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I've been all over the place lately. At the beginning of the summer I was plowing through the Needles, Names, and Numbers drafts, ultima...

Thursday, March 10, 2016

Junkie's Day Off

It’s nearly noon when I finally rise. I fucking love sleeping. I’d roll over for another four hours, but something isn’t right. A light layer of sweat coats my body, and my legs are restless and achy. I didn’t exert myself any more than usual last night, at least I don’t think I did. My nose is runny, but that’s probably just my springtime allergies kicking in. I don’t know man, it feels like I’m in the Twilight Zone or some shit. Something just ain’t right.

I walk out into my living room on autopilot. I put on a pot of coffee and have a seat on the couch. The room is bare save for the couch, a beat up IKEA coffee table, and a cheap TV on an even cheaper entertainment center. It’s Thursday, pay day, and I have the day off. That means it’s time to get fucked up. I dump the last of my dope out into a Jameson cap and mix it all up. My veins rise to the surface as I choke them with a Gamecube controller. I push the plunger down as hard as I can, and slump back as the rush comes on strong. No more runny nose, no more achy bones, no more thinking.

Fuck. This is it, isn’t it? It’s really fucking happening. God damn it.

“I really gotta knock this shit off…” I mumble as I pour a cup of coffee. Sitting back down on the couch, I throw on my dope playlist and light a smoke. Nahko pours through the Bluetooth speaker, singing of prosperity, revolution, and nourishing the mind, body, and soul. I shoot dope and eat Starburst. Whoever invented the unwrapped minis deserves a fucking Nobel prize.

I’m out of weed. I don’t give a shit, but my customers certainly do. I’ve been a shitty drug dealer these last few days. I keep meaning to re-up, but then I get high. My connect practically lives down the fucking street, and yet I can’t seem to make time to get over there. I open up my stash box and count out my cash. Yikes. What was once a fat knot of hunnids and fiddies is a crumpled mess of singles, 5’s, 10’s and 20’s, adding up to $240, just enough to cover my next ounce.

I’m slipping, man. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The dope helps me push these thoughts from my skull as I do some mental math. If I sell this 8th by 8th I stand to make $400, $160 profit. I’m gonna be selling plenty of dubs to Abe and Terry along the way, so it’ll definitely be more than that. Let’s call it $500, assuming I don’t touch any of it myself. I couldn’t give a shit about weed these days. It’s not the escape it was once, but a reminder of how far I’ve fallen and how much further I’ve yet to go. $500 gives me options. I can bounce back from this. It’s not the end of the world. I just can’t spend any of it on dope.

My work money is a different story, though. $100 of that is going right to Stan. I throw on my sunglasses and walk out to my car. It’s fucking beautiful out. Spring is finally here, though it hasn’t come without its problems. I need to come up with a story for the linear bruises that map the veins of my forearms. No big deal, stories are the one thing I’m good at.

“I fear nothing!

No thing fears me!

Justice has different hats for…

Different days.

Please release my anger, love thy neighbor…”

“THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM, ASSHOLE?!”

The opi-rage comes without warning as I drive. I always thought dope would chill me out, and it does, kinda. But when I’m on that spike, I go zero to a hundred real fuckin’ quick. “This is fucking horseshit, let’s FUCKING GO ASSHOLE!!” I shout, punching the steering wheel. I’m prone to road rage to begin with, this is just dangerous. The old bat in front of me makes a left turn and I speed up, flying down the street, music blaring. Everything is just so god damn perfect right now. I’m high as shit, I got the whole day in front of me, with nothing on the docket but dope and drug dealing. Things could be much worse.

I pick up a ten pack of spikes at CVS as well as a big bag of Starbursts. I withdraw $100 from the ATM and call up Stan as I get back into my car. “What’s good, man? Nothin, just wondering if I could grab a G? Awesome. Yeah, I’ll be home in ten minutes, come through whenever. Thanks brotha!” I hang up the phone and speed home, excited beyond measure as I drive. I’ve caught Stan at the perfect time: he’s just gotten back from the city with a fresh pick up. I get home, crack a beer, light a smoke, and throw on some music as I wait for him.

Stan appears at my doorstep ten minutes later. “What’s up brotha?” He asks me, his voice a low, defeated mumble. He daps me up, though it might be the weakest dap I’ve ever received. Stan’s wife beater is soaked in sweat. His blonde hair is matted to his skull as he adjusts his New Era fitted. He’s panting, and makes a beeline for my couch. “The fuck’s up with you? You run here?” I ask him. He shoots me a confused look and dumps two bags out onto the table, pushing one forward. “No…” I hand him my $100 and he stuffs it in his pocket. “This shit’s pretty fuckin’ fire, be careful. You mind if I straighten up while I’m here? Please?” Sweat pours off Stan’s face, making a tiny puddle on the floor in front of him. “Oh, shit, yeah! Of course, man! You uh… You want a controller…? To like, tie off with I mean…” I say nervously, picking the Gamecube controller off the floor. Stan shakes his head. “I got everything I need, man.” Stan rips the knot off the other gram bag of dope off with his teeth like the pin of a hand grenade, spitting the top out on my rug. “I’m sorry, I’ll grab that in a second…” He mumbles as he pulls a bottle cap and syringe from his pocket. I slide an old glass of water over to him as he rips a filter off one of his Marlboros. He dumps more than half of his gram bag out into the cooker and stirs it quickly. Jesus, this kid doesn’t fuck around. I mix a shot of my own while he works.

The rush courses through me as a lump rises in my throat. “Fuck, man…” I mumble as I fall back into the couch. Stan sits leaning forward, his head hanging low. “You alright, man? You can sit back if you want. Make yourself at home…” If nothing else, I’m a hospitable host. “Nah, I’m straight man. I don’t wanna get my fucking sweat all over your couch.” He mumbles, sighing as he lights a cigarette. I bask in the high, scratching my neck and chest with my eyes half shut, when suddenly, there’s a rumbling from below. “Oh shit…” I mumble as I spring to my feet. Unable to make it to the toilet, I rip the lid off my trash bin and throw up a dark mixture of candy and coffee. I dry heave for a solid minute before my body says it’s done… for now. “Fuck… I’m sorry, man… Shit…” I say between gulps of air. “No worries. Must be nice…” Stan stands up and starts to gathers his things. “Who’s this?” He asks as I stagger to my feet. “Huh? Oh, fuckin… The Disco Biscuits.” I croak back, high as shit. “Like, rolls?” I laugh and nod. “Yeah, they’re pretty fuckin’ cool, man.” Stan laughs to himself and stretches before heading for the door. “Be safe, man. Hit me up when you need more.”

This shit right here, this is what I’ve been looking for all these years. Not since Ecstasy have I fallen this much in love with a drug. Weed doesn’t do it for me anymore. I fried my brain with Molly. Coke’s too expensive. Meth gets too ugly too quickly. Alcohol is a mere distraction. Heroin is contentment. I’m genuinely alright as fuck as I lay on the couch, cigarette burning, staring at the ceiling as I drift in and out. I don’t need anything. I’m comfortable right here, just like this…
My phone jolts me awake suddenly. It’s Bryan, my bud connect. “Hello? Hey, what’s good. Oh, fuckin’… Yeah, sorry, I was taking a nap. Fuck, um, yeah, yeah I definitely still want that. I can be there in five minutes. Ok. Peace.” I pry myself up from the couch and stumble to the counter, pouring myself a cup of cold coffee and chugging it down in a futile attempt to stave off the nod. “Straighten up, soldier…” I mumble to myself as I grab my keys and head outside.

“You look fucked up, homie! Damn! What’re you on right now?” Bryan says as he leads me into his apartment. His two roommates are putting together a giant puzzle on their living room floor that I have to walk over awkwardly. “Really? I’m just fuckin’ grilled, man…” I say unconvincingly as I sit down on his couch. “You look fuckin’ jammed.” Bryan’s roommate says nonchalantly before returning to his puzzle. I stop scratching my back abruptly. It seems I’m not as good an actor as I thought. “So, you got that?” I ask Bryan. Bryan nods and weighs out my ounce. Bryan lives the fucking dream. The bud market here is beyond saturated, and there are few that can make a full time living from it. Bryan is one of those few. With weed decriminalized up to ounce, he doesn’t have to worry about his customers getting popped and flipping on him. Lucky bastard…

“Yo, someone asked me for sheets the other day, can you still get those?” Bryan asks. I hand him his money and shake my head. “Nah, I haven’t gotten sheets in a while. I’m pretty sure they were bunk or something. Towards the end, at least. I dunno, I got a ton of complaints from people saying it wasn’t real Acid or something. I’m not a fuckin’ scientist, it seemed fine to me, but I can’t move the shit anymore, so…” I usually lie way better than this, fuck. I shouldn’t have gotten so fucking high. “Is that right? No worries, man. Be safe out there, alright?” Bryan’s eyes look right through me. His smile mocks me. I turn my arms over to cover my tracks, but it’s too little too late. “Yeah, thanks man… Peace…”

I call Terry when I get back home. “Yo, I just picked up if you still need that. Aight. Yup, I can do that. Alright. Gimme five minutes.” Terry wants four dubs. One for him, three for Abe. Abe’s an older guy from Jamaica, and has a limited understanding of the American drug game. Typically I sell 8ths for $50, but Abe has no problem paying $60 for three grams. I plan on exploiting his ignorance until he calls me out on it. It’s a dick move, but that’s the game, I guess. If he doesn’t get ripped off, how’s he ever gonna learn?

It’s 8 PM when I pull into the parking lot at Wilson’s pharmacy. Terry is already outside waiting for me. He takes a final haul off his cigarette and flicks it as he walks over to my car. “What’s good dude? Yo, you look high as shit, haha!” He says. “Haha, yeah… My boy hooked me up with a dab when I went to re-up. I’m high as shit… I like, shouldn’t be driving…” I lie. I dump the four bags in Terry’s lap and he hands me my $80. “You fuck Abe over so bad it’s hilarious.” Terry says. “Haha, yeah…” I reply. “You working tomorrow night?” I nod. “Yup, I’ll be here.” “OK man, thanks for coming through. Drive safe.”

It’s shoot ‘till I puke for the rest of the night. These runs back and forth to the bathroom are fucking up my nod. Ugh, where does this shit keep coming from? I can’t even take a sip of god damn water without it coming back up. Fuck it, I’m high…
I kinda feel like a homo listening to The XX, but then again, I’ve paid to see Krewella in concert. I sold a lot of drugs at that show, but that’s no excuse. The XX just sound too god damn good when you’re high. I embrace my Caucasity as I sit here listening and smoking and dicking around on the internet. Angsty as fuck.

I hear a whomp… whomp… and rattling sounds from my bedroom and decide to investigate.  I open my desk drawer to find a new text message on my old burner phone. Some guy named Ahmed. Who the fuck is Ahmed? I can’t remember, but he wants Molly. I wish I could help you Ahmed, but my Molly dealer’s in jail, and I haven’t had any in quite some time. I shut the burner off and toss it back in the drawer.

Mark’s locked up. Rich left state three months ago, or so he said. I haven’t heard shit since he left. I hope he’s dead. Motherfucker took me for almost two grand. It may have been counterfeit drugs, but a deal is a fucking deal, man. And Max? I don’t even wanna think about that fucking snake. If he’s got any brain cells left he’s far, far, away somewhere. Probably fresh out of a halfway house he crashed in for the winter. Ready to do what he does worst until he’s gotta give up another name.

Dylan’s in Florida getting clean. So is Melanie, though I’m sure she’s going by her government name now that her warrants have been cleared up. I haven’t heard from Pat in years, he could be dead, who knows. I should hit him up and see sometime. Damn, I really am the last man standing. I used to think I got off cheap, but as I mix up this next shot, I’m not so sure…

…But fuck it, I’m high.

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