emotional suffering as everyone else? Was I mad at her for not providing me with a happy ending? Maybe the only thing suffering teaches is that suffering sucks.

  My john listens intently. He says he understands what I mean, but who was I to know what her life had been like? Plus, she probably got addicted to dope from the years of being prescribed opiates after all those painful surgeries.

  “I don’t know why I’m talking about this. It’s so depressing. I’m sorry.”

  He laughs. “No, I like talking to you.”

  Maybe this guy could be the love of my life. Maybe we’d end up together.

  “I’m just nervous. I’ve never done this before,” I lie.

  I can tell he gets off on the idea of me being nervous. He says, “You must be so nervous,” as his hand goes under my skirt. I spread my legs so he can rub my pussy. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay, honey.” He tells me I’m a good girl. Then he finger-bangs the shit out of me. And it fucking hurts. He should cut his nails. I moan, wondering how long I have to wait to fake having an orgasm.

  He takes me by the hair and stands me in front of a mirrored closet. “I want you to watch yourself.”

  There are trends in porn that become trends men want to try, or maybe it works the other way around. Like how every dude wants to come on your face; like, that probably wasn’t something dudes thought to do back in the 1700s. Or maybe it was. Anyway, gagging porn is popular, and now it seems like every guy wants it. He wants to hear me gag. He grabs my hair and holds it while he forcefully fucks my mouth. I gag and gag and then spit all the mucous onto his cock. Then he smacks my ass and says, gently, “Is that okay? Tell me if it’s not and I’ll stop, okay?” I say okay. He needs my permission for a slap on the butt but didn’t have qualms about being rough with my throat?

  After making me gag for a while, he moves me to the couch. He goes hands free, letting me find my own rhythm.

  As I’m sucking him off, my mind wanders. I think of how awful it was going to be walking by the train station so late. I wonder if he would let me crash there. But I need dope. Once I was high, what would I feel like eating? Nothing would be open. My jaw hurts. The “job” in blow job. I wonder what would happen if I just stopped. What if I bit his cock? Would he hit me? Would he grab his cock and scream, “What did you do?” Would he demand I leave? Would he call me a crazy bitch?

  What if I start to cry and tell a story about being molested by my uncle? Keisha’s story was she had been seven when it started. This guy has to pay me if I cry.

  Finally, he lets out a sigh. “I’m going to come,” he says. Thank god. I don’t want to swallow it, but once it’s in my mouth, it seems weird to spit it out. So I swallow it. It tastes so gross it makes me instantly gag. When I sit up, he kisses me softly and puts his arm around me. I kind of wish he was my man. Maybe he would be. Maybe this was the way we came into each other’s lives.

  I ask him if he’s vegetarian.

  “Yes, why?”

  “Your come. Vegetarian come is the worst. So bitter.”

  “Huh,” he says.

  Now he probably thinks I suck cocks all the time if I can so readily link a man’s diet to his come.

  He calls me a freak, so I call him a freak and he laughs. He has on boxers and a wifebeater. I’m fully dressed. I don’t feel sick at all. I don’t want to leave. I want him to ask me to stay. I want to cuddle. I want to wake up in his arms. I want him to nurse me off dope and to never have to go home again.

  He points at the white envelope on the coffee table, then gets up and hands it to me. “Here you go, hon. Make sure you get home safe. Text me when you get home, okay?” I hope he doesn’t notice how sad I am that he wants me to go. I tell him he can call me again. He nods like he will, but he probably won’t. I am so tired of people, and how they get you to like them and then make it so hard to be close to them. He’s the one who wanted to talk for hours. I was prepared to just get on with it and go, but he needed me to like him. He needed to be close to someone. His sink has one cereal bowl in it. I linger a little too long, but he doesn’t change his mind. We hug and kiss like we care about each other. I know he just kisses me because he doesn’t want to be rude. He throws on a black T-shirt with the logo for some band he’ll never play for me.

  On the way home, I think about the moment I had a line of spit drooling from my mouth after gagging on him when he thrust too much and too hard, and he wiped the spit from my lips and said, “Look at what a mess you made.”

  I e-mail him when I get to my apartment. If you want to see me again, I’m down for it.

  Three quick bags of dope get me so high I’m sick. I nod at the computer. I feel fucking great. Tomorrow or the next day, I am going to get clean. I feel prepared for it, mentally.

  I go to a group job interview at Urban Outfitters. The interviewer asks what we would do if a coworker was stealing. Everyone gets really cheesy about how stealing makes everyone look bad. I tell a story about an old coworker who changed the price of a pile of books to ninety-nine cents apiece, when in fact the store didn’t sell any books for ninety-nine cents. I don’t get the job.

  I am doing about six or seven bags a day. That’s sixty or seventy bucks a day, but then I also am paying for Val’s shit. I am supporting both of our drug addictions by turning tricks. God, it sounds so much worse than it feels.

  I can make two or three hundred bucks a day hanging out with these dudes, or $7.50 an hour.

  My biggest fear is they’ll look at me and think, Oh god, she’s not that hot.

  Only one time did I meet a guy who was a jerk. He took me to the movies. He talked
dirty. We fooled around in the theater, and then he said, “I’ll be right back. I have to go to the bathroom.” He was gone for a while, so I went outside. That’s when I saw his text: “I’m sorry but I had to leave. I can’t pay you when I wouldn’t do you for free.” I knew what had happened. He had gotten off in the bathroom. Instead of just screwing me out of my money, he had to make me feel like shit too.

  I see Jimmy the next day. We meet at the Time Warner Center. I am running late. I am always running late. I give him a hug.

  Once inside, we make out. I’m not into kissing, but I don’t know what to do with him. He isn’t naturally dominant. It’s so much easier when they tell me what to do. Like with the banker: just do as you’re told, and then it’s over and you get paid. I kind of hate when it’s up to me, but I like that he’s gentle.

  He tells me I’m pretty.

  Afterwards, he says, “You know there’s no other way in the world two people like us would be in the same room together.”

  I see this advertising executive who wants head at the office. I can’t believe how fucking cool his office is. The guy is bald. He is funny, easy to talk to. He likes big girls, so I don’t feel self-conscious about my body. He comes in like five minutes. He gives me 150 bucks. Afterwards, I tell him how badly I want to work in advertising. He tells me this has been his whole life. I am sick with envy. I want him to help me. This won’t work if I’m not clean. I have a reason now. I have something to not fuck up. I have something I don’t want to regret.

  When I get home I think about it and text him. I say I’ll give him head, but instead of money maybe he can help me and give me advice. He doesn’t respond.

  * * *

  “Ogden, I can’t seem to stay clean.”

  “Jesus, Maya. I thought you straightened up at the psych ward. What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I’m doing less. I’m on this cycle where I clean up, get money, and then I think I’ll do it once and then three weeks go by.”

  “Have you thought of going to meetings?”

  “Meetings?”

  “It really helped my girlfriend when—”

  “Did you say girlfriend? How old is she? What does she do? I thought we agreed you were going to spend the rest of your life celibate, punctuated by nights of inebriation and regret you fucked things up with me?”

  “Ha. She’s forty-four.”

  “Whoa, what happened? Did you fall in love with your girlfriend’s mother?”

  “Very funny. She’s had a tough life. She’s—”

  “Please stop. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s that I really don’t care. I’m, like, the best thing that happened to you. What would you do if I sneaked into you house, hid in your closet, and then climbed into bed with you?”

  “Call the police.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  “Anyway, sweets, it’s been over a year. Why don’t you try rehab? It can’t hurt.”

  “Yes, it can. It will hurt a lot.”

  “How long do you want to waste your life doing this?”

  “No, don’t. I’m okay.”

  “You tried stopping on your own.”

  “And I have, like a bunch of times! Like, I can do it, okay? Things have been hard, with Peter leaving and—”

  “That was a year ago.”

  “So what? It was my life! Do you get that? I’m not like you! I don’t jump from person to person like a frog on a lily pad!”

  “This is the guy you spent a year complaining into my ear about.”

  “Yeah, well, I used to tell you everything. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I do remember.”

  “Did you always worry about me?”

  “Yes. I worried. You told me you were using then—”

  “So what the fuck did you think was going to happen after you fucking ditched me?”

  “Please, calm down. Do you want me to hang up?”

  “You hurt me—”

  “Do you want me to hang up?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, are you actually having a feeling? You loved me.”

  “I didn’t ditch you. I’ve always been here for you.”

  “You don’t miss sleeping with me?”

  “Do you want me to hang up?”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “You got me, okay.”

  “We’ll be friends. I’ll always be there for you, okay?”

  “Will you meet me?”

  “I can’t tonight. Maybe for coffee.”

  “For a drink?”

  “For coffee.”

  “Why can’t it be like it used to?”

  “Because you’re a drug addict, Maya. And I’m an old man. And we both know it’s time you got your shit together.”

  “I need money.”

  “For what?”

  “Rehab. I need five hundred bucks.”

  “Where is it?”

  “What do you care? I guarantee I won’t fucking call you for a month. Isn’t that what you want? You want me to leave you alone?”

  “No, that’s not what I want.”

  “You talked to me for seven minutes when I was in that nut house.”

  “I’m sorry my entire world doesn’t revolve around you.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not one of the dumb white girls you bend over backwards to take care of. You’re a fucking cliché.”

  “You’re so fucking original.”

  “I miss you. I love you. Why won’t you see me?”

  “I told you, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want coffee. I want to get a drink. You would fuck me if I was still married.”

  “Maya, c’mon. Please stop. Please just stop.”

  “Will you visit me in rehab?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can we fuck?”

  “No.”

  “Do you miss me?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Why won’t you see me?”

  “Because I think I can be more useful for you as a friend.”

  “Yeah, you always struck me as the selfless type.”

  “Maya, it was a time bomb.”

  “You didn’t have fun?”

  “It wasn’t fun seeing you high, passing out. It wasn’t fun seeing you broke all the time. Seeing you cry. That wasn’t fun.”

  “Like you cared.”

  “It broke my heart.”

  “Then why did you leave me? Why did you just fucking leave me?”

  “I didn’t leave you, Maya. I’m here. I’m right here.”

  “Why won’t you help me?”

  “I’m trying to help you. That’s all I’ve ever done is try to help you. I think you should go to rehab, okay?”

  “Why can’t you get me clean? Like, I could stay with you?”

  “I’m not an expert. I can’t help you the way professionals can.”

  “You would do it if I were a dumb white girl.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I have so many dumb white girls strung out in my house. C’mon. You don’t think I care about you? I’ve e-mailed you. I’ve called you. I’ve checked up on you.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “What are you scared of?”

  “That it’s too late. What if it’s too late?”

  “It’s not. You’re still young. It’s too late for me. It’s not too late for you. You’re going to be okay. But you have to try.”

  “You just want me to go away. Would you be relieved if I died?”

  “Jesus, how can you say that?”

  “I just wish you would try. I wish you would come over here and throw all the drugs away and threaten to call the police. But you don’t give a shit.”

  “I do give a shit. But that wouldn’t work. If you wanted it, you would go and get it. You can’t make someone stop anything.”

  “But sometimes it is nice to act like you give a shit.”

  “This is me giving a shit. If you take a drug test in two weeks and it’s clean, I will give you five hundred bu
cks. How’s that? And I’ll take you out to dinner or a movie or whatever you want, okay? I don’t know how to help you.”

  “What happens if it’s not clean? You’ll leave me?”

  “No, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be your friend, no matter what.”

  There are tedious things that for some reason are insanely pleasurable when you’re on dope. For me it was plucking hairs. I would sit there for hours, staring at the computer screen that continually played cartoons, and go over and over my face with tweezers. I would take pleasure in the mess of hairs I pressed onto my fingers. I would take an Epilady and watch as it plucked the hairs out of my legs and my thighs. I would go over and over the same skin. My face would feel tender. Bright red spots would appear. When I had an ingrown hair, I relished it with pleasure. With tweezers I dug through skin and found the buried hair and felt that sick, weird pleasure of plucking it out and then staring at the twisted black end of it. It was not obvious to me that this was an insane way to spend the majority of my time.

  I spent a lot of time in front of the mirror. I stopped and posed and took my clothes off and put them back on. I liked seeing my cheekbones. The softness had fallen away, and now there were only bones. I liked to touch the bones. I liked to try on clothes for hours even though I had no one to meet. I didn’t need food. I didn’t give a shit about food. As a lark, I would get a burger or a slice of pizza. Eating was purely a recreational activity: the sensation of peanut butter on the top of my mouth, the salt and toughness of meat. Sometimes I would wake up starving or so thirsty I actually would get up to get water.

  My skin started to break out. I’d never had acne as a teenager, and then these mysterious pimples in tiny groups appeared around my face. I thought about how hard it was to take a shit. How maybe I was rotting from the inside out.

  Dope makes time still: you watch the same cartoons, you lie in bed, you stare and don’t move as everything around you becomes thick with dust or rots in the fridge. The trash piles up. You don’t look up.