Jeff
Glinsky has sent you a message on Facebook!
“What’s good bro? You get a new number? I been
calling you all week.”
I check my phone. No missed calls. He must’ve been
calling my old burner.
“Sorry man, yeah, it’s XXX-XXX-XXXX.”
My cell phone rings and I answer it. I’m pretty sure
I can guess what happens next.
“Jeff?”
“Yo! Harry! What’s good, man? You going to Tribe
tonight?”
Shit,
that IS tonight, isn’t it?! God fucking damn it, I completely forgot. I NEVER
miss STS9…
“Is it sold out? I thought it was next weekend.”
“Yeah it’s sold out, but I got an extra spot on
guest list if you want it.”
I haven’t been to a show in months, maybe even a
year. I fell out of the scene right around the time the heroin showed up and
the money ran out. Funny how that works.
“Uh… Sure, man! I’ll take it. Thanks.”
“No problem bro. Just show your ID at will call and
you’ll have a ticket. How’s everything been with you, anyway? I haven’t seen
you at any shows lately.”
“Well
Jeff, it’s funny you should mention it. A few months ago I made the conscious
decision to withdraw from society and devote my life to heroin…”
“I’ve just been really busy with work and shit, man.
I’m tryna save money for a new place, y’know?”
“Yeah, I feel you. Hey, you think you could…”
“Here
it comes…”
“…Help me out with some party favors for tonight?”
“Called
it!”
“Hmmm… I’ve actually been out of the game for a
little while now, but I still might be able to help you out. What’re you looking
for?”
“Aw, really? Well I’m looking for a gram of Molly
and a half strip of L if you know anybody.”
“Let me make some calls, I’ll definitely help you
out if I find anything.”
“Thanks, bro. Either way I’ll see you tonight!”
“Yup. Later, man.”
My
junky instincts tell me that I’ve already won. Jeff’s kindness has been his
downfall. He should’ve asked me for the drugs before offering the ticket. I
could hear the disappointment in his voice as he hung up. But Jeff is a good
person, and I’ve fucked over enough people for this lifetime. I know the
crushing disappointment of being blown off by your connect all too well, so I
start making calls. It’s harder than I thought. Usually when I want Molly or
acid I go through the darknet. I haven’t even bothered with local street
dealers in quite a while. The best I can find is some sass, which Jeff accepts
out of desperation. I tell him I’ll meet him outside the venue in a few hours.
This
will be my fifth time seeing STS9, and the first time without being fried out
of my skull on some sort of psychedelic. I thought about maybe grabbing myself
some sass for the night but decided against it. Rolling alone kinda sucks,
though I guess you’re never truly alone in the jam scene. I don’t know if or
how long I’ll be chilling with Jeff tonight, but I guarantee I’ll see plenty of
familiar faces. Which kinda sucks. I have no good answers for how and where
I’ve been these last few months. I’ll be telling some lies tonight, no doubt.
After
my arrest I got drunk and deleted all my dealers’ numbers. Boy did I regret
that in the morning. But it worked. A lack of connects, money, and fear of
going to the city to cop again has kept me clean for eight weeks. So at least I
don’t have tracks to cover up. I still have a few hours before doors. Better
get nice and loaded before I head to the venue.
My
alcohol tolerance is kinda scary. In my dealing days I could drink a fifth of
whiskey in a night and have little to no hangover the next day. I’ve cut down to
just the weekends now, but I can still drink a staggering amount of hard liquor
before I get sloppy or embarrassing. I grab a fifth of bottom shelf whiskey and
kill half of it before I leave. I dump some more into a personal sized coke
bottle to keep my buzz going on the bus and train rides to the venue. I’m nice
and loose by the time I arrive. As I approach the venue I see a long line of
kids in flat brim hats adorned with the headiest of pins. Chicks in those weird
yoga pants with the psychedelic and cosmic designs on them. Dilated pupils and
smiles for miles.
“Yooo!
What’s good!?” Jeff greets me in line with a smile. I dap him up and he subtly
hands me the $80 for his gram of sass. We merge into the crowded line and I
hand him the goods. “Thanks a lot, bro. For real.” He says as he lights a
smoke. “No problem, man. Thanks for the ticket. I totally forgot this was
tonight, I’ve been wicked busy lately…” “Yeah it’s gonna be dope for sure.
You’ve met my girlfriend, right…?” Jeff motions to the short girl with pink and
blue hair next to him. “Suzie, right?” I guess. “Yup! And you’re the molly
man!” She replies with a smile. “Hehe, I used to be, not so much anymore… I go
by Harry these days.” “What made you get out, if you don’t mind me asking? You
didn’t get popped or anything, did you?” Jeff asks. “No, no, nothing like that.
It was just… time, you know? You can’t do that shit forever. I had my fun, but
you gotta know when to walk away. To tell ya the truth, it’s nice to not have
to look over my shoulder anymore.” I lie. Jeff nods. “Definitely. I can’t
imagine how much dough you and your boy made at The Bay last summer! You must
have a nice little retirement fund set aside, huh?” I grit my teeth and smile.
“Yeah, I remember seeing you guys there like every weekend!” Suzie adds. “I did
alright.” I say modestly. “You’re right
Jeff, I made a lot of money! And I put it all up my nose, in my stomach, and in
my arms to make sure nobody steals it!” “Well, we gotta go grab our tickets
at will call, thanks again bro. I’m sure I’ll see you inside!” Jeff says. “No
problem man, see you in there!” “Bye Molly Man!” Suzie says as she follows Jeff
to will call. A random hippie in line overhears her and turns to me. “Are you
the molly man?” He asks in a spaced-out, Tommy Chong voice. “Not anymore, man.”
“You
have anything to drink tonight, pal?” The man distributing wristbands asks me
as I show my ID. My speech isn’t slurred, I’m not stumbling, but my breath
stinks of whiskey. “No sir.” I say, making direct eye contact with him. “You
sure?” “Yes.” “You really sure? You can tell me, you know.” This guy really
thinks he’s a fucking cop. “I haven’t had anything to drink, sir.” Paul Blart
gives me the up-and-down look as if that’s any indication of whether I’ve been
drinking and reluctantly gives me a wristband. I’ve stumbled into this club
hundreds of times on several different narcotics without security batting an
eye. Figures the one time I go in legally intoxicated they decide to bust my
balls.
Holy
shit, everyone is fucked up. But that’s to be expected at an STS9 show. I go to
the bar and buy a single shot of crown royal. “Ten dollars.” The bartender says
flatly. I wince as I hand her my card to start a tab. I remember when I’d go
out with $250 as my nightly drinking budget and still come out of the club
having made money. After this shot I’ll be stuck drinking PBR all night. Suddenly,
a sweaty hand slams down on my shoulder. I nearly choke on my shot. “Can I help
you?!” I ask, annoyed as I turn to face my attacker. “Hey man!” A kid with
gigantic pupils and a big smile says to me. He pulls me in for a great big hug,
sponsored by Ecstasy. “Hey, man…” I reply with uncertainty. “Let me the fuck go right now, you’re
covered in sweat.” He lets go, as if to read my mind. “I haven’t seen you
around in so long! You remember me, right?” I don’t remember him at all, but
this isn’t the first time this kind of thing has happened. “Oh, fuck! What’s
good, dude! Sorry, I’ve had a lot to drink, I had no idea who you were at
first. I was like ‘who the fuck is this guy hugging me’?” Lie number three.
“Then what’s my name?” He asks. “Uh….” “I
was trying to be nice, now you’re just pissing me off…” “Ah, I’m just
fucking with you, man!! Hey, I got a couple friends looking for some…” “I’m
outta the game, man. I wish I could help you out. Enjoy the show though,
alright!” I turn my back to him and bolt into the crowd.
As
the opening act leaves the stage, a herd of hippies spills out into the smoking
section. That’s when I saw him. The Butcher. “Oh shit!” I hear him yell as he
approaches me with a smile. He calls himself The Butcher ‘cause it’s his actual
job. Anticlimactic, I know. Our paths had crossed a few times at various shows
where I’d sold him tabs and Molly. One night out I was snorting coke with him
and he asked me if I fucked with brown. That’s when I decided to keep my
distance from him. I already thought he was a sketchy dude to begin with, and
the fact that he did heroin skeeved me out even more. But much has changed in
the last year, and for the first time ever, I’m happy to see him.
“Butcher!
What’s up, brotha!” “Where the fuck have you
been, man!? You never answer your fuckin’ phone, you get locked up or
something?” He asks. The “I shoot dope face” is a tough thing to describe if
you’ve never seen it before. Visible cheekbones, a grey complexion, pinned
eyes, The Butcher has it all. I can’t see his arms under his sweatshirt, but
I’d bet money he isn’t just “snorting the shit on and off” anymore. “You’re
like the billionth person to say that shit to me tonight. I been out of the
game for a minute now. I tossed my burner, that’s probably the number you’ve
been calling.” The Butcher lights a smoke. “Fuck. So you’re not holding?” I
shake my head. “’Fraid not. You look like you’re having fun, though.” I motion
to my eyes. The Butcher smirks and takes a pull from his cigarette. “Yeah, I’m
feeling alright.” “Between you and I…” I begin, lowering my voice. I pause for
a moment. “Don’t you fucking dare, you
junky bastard. Eight weeks. Eight god damn weeks!” The Butcher looks at me
in confusion. “…Do you still fuck with brown?” No sense beating around the
bush. The Butcher chuckles and exhales a plume of smoke. A smart-ass grin
creeps across his face. “So that’s
what happened to you.” I nod and light another cigarette. “I fell off big time.
But my connect got popped a couple weeks ago. Think you could help me get on
your level? I’ll make it worth your while.” “Yeah, man. I can help you out. I
don’t think I can do it tonight, but if you’ll be around tomorrow I can
definitely make it happen.” “Yeah, I’ll be around tomorrow. Let me get your
number…”“Fuck…”
\Mercifully, no one else recognizes me for the rest of the show. I still miss being a drug dealer, but I forget about that as Tribe takes the stage. I fucking love live music. Somewhere along the line I started loving drugs more. In a rare display of self-control, I cut myself off after a few beers. I thought seeing a jam band without hallucinogens might get boring, but I’m loving every minute of this set. The average age of those in the crowd varies wildly, but the younger kids rolling and tripping their faces off give me a rush of nostalgia. They remind me that drugs used to be fun, and that I’m getting older. Damn.
Tribe
closes it out with Scheme and everyone
goes fucking crazy. I walk out of the venue tired and sweaty, but happy. This
show has provided a much-needed release, and tomorrow I get to do heroin! I
don’t know how I feel about that last bit, actually. I have been doing well, and it’s not too late to just delete The
Butcher’s number….
“Check this shit out, dude. I got fuckin…” The
Butcher begins to nod out. I’m in his shitbox of a car on the way to go cop
with him. “Yo!” He slowly rises back to consciousness. We haven’t even left his
apartment and it’s already looking grim. He just had to kill the last of his stash before he grabbed more. “Shit,
sorry. I got fuckin’ STS9’s set from Vibes 2012 on my phone…” The Butcher plugs
his phone into one of those ghetto cassette adapters that goes into the tape
deck of his car stereo. “I thought they kinda sucked last night, dude. That
broad they got playing bass isn’t as good as the old guy. But this set right
here, I was there for this shit. Best fucking time I ever seen ‘em, dude.” I
nod as we begin driving, clutching a bottled water and trying to mask my
paranoia. “You go to any fests this summer?” The Butcher asks. “Nah. Not since
I started with this shit…”
As
we drive further into the city my surroundings become more and more familiar.
We’re heading towards the hood. Not just any hood, but the hood I used to cop
at. The last time I was here, I left in cuffs. The Butcher drives slowly down
the street I got busted on as if to mock me. He slows down to a complete stop and
grabs his phone. My heart is pounding in my chest. I’m scanning each and every
parked car we pass for detectives playing a game of “find the white boy.” “Oh,
fuck… It’s the next street…” The Butcher mumbles. We turn onto the next street
and park at the side of the road. “He doesn’t like me parking outside his spot.
You got that bread?” I hand him my money and he goes to meet the man. “You’re a fucking moron, you know that?
Forget about the judge showing you any mercy now. You’re done…” I take a
deep breath. Panicking will help no one. The Butcher’s shitbox blends in in the
ghetto. At least there’s that. None of the other cars seem occupied or look as
though they’d be driven by cops. All I can do is pray to junky Jesus…
The
Butcher returns a few minutes later. He takes his sweet time walking back to
his car, which does little to ease my anxiety. “There you go, man.” He says as
he drops my bag of dope in my hand. I immediately put it in my mouth and take
the cap off my water bottle. “Jesus, dude. Little paranoid are we?” The Butcher
says as he starts his car. “Hehe, never can be too careful.” The Butcher puts
his dope inside his glovebox and locks it. I assume he thinks cops can’t look
there, since Jay-Z said so in “99 Problems.” But I know that cops can do
whatever the fuck they want.
The
Butcher brings me back to his apartment. I’m riding on one ass cheek the entire
time. When we finally get back to my car I feel safe again. “Alright dude,
enjoy that shit, call me whenever you need some.” He says as I dap him up.
“Thanks for helping me out, man.” I’m ecstatic as I drive home with my prize
stuffed into my sock. “I did it! I
fucking did it!! I WIN!!!” I crank The Disco Biscuits as I drive like an
old lady all the way home. I have to make a quick stop at Walgreens to grab
spikes. My lucky day gets even luckier as I approach the pharmacy counter and
see the Asian guy is working tonight. If that frumpy cunt Kathy was working I’d
get shot down. But the Asian doesn’t give a fuck. He understands the futility
in denying me my spikes. I have to resist the urge not to skip and whistle back
to my car as I walk out of the store.
Rip bag open.
Pour in spoon.
Mix with water.
Draw into syringe.
Register…
“Oh
fuuuuuck…”
I slump back into my chair and float away. The rush fades, but the nod doesn’t
follow. I did a pretty big shot, especially for someone with two months off. “Fuck, two months. Two months down the god
damn drain…” This dope isn’t even that good. All that anxiety, all that
bullshit, for this…
I know what I have to do.
It’s for the best.
“Delete
‘The Butcher’ from your contacts?”
Sigh…
“Yes.”
Time for another shot…
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