American Junkie

by Tom Hansen

  [JUNE 30, 1999]

  I was on my side, pulled up against the rail. Greg had spread a blanket out on the bed. There were three other nurses, big guys, standing around.

  “Okay, roll back,” he said.

  Each of the nurses grabbed a corner of the blanket and lifted me out of bed like a kid on a trampoline. I weighed so little they could have flung me up into the air no problem. They manoeuvred me off the bed and set me down gently in the geri-chair, a sort of recliner with wheels. As soon as I was settled I felt the blood draining into my feet, a swelling hot feeling that grew so quickly my legs and feet felt like they were going to burst.

  “Ahh! My feet.”

  Greg quickly reclined the chair, which raised my legs and I felt the pressure let up, the blood draining slowly back into my torso.

  “It’s the Heprin,” he said, “a blood thinner. It’s to keep your blood from clotting.”

  “It felt like someone was blowing up my legs and feet.”

  “You have to have it as long as you spend most of your time in bed,” he said, apologetically, “otherwise there could be blood clots.”

  Greg pushed me out into the hall. This was the first time I’d been out of the room since I got here. Off to the left was the art therapy room at the end of the hall. Through the window in the door I could see drawings tacked up on the wall. He wheeled me across the hall into the hydrotherapy room. It was spotless and bright, all white ceramic tile and plastic. To the left in the corner was a toilet with stainless steel bars on both sides. To the right of that there was an open space of the wall with showerheads every few feet. The right third of the room was taken up by something that looks like a huge teacup with a door in the side, sitting on a pedestal.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a bath,” Greg said, “It’s called an ARJO. When you’re a little better, when you can sit, I’ll give you a bath.”

  He left me in the center of the room and turned on one of the showers. Then he remembered something, and ran out of the room and came back a minute later with a few towels. Smiling like a fool, he checked the temperature of the water and then wheeled me closer so I could touch it. It didn’t feel too bad on my hand but I knew that once I was immersed, once my head, shoulders, back, once my skin got wet something would happen.

  “Make it quick,” I said, my body instinctively trying to curl in on itself.

  He wheeled me under the spray, chair, blanket and all. The water was hot, I could tell, but still my chest froze up and I couldn’t breathe, and began to shake. Greg grabbed a soapy sponge and quickly and gently ran it all over my body. My chest started to hurt. I tried to huddle into a protective ball, but my body couldn’t manage, so I lifted one knee and wrapped my arms around my chest. I began sobbing. Quickly it became crying, full on ten-year old spoiled brat bawling.

  “Hurry the fuck up!” I managed to shout.

  It wasn’t a feeling of cold. It was something beyond cold, something indescribable. Human flesh and water didn’t seem like they should react so strongly to each other but what was happening was like throwing a devil into a pool of holy water, or being burned at the stake, electrocuting a death row prisoner. Greg had turned off the water and I was huddled in the chair, still trying to curl myself into a fetal position, not shivering, but almost convulsing, trying to wrap myself with my arms. He threw a few towels over me and tried to quickly dry me off. I felt a little bit better when he wrapped my head.

  He wheeled me into the hall, shouted toward the front desk for more nurses, then quick as he could got me back to my room. They lifted me onto the air-bed. I grabbed the railing and pulled myself tight against it. They removed the wet blanket, replaced it with a dry one, I rolled back and they covered me up with another blanket. I pulled it up to my neck and tried to huddle into a ball but I couldn’t, my hip wouldn’t allow it, so I tried to tuck the blanket all around me, wrap myself like a mummy. Greg reattached the feeding tube and my IV’s.

  “Tom? Are you okay?”

  I was still shaking so hard I could barely talk.

  “I’m cold,” I managed between sobs, my teeth chattering.

  It lasted for a while, I don’t know how long. Eventually my skin became dry again and I gradually began to feel warm.

  [JULY 2, 1999]

  “They tell me you’ve been a little sad lately.”

  It was the mental health counselor again.

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “Depressed?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “A lot? How often?”

  “From time to time.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Ummm.....”

  “Have you ever thought about anti-depressants?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I had to be careful here, not push it too much.

  “I don’t believe in them.”

  “You don’t believe in them???”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

  He paused for a minute, and I prepared myself for the next barrage of inane questions.

  “Okay. I’m around if you want to talk.”

  “All right.”

  I was relieved, but of course he couldn’t just stop there, leave it alone.

  “Will you think about it? The anti-depressants? They might help. Some people’s brain chemistry....”

  “Yeah, all right,” I said, just to get rid of him.

  [DECEMBER 5, 1981]

  I climbed up the stairs to the hall, following the other band members, an Ernst and Julio Gallo wine box tucked under my arm. When I reached the top one of the bouncers, a huge mountain of a guy, moved in front of me, blocking the way.

  “You can’t bring that in here,” he said, indicating the wine box.

  “It’s not wine,” I said, “it’s our equipment. Guitar cords and shit.”

  “Hmmm,” he grunted, looking at me suspiciously, but eventually he stepped aside and let me pass. I walked across the old wooden dance floor and set the box among our equipment next to the stage. The Blackouts were doing their sound check.

  After the Dead Kennedy’s show I had left The Fartz. Suddenly it had all seemed meaningless, and I couldn’t bear the thought of playing those buzzing songs over and over, practice after practice, show after show, night after night. The music wasn’t going to change, evolve. I had a vague idea of what kind of music I wanted to play, and speed punk wasn’t it. Besides, the punk thing in Seattle had already reached its zenith, it seemed. It had started to split into these factions and the unity of the scene had vanished. Now the Punks hated the New Wavers, the Skinheads hated everyone, the Heavy Metal crowd hated the Punks, and on and on. It was silly. But I still wanted to play, it was all I knew how to do, and eventually I ended up in another band, The Refuzors.

  After sound check we’d gone to our practice space to kill time. We tried to think of something that would make that night into something more memorable than just a run of the mill show. It was a radio station benefit for KRAB Radio, and was sure to draw a big crowd. Danceland USA was a big hall, almost as big as The Showbox, and it would probably be packed. There’d been a lot of promo on the radio. These were the kind of shows the two or three reporters in town covering new music showed up for and we wanted to make an impression, especially since we had gained a reputation as troublemakers, and had been having a hard time getting shows at all. Most venues wouldn’t let us in the door. Our last show had been in the basement of a party.

  We were unable to think of anything, and spent the time drinking and drawing up the song list. We decided to open with Splat Goes the Cat, a song Mike had recently written about a cat lost in the city who gets confused and frightened by the noise and people and runs out into the street and is killed by a car. The cold December sun had begun to set as we piled into my VW Bug for the ride down to the show. On the way down Pike Street I pu
lled over in front of Benson’s Grocery on the corner of Pike and Bellevue so we could pick up some more beer. As I waited in the car, I looked out the driver’s side window. And there it was.

  A Calico. Freshly killed. Right in the middle of the street, just ten feet away. The impact had knocked it right onto the yellow centerline. Its head was twisted around too far and there was a little blood on the white patch of fur on its chest.

  I’d never seen a dead cat on Capitol Hill. Ever. What were the odds? That that cat would get run over at that moment? And then be in that place, right when that band, with that song, was on their way to that show? It was mind-boggling. We’d have stood a better chance of hitting the lottery. The dead cat had the hand of god written all over it. This was our chance. An opportunity. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Bumble your way through life, keep your eyes open for opportunities and then grab them when they appear? This was our chance to make something happen.

  I raced over to the QFC supermarket on Broadway, ran into the store and grabbed an empty Ernst and Julio Gallo wine box. When we got back to Benson’s, Mike got out, waited for a break in traffic and walked out into the street. He got a couple feet away, cringed, and came running back. He couldn’t talk, just shook his head. Ward tried next and he too came running back, like a scared little kid. I sighed, turned off the car, grabbed the box and strode out into the street. The cat wasn’t too badly damaged. It looked like it had been hit once and that was what killed it. One of its eyes was hanging out. I picked the cat up by its tail and put it in the box. Bystanders looked at me with appreciation. Ordinarily I would have been repulsed because I really liked cats, but like the Blues Brothers, I had to suck it up. I was on a mission from god.

  The stage was dark. Student Nurse had finished ten minutes earlier. The hall was packed. We walked onto the still darkened stage and picked up our instruments. A few minutes earlier, I had told the emcee to take off, that we would introduce ourselves. Our backs to the crowd, we stood by the drum riser and let our instruments resonate in the key of E, quietly at first. The crowd pressed up against the front of the stage, knowing something was going to happen. Wedge rumbled on the bass tom. Mike strummed his Vox. I let my guitar feed back, gradually turning up the volume knob and grabbing the headstock and pushed back and forth on the neck, bending the note of feedback up and down. The sound got louder and louder until it became a droning wall of noise.

  Jeff, a friend of ours, calmly walked out to center stage. The person controlling the lights trained a spotlight on him. All eyes in the room were drawn to him. Dramatically, he pulled the cat out of the box, swung it by the tail over his head like a lasso, then flung it out into the crowd and walked off.

  [JULY 6, 1999]

  It’s been a month now, flat on my back, stuck, in this bed, in this room.

  A plastic bottle hung from the rail for me to pee in. There was the remote control for the TV, and the call buzzer for the nurses, if I had to take a dump. It’d been painful at first, forcing that bedpan under my body, bent backwards like a bow. Finally they glued some kind of foam pad onto it. It’s quite the pain in the ass... not having an ass. The rest of the time I watched TV, ate a little and dozed off. Once a day I got to go out onto the deck and have a smoke. Days went by, one after the other, every one the same. Blurring into each other. Roll over. Other side. Pills, then sleep a little. And again. The light in the room changes. Shadows move. Time marches on, I suppose. Toward or away from something I don’t know.

  I’ve just had a shower. CJ has removed my bandages.

  “Can you turn over, lay on your stomach for me?” she asked.

  “Why?”

  “I have to take some pictures,” she said.

  They’d taken some shortly after I arrived as well.

  “We can compare them to the ones when you got here. Document the progress.”

  I rolled over. There was something simple about being here, following orders. Not having to make decisions. Maybe that was why there were so many people in jail?

  I heard the click and the whirring of the camera. It took about fifteen minutes, then she asked if I wanted to see them. I declined. The total weight of what I’d done to myself was something I simply couldn’t face yet. I had done something that could not be undone. I had a feeling that if I looked in a mirror, I would be horrified, maybe I would turn to stone. CJ finished re-applying the dressings.

  “All done. Do you need anything?” she asked, packing up her equipment.

  “I’d like to go out to the deck.”

  “I’ll get Cindy,” she said.

  “Tom? You want to go out?” Cindy asked, walking into the room.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” she said, and manoeuvred the geri-chair next to the bed. “Do you need help?”

  “No, I think I can do it.”

  I slid off the edge of the bed, then froze. In my mind I could do it, but my body wasn’t there yet. This had been one of my problems my entire life. I’d always tried to do things that were beyond my capabilities. I pulled myself back up onto the bed and Cindy called for help.

  After I was in the chair, Cindy pushed me out into the hall.

  “My son got a traffic ticket,” she said.

  I almost burst out laughing, thinking if that were all she had to worry about she would have it made, but I stopped myself. I turned and looked at her. She was really worried, the concern etched on her face.

  “He only got his license six months ago,” she said.

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” I replied, bluffing. He was sixteen, already shaped, formed. There was nothing more she could do, really, although parents like to tell themselves they can. It was up to him now, he might have to learn things the hard way.

  “He’s always been a good boy. Responsible,” she said, her voice sounding a little hopeful.

  I’d gotten a traffic ticket as well, the first day I had my license. But that hadn’t been where it started with me, my decline begun long before that. Maybe, even before I was born.

  “I’m sure everything will be all right,” I said.

  As we passed the nurses station, Greg smiled at me from behind the desk. Because of my teeth, I grinned back without really opening my mouth. We continued through the dining room and out onto the deck. She parked the chair next to a cement ashtray that looked like a big planter. The sun had just gone down. Cindy bundled me up in a blanket.

  “I’ll come back in about twenty minutes,” she said.

  “It’s cold,” I said. I regretted it the minute I said it.

  “Are you going to be warm enough?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be okay. Thanks.”

  I pulled a pack of Camels out of the pocket of my robe. Greg had tried to talk me out of it, “You haven’t had a cigarette for almost two months, why don’t you just stop?”

  “One addiction at a time,” I said, in a parody of AA. I had no intention of quitting. Everyone in my family smoked and I’d never known anyone who’d gotten cancer. Until I saw some evidence I wasn’t buying it. The anti-smoking campaign was misguided anyway, political bunk. They’d managed to get some people off cigarettes and it’d reduced the rates of cancer somewhat, or so they claimed, but then why were there more sick people than ever? Because there was money to be made in sick people, they were dreaming up all sorts of ways to convince people that they were sick, ill, dysfunctional, and once they convinced you, once you believed it, then it became real. Well, I wasn’t falling for it. Not the Ginsu knives, miracle gyms, age defying gels, brain pills, multi-vegetable choppers, hair restoration creams or get rich quick schemes. I knew that what I needed would not be found out there. It was somewhere inside me.

  It was getting dark. The wind was starting up. I could see it bending some of the trees across the parking lot. It carried with it the kind of chill that goes right through you. Clouds moved across the sky like shadows. I pulled my robe tighter around my neck and huddled, to keep the co
ld from going straight through the little flesh I had left on my bones. The greenhouse behind me was dark, the lights had been turned off. I caught a glimpse of myself, reflected in the glass. I couldn’t see my face clearly, but the general impression reminded me of one of those old people, sitting in a wheelchair covered with a blanket, living out their last days in some group home, waiting to die.

  [JANUARY 1982]

  I got off the freeway at Stewart and stopped at the light. It was night, and before me the streetlights down Stewart formed an arrow to the heart of downtown. The light turned green and I drove on. After three blocks I turned on Boren and pulled into a parking lot behind a dark building. The Monastery. I’d heard stories about this place. It used to be a church, but was some kind of nightclub now. Lara lit up a joint and passed it to me from the passenger seat. I took a drag, and turned to look at the building. It was painted dull brown and looked like your average run of the mill church. There were no signs, no flashing lights, nothing. I craned my head and looked up at the tall dark spire of the steeple. Lara passed me the joint again.