Caleb invited me over for another dinner with him and Toni, this time without the rest of the family. It was another pleasant evening in middle-classdom. After dinner we sipped coffee and told stories about mutual acquaintances. I excused myself to use their bathroom. Out of habit, I checked their medicine cabinet. Aha! I had forgotten Toni was also on the hydro train. Zohydro ER, a painkiller so powerful that thirty states begged the FDA not to approve its release in capsule form. Of course, money won that war, and now doctors are prescribing Zohydro in every state in the union. But even so, these were tough to come by. I pocketed a few to try out later that night.
Once home, I minced and snorted the Zohydro and began my mini vacation. I rode the high to drowsy town and stopped there for the night. It was no cocaine, but painkillers had their place. I resolved to only buy cocaine for special occasions and to make a more concerted effort to live on painkillers. After all, I had more pain than most people, so I had a legitimate reason to medicate. The next morning I called in sick. I went to the pharmacy and got my prescription for Lortab filled. Then I drove to St. Mary’s Hospital and got a prescription for OxyContin. Then to Mountain Ridge Hospital for my Percocet prescription. Then to the university hospital for Vicodin, Summit Hospital for Demerol, and Valley View InstaCare for Lorcet. I had enough to relax, and enough pills to sell to pay the bills.
Courtright wasn’t working out, so I quit. Not formally, but I stopped going in, so I’m sure that Malcolm got the point. I did the math and figured I could make more selling painkillers. Plus, I’d had enough of the disrespect. Susie and the others bought half my stock.
Crack-Hand Jack bought all my percs and invited me over to his place for what he promised would be a life-changing high. His trailer was down the gravel road from Susie.
Jack’s trailer was near barren. Filthy and spotless at the same time. The stale air smelled like cheap tobacco and fried cooking. The front room had a torn imitation leather couch and an old TV balanced on a stool. The carpet had alcohol stains and a large stain in the middle that I told myself must have been from red wine. There were no pictures on the walls. Jack led me to a back room without any furniture and told me to wait there. There was a microwave plugged into the wall, just sitting on the floor. He pulled the door closed behind him and I heard him lumber through the trailer.
My fear receptors clocked in. Was I about to be another stain in the carpet? Why didn’t Susie tell me not to go with Jack to his murder shack? Was she in on it? Fuck. I had to get out of here. I couldn’t hear Jack’s footsteps anymore. Jack’s trailer was silent. Shit. This probably wasn’t Jack’s trailer. This thing was abandoned and now Jack just uses it to hack people apart. He probably gets his nickname from cracking people’s skulls. I tried the window and found that it had been screwed shut. The room had a tiny vent in the ceiling that not even a child could fit into. The only way out was the door. I held my breath and tiptoed across the room. When my hand touched the doorknob I heard Jack’s steps coming toward the room. I stepped away from the door and thought about jumping through the glass of the window and taking my chances with whatever was on the other side. I could probably outrun Jack. But would the others be outside the trailer in case I tried to make a break for it? Would Susie be waiting with a chainsaw?
Jack opened the door and stepped in with a friendly and excited grin. “Alrighty, so this is—woah, Caish, ya alright?”
I had backed into a corner and was sort of half-crouched, ready to make a break for the door. Jack was carrying a small black leather case. Not big enough for a butcher knife. Or a chainsaw.
“Umm, yeah, sorry, just a little wired I guess.”
“Yeah, looks like it,” Crack-Hand Jack said. He stood there looking at me for a few seconds, then said, “Caish, maybe we autta head back to Susie’s. You’re kinda freakin’ me out.”
“Oh no no, I’m sorry. Really, it’s nothing. Sorry.” Judging by Jack’s face, I was not about to get hacked to pieces. In hindsight, he probably just didn’t want me to see where he hid his stash.
“Hm,” he thought.
“Really, Jack, it’s nothing. I’m excited to see what you have. Is it crack?”
“Haha, no. Ya know, I never actually dealt crack. Ain’t never even done the stuff. The nickname came from a stint I did in county lockup. I got into a lil’ scuffle and cracked a guy’s skull with a judo-chop. It was a weird thing, I ain’t usually one to judo-chop, but it just sorta happened. Ya know how things get in a scuffle. Ya do weird shit. Haha, anyway, that’s why they call me that.”
Jesus Christ.
“Nah, what I wanna show you goes by many names. Maybe ya heard of it.” He unzipped the leather case and displayed the contents. Three pill capsules, a stack of small patches, two syringes, a spoon, a lighter, a razor, a small plastic cup (the kind that come on the top of cough syrup bottles), and some tinfoil. “Murder 8... TNT... China White... Dance Fever...” He paused after each name and invited me to sit on the ground with him. He was obviously proud of his vocabulary.
“... Apache. Goodfella. Ya heard of it?”
“I’ve heard those names from Susie before, but nah, I dunno.”
“Fentanyl.”
“Fenanail?”
“Fen-ta-nyl.”
“What’s Fentanyl?”
“Fentanyl is a painkiller just like all that other weak shit you been takin’. But Fentanyl ain’t fuckin’ around. This shit right here is a thousand times heavier than heroin. Dead serious. It is actually one thousand times more potent than heroin and morphine.”
“Bullshit.”
“Caish, it’s science. Fentanyl is harder than black tar. By one thousand fucking times.” Jack was laying out the contents of his pack as he talked. “But, you ain’t gotta take my word for it, I got enough to level a rhino right here.” He held up a few of the patches between his fingers.
“Oooh, damn,” I said. “Nah, I’ve heard of this. Goddamn elephant tranquilizer, right? Nah, I don’t want any of that shit. Sorry Jack, this shit is lethal.” I stood to leave.
“Caish, nah, have a seat. This ain’t elephant tranquilizer. That’s carfentanil. I ain’t insane. This is Fentanyl not carfentanil. Big difference, Caish. Them tranquilizers are a hundred times as potent as this here TNT. Trust me, Caish, I didn’t bring you here to kill ya.”
Well, that was a relief.
“Hm. If you say so.” I sat and watched Jack get the rest of his kit organized on the carpet.
“Now, you can do this however you want. You can be a pussy and take it like a pill. You can grow a pair and snort it. Or, my personal preference, ya can shoot it straight into your veins.” He looked up, “So, what’ll it be?”
A couple years ago my doctor told me that my HIV viral load was undetectable, and therefore pretty much negligible. She said that I should still use protection when I have sex, but that either way I probably wouldn’t transfer the virus. I took my medication as prescribed, and didn’t have any symptoms from the HIV. With that in mind, I opted for the syringe. I hadn’t injected anything in years. Not since my Malibu house party days.
“You nervous?” Jack asked.
“Haha, nah. Why?”
“Cause you lookin’ nervous as fuck.”
“Nah. I’m good. It’s just been awhile since I’ve mainlined anything.”
“Mmm.” Jack opened up the patches and used the razor to scrape the gel off of the patches and into the plastic cup. Satisfied that he had two servings, he placed the gel cup in the microwave and set the timer for thirty seconds. He handed me a rubber tube to tie above my elbow. After twenty seconds he pulled the cup out and used the needle to stir. He pulled a water bottle out of his jacket and poured a few drops into the cup. He drew back the top of the syringe and pulled the light yellow liquid into the small plastic tube. With the last drop sucked up, he held out his hand and said, “Here, gimme your arm.”
“Fuck, Jack, I dunno. I’m not a junkie.”
“Ain’t nobody callin’ ya a junki
e. I’m givin’ you a valuable education right now, not to mention the greatest high of your whole goddamn life, all free of charge. Out of the goodness of my heart. Now, have a little trust and gimme that arm.”
I held out my left arm and Jack’s sweaty hand cupped my elbow.
“Will it burn?”
“What do you mean?”
“You microwaved it for a long time.”
“Oh, haha, nah. It ain’t gon’ burn. Gonna feel nice and toasty though. Just relax.”
The prick of the needle didn’t sting as much as I had expected. It was a painless injection. He found a vein on his first try and slowly injected the warm liquid into my blood. He pulled off the rubber hose as he withdrew the needle. It felt like someone pushed my shoulder back, and then the rest of my body. I fell back to the ground as the warmth spread up my arm, into my chest, up my neck, and then throughout my body. Waves of warmth. Pulsating pleasure. My body melted. The room melted. Jack’s voice was distant and cheery. I had become God. This was unlike anything I had ever felt. Time slowed down, and it too became warm then melted away. I stopped moving, because why move? If I held still I floated. The melted ceiling got closer, then dissolved. There was nothing, only rapture. I closed my eyes. Jack made a sound. I opened my eyes and rolled my head over to see Jack pulling the needle out of his arm. He was laughing and leaning back. He said something on his way back. Then we were gods. We floated around in the palpable perfection. I floated out of the room, through the perfection, and into my pool in Malibu. The sun glistened off the water droplets on my sun-kissed skin. I floated and heard muffled seagull squawks and the whir of the earth. Weightless. Careless. Nothing mattered because nothing existed. The only thing I could think about was the only thing I could feel: joy.
20
The rapture lasted for a while, I’m not sure exactly how long because time didn’t exist. After the initial rush, there were several hours of deeper relaxation than I had ever felt. Who knew the body had capacity for such intensely incredible sensations? I hated everybody who had ever tried this and not forced me to take it right away. Selfish bastards.
“How ya feelin’ Caish? Doin’ alright?”
“Was I asleep?”
“Ya may’ve nodded off.” Jack was folding up his black case. The room was dimly lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Night had arrived.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“’Bout eleven thirty. We were ridin’ high there for six or seven hours. Not bad.”
Crack-Hand Jack stood and offered me a hand. He pulled me up and I took a moment to regain my balance. The magic had faded, but I felt good. Great, even. But slightly off kilter. We walked through the empty trailer in the dark, not worried about stubbing our toes on furniture, and out into the night. Jack locked the door behind us with a padlock, then turned and offered me a cigarette. After a few silent puffs, he said, “So, not bad, eh?”
“Haha, I have never felt like that before. That was better than I knew was possible.”
“Yup. Shit like that oughta be illegal, right?”
“Oh bullshit, that can’t be legal.”
“I shit you not, Caish. What you just had is prescribed in all fifty states. Totally legit.”
“How do I get a prescription?”
“Mmm...” Jack took a drag and blew the smoke straight up into the night. “That’s the tough part. Gotta get cancer.”
“Hm.” I thought about whether it would be worth it. How does one even get cancer? I mean, I was doing my level best with the cigarettes, but was there a better way? I knew about tanning beds and uranium, but tanning beds take years, and uranium is hard to come by. Then it occurred to me, “Ah, shit Jack, I’m so sorry. What kind is it?”
“Ha! Ack ach,” Jack’s laugh almost cost him a lung. “I ain’t got cancer, Caish. I was just sayin’, that if ya wanted a prescription of your own, that’s what ya gotta have. Nah, I got my own hookups.”
“How can I get it?” The most important question of the night.
Jack smiled, “Through me. I got plenty for ya. In fact, I could use your help movin’ some of it.”
“You mean selling it?”
“You could put it that way, sure. Think of it as a business opportunity.”
“Ah, Jack, I’m not a drug dealer.”
“‘Course not, Caish. I ain’t askin’ ya to deal drugs. I’m askin’ ya to bring this gift to the masses. So what if ya earn a little extra cabbage on the side?” Jack’s cigarette ashed itself. Tiny specks of glowing carbon escaped into the wind. “You ain’t gotta give me an answer right now, Caish. Don’t stress it. Sleep on it. But next time ya want a high like that, hit me up and we’ll talk.”
The next time I wanted a high like that was right that moment. And later that night, and again as soon as I woke up the next morning. The next day I snorted four oxys, but those now seemed like an appetizer. As good as chips and salsa could possibly be, one craves the full enchilada. The high was wonderful, but not enough. I called Jack that night.
Jack sold me the Fentanyl at “wholesale prices,” and we agreed that I would sell seventy-five percent of it and give him twenty percent of my earnings (give or take). I hosted “taste testing” at my apartment. I invited people from Alcoholics Anonymous over, and asked for referrals. Susie and the crew were already aware of Fentanyl and bought their supply from Jack, but there were still plenty of folks in Montana who hadn’t heard of this heaven. In a week I was a needle pro. In a couple of months I was beginning and ending my day in pure ecstasy. Although it never felt quite as intense as the first time, it was a pleasure I could not afford to do without. Money was coming in, but it wasn’t enough to cover all my expenses. For the time being, I cut back on lottery tickets.
“Caish, what the fuck?” Caleb yelled into the phone. I could tell he was doing his best to maintain his reputation as a levelheaded rational individual, but the strain came through my phone as clearly as his voice.
“What?” I asked.
“What? Are you kidding me? Try guessing.”
“Mmm... Is this about me quitting Courtright?”
“No. Although what the hell was that about? We try and help you, we stick our neck out for you, and you just stop showing up to work? How do you think that makes us look? That hurts our relationships, Caish.”
“Hm. Yeah. You’re probably right.”
Caleb grumbled something under his breath, then went on, “Caish, you sold fucking Fentanyl to Toni?”
“She needed it, Caleb. Are you calling to thank me?”
“Fuck no, I’m not calling to thank you! Caish, do you have any idea how addictive and dangerous Fentanyl is? And what are you, some fucking drug dealer now? And you sold it to my wife? Caish, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
I couldn’t understand why Caleb was so fired up. His soft-spoken wife was in pain and I offered her something to ease that pain. It all happened by design, anyway. A month ago I was praying for more clients. Jack had lots of Fentanyl to sell, but I couldn’t off-load enough of it to make any real money. I asked the Lord God for some help. Later that same day I was at Walmart and ran into Toni in the pharmacy area. She was refilling her Zohydro prescription. God couldn’t have been more clear if he’d placed his message on a billboard: Toni needed Fentanyl, and I needed more clients. He brought us together to be part of His plan. Truly, the Lord works in mysterious ways. Anyway, I struck up a conversation and told her that I too struggled with chronic pain, and that the best thing I had ever found was Fentanyl, had she heard of it? She said she had, but was nervous to try it. I told her that the bad reputation was ill-deserved, and that it was a very safe drug when taken as prescribed. She asked how to get a prescription, and I told her of the two routes: cancer or me. It took a little more coaxing, then we were back in my apartment having a taste test. I didn’t want to scare her off, so I gave it to her in pill form. She took well to Fentanyl and bought most of what I had for sale. She must have been in a lot of pain. She was ba
ck in a week looking for more and feeling much better. A week later, Caleb called.
“Look, Caleb, first of all, you need to calm down. Sec—”
“Caish, calm down? You are selling drugs to my wife, do you even—”
“Second of all, Toni was in a lot of pain, now she’s not. Really, you should be thanking me.”
“Oh fuck you, Caish. Do you even realize what you’ve done? Can you even see the implications?”
“Implications?” I asked.
“Of course you don’t. You never do. You just cannot think ahead, can you, Caish? All you ever think about is right this moment. Not tomorrow, not anybody else, not even your own goddamn long-term well-being. You probably don’t even give a shit about how dangerous Fentanyl is.”
“Well, it’s only dangerous if you—”
“Caish, Fentanyl is the drug that killed Prince. Prince, Caish. He died taking Fentanyl.”
“I understand you’re upset, but really, you need to calm d—”
“Caish, I’m not paying your rent anymore. Obviously. Don’t ever give anything to my wife ever again. Don’t come near us. Please leave Missoula.”
With a huff, he hung up.
I looked around my dark apartment. It was 2:00 p.m. on a Tuesday. My front room was cluttered with pillows, blankets, food boxes, beer cans, and clothes. On the coffee table lay the instruments of administration set out from this morning’s treatment. My shades were drawn but slim beams of light barged in through the cracks. Golden bands making the rest of the place darker. I lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the cloud that was forming on my ceiling. Candice, my landlord, had told me that I had to stop smoking in the apartment, but this was my apartment. I’ll do what I want in my apartment. I heard something fall off the nightstand in my room. The sound of a phone dropping to the ground. Then my bed creaked.
Malibu Motel Page 28