Baby Huey: A Cautionary Tale of Addiction

by James Henderson

  During the ten-hour bus ride I’d sworn to myself a hundred times never to touch crack again. It was the root of all my problems. Never in a million years.

  “How much is a quarter?”

  Blue said, “Twenty-five dollars,” and laughed, revealing perfect white teeth. “How far is Little Rock from Mississippi?”

  * * * * *

  I followed Blue to a room upstairs. She knocked on the door. The loud talking inside ceased and someone said, “Who you want?”

  Blue said her name and a man peered out at us through the window before opening the door. This room was larger than mine, with a TV, a porno flick showing, thick marijuana and cigarette smoke in the air.

  Four men and a woman sat on a bed before a small table littered with beer cans and wine bottles. One man had a straight in his mouth, his head tilted back, his cheeks inflating and deflating.

  The man at the door told us to have a seat. The loud talking resumed. I sat down in a metal chair next to the bed.

  Blue remained standing and said, “Squeaky, let me get a quarter.”

  Squeaky nodded and crossed to the bathroom, left of the television, and closed the door. All a sudden the man sucking on the straight jumped to his feet and started jumping up and down.

  “Get em off me, somebody!” he screamed. He flung the straight across the room. “Get em off me! Get em off me! Somebody, get em off me!”

  The man closest to him snatched off his baseball cap and started hitting him with it. The other two men and the woman rushed to the far side of the room, one man shielding the woman in front of him. I stood up and stepped back.

  “I got em,” the man with the baseball cap said. “I got em all!”

  He must have missed one or two because the man continued screaming and started scratching all over.

  “Get em off me! Get em off me!” He tried to pull a gray wool sweater over his head and fell to one knee.

  Squeaky came out of the bathroom and said, “What the hell going on?”

  The man stopped screaming, the sweater halfway over his head, and fell face first to the floor.

  The man with the baseball cap said, “Dennis? Dennis, you al’ight?”

  Not a peep from the man on the floor.

  Blue walked up, knelt down and held the man’s wrist. When she looked up she was grinning.

  “He’s outta here,” she said, as if she were calling a play at home plate.

  “You mean he’s dead?” That was the other woman in the room, looking horrified.

  Blue said, “Yes, unless he’s intermittently halting his heartbeat.”

  “Aw naw!” Squeaky said. “Hell naw! He can’t die here! I told him to slow his roll, didn’t I? I said, ‘Dennis, slow your damn roll!’ but he didn’t listen. I told him ten times. He hardheaded! Now look what happened! Didn’t y’all hear me tell him?” The three men and woman were heading for the door. “What’s up? Where the hell you going? We got a dead man here!”

  They kept going, the last man out saying, “Lock the door.”

  Blue sat on the bed, picked up a pack of Kools on the table and lighted one, and then took a swig from one of the wine bottles. “Why you watching this filth, Squeaky?”

  Squeaky didn’t answer, both hands on his forehead, staring at the dead man on the floor.

  Blue stepped over the body and changed the channel. The Ricki Lake Show. “Squeaky, this isn’t a problem.”

  “Why come it ain’t? Man OD’ed in my apartment, police gonna run me up and down. I’m on paper. My sister gonna raise holy hell.”

  “Your sister? What she got to do with it?”

  “He’s her baby’s daddy.”

  Blue said, “Oh, I didn’t know that. What you give me I take Dennis off your hands?”

  A new expression appeared on Squeaky’s face. “What you want?”

  “An eight ball,” Blue said, and took another swig of wine.

  “You got it.”

  Blue got up and grabbed Dennis by the ankles. “John, would you get the door for me?” I didn’t move. Undeterred she dragged him to the door and opened it herself. A sickening thud sounded when she jerked him over the step onto the concrete balcony. Before closing the door she said, “John, I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Squeaky looked at me and said, “They told me that bitch was crazy.”

  Later, in my room, staring at Blue chop up an eight ball with a razor on the dresser under a table lamp, I wondered if I were dreaming. A transvestite had stabbed me. A long bus ride to another city, where in less than an hour upon arriving I’d seen a naked drunk and a dead man dragged by their heels by an attractive, innocent-looking girl with hair barely longer than mine.

  The white boy was gone when we walked back. I wondered if he would return for his clothes in the dresser and the stereo. I also wondered about Dennis.

  “Blue, can I ask you something?” Blue nodded, concentrating on her work. “Where you put him?” She looked up. “Dennis, the dead guy?”

  “Oh. The room next door was empty.” She pulled a lighter and a straight out of her back pocket. “A day or two he’ll draw somebody’s attention.” Filled the pipe and lighted it. “David comes by every morning at five.” Changing the subject. “If you want to work, hop on the back of his truck.” Inhaled and held it for a second. “Yard work, but he pays at the end of the day.”

  I didn’t know what to make of her. She handed me the pipe.

  Blue sat on the bed, her upper body in shadow, the bulb in the lamp the only one in the room working. The next hour or so we handed the pipe back and forth.

  My left leg felt funny. I laid it on the dresser under the lamp, careful not to disturb the coke, and rolled the pant up to my knee. As usual, looking at it stopped the swelling.

  Blue said, “What are you doing?”

  “Take a look at this, would ya? My leg is swelling up.”

  Blue didn’t budge. “There’s nothing wrong with your leg. That’s cocaine making you paranoid.” She started laughing. “You’re afraid your leg is going to swell up and kill you, aren’t you?”

  I rubbed the knee, felt fluid there. “That crossed my mind.”

  “And you’re afraid that once you croak, I’m gonna drag your body somewhere, let you rot like Dennis?”

  That hadn’t crossed my mind, but now it did. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  Blue thought that was hilarious, falling back onto the bed laughing. She sat up and said, “You’re afraid to die, aren’t you?” I nodded. “Why did you try the blade?”

  “What?”

  She pointed at the bandage on my wrist. “Look at this,” she said, then moved to the lamp and held her wrists under it. Three long scars on the right, two on the left. I looked her in the eye and she said, “You’re not alone.”

  “Spanky…he…I didn’t…” I’d been stabbed--she’d tried to kill herself. A big difference, but I couldn’t find the words to tell her that.

  Blue pulled a handful of pills out of her pocket and offered me one. “It’ll take the edge off the coke.”

  A skull and crossbones were imprinted in the speckled brown pill.

  Blue popped four pills in her mouth, gulped, and stuck out her tongue. “See?”

  “What the hell is this?”

  Blue told me it was Ecstasy, said it was harmless, no side effects other than dehydration. She crossed to the stereo and found an oldie station, Frankie Beverly singing Happy Feelings.

  The pill tasted bitter and was hard to swallow dry.

  Blue started rolling her shoulders and bending her knees, her hands to her side. My already racing heart sped up. Oh-oh, here we go…She snapped her fingers and I realized she was dancing, not having a seizure. I loaded the pipe and sat on the bed, wondering where would she drag me?

  Chapter 26

  We danced for hours, both of us sweating like pigs in a slaughterhouse, Blue doing her knee bends and shoulder rolls in the same s
pot while I was all over the room, on the bed, in the bathroom, trying this and that, fast dancing, break dancing, whatever struck me at the moment.

  My left leg never felt better.

  Smokey Robinson was singing Cruisin’ when I looked over at Blue and realized how foolishly I was acting, dancing like a damned fool when this gorgeous shorthaired girl was a few feet away, dancing by herself.

  Blue opened her eyes when I embraced her, looked startled. We slow danced, stepping on each other’s shoes. Betty Wright sang about doing it the very first time. I kissed her neck and tasted sweat. No scent other than the crack smoke in her shirt. I stopped dancing and kissed her full on the mouth, her eyes wide open the whole time.

  I kissed her nose and worked her over to the bed. I told her she was beautiful, told her I wanted her. I nudged her down on the bed, her eyes still open, and lay beside her, my leg over hers. Kissed her again. I didn’t like the way she was looking at me.

  “Can I make love to you?”

  She didn’t say yes or no, so I kissed her again and unbuttoned her shirt, found a breast, licked the tip before sucking it. One hand caressed her face while the other traced across her stomach, flat and taunt, to the inside of her pants.

  Blue said stop and I hesitated, my hand still there, right there. Her pubic hair felt like silk.

  “I need you,” I said, knowing that sounded cheesy, but now my package was hurting from the want of her.

  Blue grabbed my wrist. “Let me up, John.” Sounding serious about it, frightened too. I didn’t move. “Let me up, dammit!” she snapped. “Let me up!”

  I got off her. “What’s the problem?”

  Buttoning her shirt she said, “I do dope, but I don’t do tricks.” Before I could respond she was off the bed, snatching up the remains of the eight ball, heading out the door. “You want that there’s plenty around here.”

  She slammed the door.

  * * * * *

  The blistering cold air from Canada blew across the plains, stopped in Kansas City, and decided to stay. It was a different cold than what I was used to in Arkansas; it got me to thinking about frostbite, toes and fingers turning dark colors, a doctor telling me he had to do some cutting.

  Homeless on the street I would be flirting with death in that cold. Why on my third day there I huddled in the lobby early in the morning, five o’clock, with two brothers and three Latinos, waiting for some guy named David to put us to work.

  A black pickup truck towing a trailer filled with weed-eaters and lawn mowers stopped in front and one guy said, “There he is--’bout time.”

  David, white, tall, long face, in a gray parka, stopped me as I was getting in the bed with the others and asked my name. I told him and he said, “You don’t wanna work let me know now. Something turns up missing or I catch you fluffing off, I’ll kick your ass and call the police, understand?”

  I nodded and hopped in the truck.

  Six strangers, teeth chattering, we huddled close together as David drove down I35, through downtown, across the state line into Kansas, exited off Shawnee Mission Parkway and stopped in front of a huge antebellum surrounded by a sea of leaves. David gave me a rake and a handful of garbage bags and told me to get busy.

  I raked slow at first, to keep my body from defrosting too quickly. After lunch I raked fast, to keep my body from freezing up again.

  Fifty dollars richer I headed back to my room. Blue was standing in the doorway watching paramedics haul a body downstairs. I walked past her, thinking she was still upset about the other night.

  Blue said, “They’ve found Dennis.” I nodded, fished in my pocket for the key I’d removed from the broomstick. “Are you hungry?”

  She had a microwave in her room, a crock pot, TV, CD player, mini fridge, books on the floor, on the unmade bed. On the wall above the dresser was a black-and white poster of a beautiful woman with flowers in her hair.

  “Phyllis Hyman,” she said, handing me a bowl of stew and crackers. “Be Careful How You Treat My Love, you remember that?” She sang a few lines but I couldn’t place the singer. “Don’t Wanna Change The World?” Still didn’t ring a bell. “God, you Arkansans are behind the times, aren’t you? Haven’t got over the novelty of an inside toilet, have you?”

  The stew was lukewarm but it tasted good.

  “You Are My Starship, I know you remember that. Norman Connors?” Blue said. I nodded. “Phyllis sang background.”

  “What has she done lately?”

  Blue frowned. “She’s dead.”

  I scooped up another bowlful out of the crock pot. “You related to her or something?”

  “Hell no, I’m not related to her. Look at her. She’s beautiful. I’m…” She sat down in a plastic chair next to the door and stared at the picture. “Phyllis knew what I know.”

  “What’s that?” She didn’t answer. “You’re beautiful. No kidding. You are, and you’re not wearing makeup like she is.”

  Blue looked at me, a curious look in her eyes.

  My gaze moved to her breasts in a gold crochet sweater. Man, they stood straight up.

  Blue said, “You wanna do something?”

  Raking leaves in the cold I’d managed an erection thinking about her, reliving my hand in her silky patch, the taste of her mouth. Hell yes, I wanted to do something.

  “Ecastsy or crack?” Blue said. “I got a few dollars.”

  That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. “Crack.”

  I still couldn’t believe I’d swallowed a pill with a skull and crossbones on it. It made me act stupid, dancing and shit, made me horny. I didn’t need a pill to get horny.

  Blue came back with a fifty-dollar rock and I told her I had to be careful, not mess up all my money and end up on the street in the cold.

  “You can stay with me,” she said before lighting the straight.

  That sounded good, but I remembered Zelda showing me the door once the crack and money ran out. “It’s cold as hell up here, I can’t take any chances.”

  Blue exhaled smoke and started laughing. “You can take the boy out the country but you can’t force him to use public restrooms. John, you can trust me. I don’t fuck people I like.” She handed me the pipe. “I like you.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  Blue opened it before I could hide the pipe and the rock. A slim, neat-looking man in a gray business suit walked in, glaring at me with the pipe in my hand.

  He asked Blue outside and I could hear them arguing, the man’s voice loud and angry.

  She came back in with a white envelope in her hand.

  “Your boyfriend?” She said no. “Ex-husband?” No. “Friend?” No. “Uh…” I was searching for a synonym for sugar daddy.

  “He’s my brother. Gene. He’s an accountant. Say, you like to gamble?”

  To my surprise she had a car, a black Jeep Cherokee, a little over twenty thousand miles on it. She stopped at a dilapidated yellow house on Prospect Avenue and came back with a bag of pills, these pink with a smiley face. I said no thanks when she offered me one.

  She laughed. “Okay.” Popped four of them in her mouth. “When the blood clot in your leg burst, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She thought that was funny.

  Just then my left leg started acting up. On the sly I rubbed it. She saw me and howled with laughter. My leg threatening to explode and kill me, I laughed too.

  At the Isle of Capri, a tan-and-blue, yacht-shaped casino banked on the Missouri River, Blue gave me fifty dollars and told me not to forget her if I hit the jackpot. The quarter slot machine clanged out a few quarters every now and then but quickly ate up twenty dollars. Gambling wasn’t for me.

  Blue was sitting at a blackjack table, several stacks of different colored chips near her elbow. She told me she was winning and I sat beside her and watched, declining each time she invited me to play a hand.

  Three in the morning we arrived back at the motel and stayed up till the su
n came up, talking, smoking crack. Somehow I hopped on the back of David’s truck and accomplished a day’s work raking and bagging a ton of leaves.

  Three days later, the routine unchanged, I was barely able to crawl into the truck.

  David told me, “You fall out in one of my customer’s yard, I’ll kick your ass and call the police!”

  That evening Blue didn’t answer my knocking but the door was unlocked. She was in bed, fully clothed, shoes on, a pillow over her head. I lay beside her and woke up the next day just in time to go to work. When I got back she was still in bed, in the same position. I checked her breathing, asked if she was okay. She didn’t respond. I rolled her onto her back. Her eyes were wide open but blank…a dead stare.

  “Blue, you okay?” She didn’t respond. “Talk to me, Blue, you okay?” Nothing.

  I figured all those damn Escatsy pills, and the numerous prescription pills lined atop her commode, had worn her out. But the next evening I came back and she was still in the bed. Jesus, she had to have gotten up and gone to the bathroom, hadn’t she? I patted her jeans; dry.

  When The Tonight Show went off I got up and checked her pockets, found a bag of pink pills in the front and flushed them down the toilet. Put the pipe in my back pocket. In one drawer was her purse, filled with money. I took it to my room; came back and straightened the room up a bit before walking to the lobby and calling 911.

  The operator told me to stay there until the paramedics arrived, but I went to my room and looked out the window. A fire truck came first, and I wondered why they dispatched it to a possible OD.

  Three paramedics went into Blue’s room and two of them rolled her out on a stretcher a few minutes later. A policeman was out there talking to onlookers, their words misting in the cold air.

  When everyone left, I regretted not going out and telling them her name, Blue. She popped pills and smoked crack, but she was a good person, a nice person. She looked good too. She wasn’t fucked up like the rest of the dopeheads around here…Yes, she is.

  You, too.

  I got to thinking about all the shit I’d done in the last few months. Thinking about Spanky led to thinking about getting a rock, which would erase all the shit in my head.