As I sat on the front steps, I stared into the evening sky, still tasting the residue of that familiar white powder on my lips. I counted cars as they sped past my driveway, hoping one would stop and pick me up.
After a half hour, I spotted Eric's headlights in the distance; I followed the hazy yellow glow as it grew closer and more defined, turned into the drive and the engine turned off. I stubbed out my second cigarette and tossed it in the bushes beside my brother's bedroom window. I stood up slowly, swatting mosquitoes off my arms and walked towards his white Subaru sedan. As I closed the door, Eric announced,
"Philly tonight. Shake-down." Eric flipped back his shoulder length pony-tail. I inhaled the unmistakable scent of a week's worth of unwashed hair. I turned to the backseat to acknowledge Tim.
He was wearing his usual black trench coat; coffee stains, cigarette burns, and Birkenstocks. I inquired about the cost of white, and where we'd be staying.
"30 probably. But don't trust those damn hippies. Lou said we could crash with him again. You're our down payment."
I smiled, anticipating Lou's big, brown eyes, his perfectly toned stomach, his body covered in tattoos, his safe studio apartment.
It took a little over an hour by bus to arrive in China Town, Philadelphia. Our fellow passengers looked like zombies as they sat in the darkened seats, reading and eating fast food, some trying to fall asleep. Tim sat beside me, struggling and on the verge of being sick the entire ride.
I knew how he felt. The bumps, the recycled air and the urge for a fix were unnerving, but anyone could tell that he had it worse. I handed Tim my walkman so that he had a slight distraction, and placed a cool bottle of water on the back of his neck to soothe him. Beads of sweat were running down his puffy cheeks. I could feel my face was flushed, and I was faint but I knew that the trip was nearing its end and that Lou was waiting for us, prepared for our arrival. I set the air so that it blew directly on Tim's face and he relaxed a little.
I pulled out a Marlboro Red for Tim and myself as the bus pulled up to its final stop; our destination in China Town. We lit up before we had even stepped off the bus, receiving dirty looks from the driver and a few of the remaining passengers. As I stepped off the last stair, I peered down the street to locate Lou,
"Eric just called," he yelled as he walked towards us, "he had to make a few more stops, but he'll be here in a few. Said he was sorry again about not being about to drive you guys all the way." I was used to public transport by now. Whenever the guys went on big deliveries, or to dealer's homes, I was left on my own to get places.
I had only been on one such trip with the guys, and I was determined to never go back. The paint on the apartment was almost completely peeled off; there were gang members and drug addicts outside serving as guards. Pass codes were used to enter the home; the dimly lit inside was a frightening mess of bags, drugs, scoops and people. I don't know how I kept my cool, I was awkward and nervous. From then on, the boys decided to leave me out of those trips, they didn't want me to get hurt or into any trouble. It was there way of looking after me.
Lou took my book bag from me and threw it over his shoulder. I watched his muscles flex as he made one smooth motion. He took my hand and patted Tim on the back. We followed him through familiar streets; homeless musicians with Jambi's and trash-can drum kits, saxophones, violins and guitars illuminated the night. Lou reached his apartment complex, unlocked the main door and pressed for the elevator as Tim chatted up the doorman. I stood quietly, biting my nails, anxious to get to the eighth floor and to get the evening started. It had been almost two hours since my last fixing. Lou placed his hand on the small of my back, pressing his hips up against my side.
The ride in the elevator seemed to take forever; the faint smell of urine attacked my senses sending me into a state of dizziness and sick. I forced myself to focus of the splatters of paint that some careless Art Institute student left of the floor; green, orange, blue. I let my fingers wander up and down Lou' s thigh, as if holding on to him would keep me grounded. The doors opened and I nearly ran out into the hall embracing the semi-fresh, cigarette laced air.
Lou's studio apartment was cluttered with his usual assortment of art supplies, empty containers of Ramen, Mucinex and drug paraphernalia.
Tim went straight to the mirror on the desk, fully set up with thick white lines of powder three inches long, took out a dollar bill and got to work. I listened to him deeply inhale, jealous.
"Come here, girlie." Lou smiled, his arms outstretched. I gave him a quick hug and kiss, but couldn't help staring at the disappearing powder, I felt my stomach ache my head throbbed. Tim stood up, signaling my turn. I rolled up the dollar bill, licked my lips and breathed out.
As I inhaled, I thought of nothing. I felt the slight sting, the fantastic tingle, and the rush as chemicals reacted inside my body, and I gulped back bitter nasal drip as I prepared for my next line. An intense satisfaction came over me, more complete and whole and refreshing than anything anyone can experience on earth. No shower, or exercise regiment or sexual experience could ever come close to what one feels at that exact moment.
I closed my eyes, let them water.
Tim left Lou and I alone, to go find Eric, pick up some more supplies and to create the plan for the weekend, shake-down was fast-approaching.
Lou and I spent the remainder of the night barely clothed, hanging out his window, looking down onto people in the street below. We laughed at the drunks walking out of the bar across the street, and made fun of the way people were dressed, and their conversations that carried up through the alleyway and into his bedroom. A bar-fight broke out around two and we watched, unblinking, as arms and obscenities flew in the night. Soon, police arrived to break up the scene, asking onlookers to be on their way, and we grew tired of red flashing lights and retreated to the sanctity of Lou's covers.
I awoke the next day to Eric leaning beside me, eating a slice of pizza. Eric smiled at me as grease dripped off his slice and landed on the bed sheets beside me. I assumed that Tim and Lou had gone out on a run of some sort.
"Eat something, please." Eric pleaded with me until I resigned to take a bite of his slice. I struggled chewing it, dry mouth consuming my being, and forced myself to swallow it. It had been the only thing I had eaten in several days.
Hunger was a stranger to me. Clothes no longer fit on my thin frame; they hung off my tiny body, my skin and bones. All I wanted was powder, not substance, to fill me.
I took out my compact and set Eric and myself up. It was already late afternoon; shake-down was only a couple hours away. Hippies from all over would be setting up shop in the darkened alleyways outside of the Electric Factory with samples of their "best" products, nitrous balloons and handmade jewelry for sale.
I stood and changed out of my dirty tank top, Eric sighed as he looked at my figure. I knew that he was counting my ribs as I rubbed deodorant under each of my armpits, and that he was searching for my breasts as I tightened my belt. My period had stopped months ago and I had become accustomed to my boyish looks. I weighed only 85 pounds, and at 5'5" I looked emaciated.
But none of that mattered to me, what mattered most to me laid in little clear baggies on top of Lou's desk. I sighed deeply and let my high take hold of me, mind wondering for a few moments, thoughts racing. Eric threw me his half empty pack of Camel lights and I scrounged up a forgotten lighter from off the desktop.
With a soft click and a turn of the door handle, the others entered,
"We're back. And we've got presents!" Tim exclaimed, throwing open the door, as he, Lou and a few others, clad in filthy corduroys and sporting dreadlocks, piled into the already crowded apartment. Lou tossed me a tiny white bag. I looked it over, and opened it. It wasn't enclosed in waxy paper, it definitely wasn't dope. But it wasn't the same consistency as white either. I must have looked puzzled because Lou answered my thoughts before I even voiced my concern,
"Meth, baby." My mind went blank. I had never even considered that before. "Don't worry; it's got coke in it." I was excited, I was sick of the same old stuff we had been getting. Even our new hook-up was getting stuff that wasn't worth the money and effort we were putting forth. My highs weren't lasting as long or as intensely as they once had, I wanted something more.
I let Lou cut it for me; his eyes bulged out as his steady hand worked the razor. His concentration, precision, overwhelmed me. I nose-dived into my first line. It was heavy and strong, better than anything I had ever tasted. I let myself sit and enjoy the intensity of the drug. The boys didn't move me to get their hits; they worked around me careful not to bring me down, not to disturb my euphoria.
The Wizard of Oz was the only movie that Lou had in his entire apartment, and he couldn't afford cable. So we turned it on, we took out paper and crayons, markers and paint. I watched the Wicked Witch terrorize Dorothy, the Munchkins tell her how to find her way to Oz. I doodled the Good Witch's blonde curly hair in mustard yellow, her dress in gray, and her shoes with flecks of blue for sparkles. I found it hard to keep still. I colored frantically, trying to keep up with Dorothy's travel along the yellow-brick road. I painted the flying monkeys; I painted them on poster board and on printer paper, onto Eric's leg. My heart raced as Dorothy spun back into reality. I blinked my eyes, closed my mouth tight to wet my dry gums, tried to return with Dorothy.
The movie ended, and repeated. More lines were formed, perfect, white, reflecting off themselves on top of the mirror, on top of CD covers. I heard the distant scrape of razors on plastic, on metal, on glass. Periodically, a hand mirror was passed in my direction; I rolled my lone dollar bill and took my turn. Time passed quickly and before I knew it, it was time to go downtown to see the hippies.
The taxi driver stared at us with contempt. I could almost hear him thinking, "Goddamn drug addicts." as he looked at us shaking and sniffling through the rear-view mirror. I stared out the window at the black kids on the corner rolling dice and drinking beer and picked at my nails and face until we pulled up to the E Factory.
The mob of hippies was incredible; Eric and I became separated from the others almost instantly. He and I wandered around crowds of dreadlocks and VW vans scoping out the best dealers.
Circles of twenty-something's stood around, carelessly tossing one another a hacky-sack, passing home-rolled cigarettes to strangers as they wandered passed down the alleyway. I took a hit, and the alley became nothing but a blur of shapes; of triangles, of rectangles; of colors, vibrant and flowing. I stared as the aqua blue of the nitrous man's minivan bled into the black gravel that I was stumbling on, the river that Eric and I were swimming through. I allowed Eric to handle the business aspect of our journey, and we made out well; our pockets stuffed full with bags and our hands holding now half-full balloons. This is what it was all about.
Hours went by before we heard from the others. They informed us that they were heading to a frat party up on the other side of the city, close to where Lou's apartment was. Eric and I hailed a cab, and it took us over twenty minutes to locate the townhouse that the party was going on inside of. As we walked in, arm-in-arm, I immediately wanted to leave and make use of what we had obtained at shake-down at Lou's apartment. But Eric grabbed me up a shot of Grey Goose, insisting that everything would work itself out, and he and I headed towards the bathroom to get another fix.
We spent the majority of the evening memorizing this stranger's bathroom tiles and licking my compact. We told each other jokes and snorted lines, leaving only when the line to the bathroom became so long that complaints could be heard over the music blasting in the other room. On Eric's and my last trip to the restroom, we opened the unlocked door only to find it occupied by junkies who had dislodged the wall mirror and placed it on the floor for easy fixing. As Eric and I pushed the door open, beige and white powder flew into the air, onto shoes, tee-shirts, the toilet. Chaos erupted as people struggled to reclaim what was rightfully theirs, licking, snorting and shooting whatever they could recover. Eric fled, grabbing my arm and dragging my down steps, onto the sidewalk, before trouble could start.
"I fucking can't stand drug addicts." Eric huffed as we ran back to Lou's studio. I smirked as the comment, irony fierce and contradictory. Only minutes later would we find ourselves on the roof of Lou's apartment complex, sixteen stories up, with our legs hanging over the ledge, taking ecstasy and watching the sun rise.
After a half hour, I spotted Eric's headlights in the distance; I followed the hazy yellow glow as it grew closer and more defined, turned into the drive and the engine turned off. I stubbed out my second cigarette and tossed it in the bushes beside my brother's bedroom window. I stood up slowly, swatting mosquitoes off my arms and walked towards his white Subaru sedan. As I closed the door, Eric announced,
"Philly tonight. Shake-down." Eric flipped back his shoulder length pony-tail. I inhaled the unmistakable scent of a week's worth of unwashed hair. I turned to the backseat to acknowledge Tim.
He was wearing his usual black trench coat; coffee stains, cigarette burns, and Birkenstocks. I inquired about the cost of white, and where we'd be staying.
"30 probably. But don't trust those damn hippies. Lou said we could crash with him again. You're our down payment."
I smiled, anticipating Lou's big, brown eyes, his perfectly toned stomach, his body covered in tattoos, his safe studio apartment.
It took a little over an hour by bus to arrive in China Town, Philadelphia. Our fellow passengers looked like zombies as they sat in the darkened seats, reading and eating fast food, some trying to fall asleep. Tim sat beside me, struggling and on the verge of being sick the entire ride.
I knew how he felt. The bumps, the recycled air and the urge for a fix were unnerving, but anyone could tell that he had it worse. I handed Tim my walkman so that he had a slight distraction, and placed a cool bottle of water on the back of his neck to soothe him. Beads of sweat were running down his puffy cheeks. I could feel my face was flushed, and I was faint but I knew that the trip was nearing its end and that Lou was waiting for us, prepared for our arrival. I set the air so that it blew directly on Tim's face and he relaxed a little.
I pulled out a Marlboro Red for Tim and myself as the bus pulled up to its final stop; our destination in China Town. We lit up before we had even stepped off the bus, receiving dirty looks from the driver and a few of the remaining passengers. As I stepped off the last stair, I peered down the street to locate Lou,
"Eric just called," he yelled as he walked towards us, "he had to make a few more stops, but he'll be here in a few. Said he was sorry again about not being about to drive you guys all the way." I was used to public transport by now. Whenever the guys went on big deliveries, or to dealer's homes, I was left on my own to get places.
I had only been on one such trip with the guys, and I was determined to never go back. The paint on the apartment was almost completely peeled off; there were gang members and drug addicts outside serving as guards. Pass codes were used to enter the home; the dimly lit inside was a frightening mess of bags, drugs, scoops and people. I don't know how I kept my cool, I was awkward and nervous. From then on, the boys decided to leave me out of those trips, they didn't want me to get hurt or into any trouble. It was there way of looking after me.
Lou took my book bag from me and threw it over his shoulder. I watched his muscles flex as he made one smooth motion. He took my hand and patted Tim on the back. We followed him through familiar streets; homeless musicians with Jambi's and trash-can drum kits, saxophones, violins and guitars illuminated the night. Lou reached his apartment complex, unlocked the main door and pressed for the elevator as Tim chatted up the doorman. I stood quietly, biting my nails, anxious to get to the eighth floor and to get the evening started. It had been almost two hours since my last fixing. Lou placed his hand on the small of my back, pressing his hips up against my side.
The ride in the elevator seemed to take forever; the faint smell of urine attacked my senses sending me into a state of dizziness and sick. I forced myself to focus of the splatters of paint that some careless Art Institute student left of the floor; green, orange, blue. I let my fingers wander up and down Lou' s thigh, as if holding on to him would keep me grounded. The doors opened and I nearly ran out into the hall embracing the semi-fresh, cigarette laced air.
Lou's studio apartment was cluttered with his usual assortment of art supplies, empty containers of Ramen, Mucinex and drug paraphernalia.
Tim went straight to the mirror on the desk, fully set up with thick white lines of powder three inches long, took out a dollar bill and got to work. I listened to him deeply inhale, jealous.
"Come here, girlie." Lou smiled, his arms outstretched. I gave him a quick hug and kiss, but couldn't help staring at the disappearing powder, I felt my stomach ache my head throbbed. Tim stood up, signaling my turn. I rolled up the dollar bill, licked my lips and breathed out.
As I inhaled, I thought of nothing. I felt the slight sting, the fantastic tingle, and the rush as chemicals reacted inside my body, and I gulped back bitter nasal drip as I prepared for my next line. An intense satisfaction came over me, more complete and whole and refreshing than anything anyone can experience on earth. No shower, or exercise regiment or sexual experience could ever come close to what one feels at that exact moment.
I closed my eyes, let them water.
Tim left Lou and I alone, to go find Eric, pick up some more supplies and to create the plan for the weekend, shake-down was fast-approaching.
Lou and I spent the remainder of the night barely clothed, hanging out his window, looking down onto people in the street below. We laughed at the drunks walking out of the bar across the street, and made fun of the way people were dressed, and their conversations that carried up through the alleyway and into his bedroom. A bar-fight broke out around two and we watched, unblinking, as arms and obscenities flew in the night. Soon, police arrived to break up the scene, asking onlookers to be on their way, and we grew tired of red flashing lights and retreated to the sanctity of Lou's covers.
I awoke the next day to Eric leaning beside me, eating a slice of pizza. Eric smiled at me as grease dripped off his slice and landed on the bed sheets beside me. I assumed that Tim and Lou had gone out on a run of some sort.
"Eat something, please." Eric pleaded with me until I resigned to take a bite of his slice. I struggled chewing it, dry mouth consuming my being, and forced myself to swallow it. It had been the only thing I had eaten in several days.
Hunger was a stranger to me. Clothes no longer fit on my thin frame; they hung off my tiny body, my skin and bones. All I wanted was powder, not substance, to fill me.
I took out my compact and set Eric and myself up. It was already late afternoon; shake-down was only a couple hours away. Hippies from all over would be setting up shop in the darkened alleyways outside of the Electric Factory with samples of their "best" products, nitrous balloons and handmade jewelry for sale.
I stood and changed out of my dirty tank top, Eric sighed as he looked at my figure. I knew that he was counting my ribs as I rubbed deodorant under each of my armpits, and that he was searching for my breasts as I tightened my belt. My period had stopped months ago and I had become accustomed to my boyish looks. I weighed only 85 pounds, and at 5'5" I looked emaciated.
But none of that mattered to me, what mattered most to me laid in little clear baggies on top of Lou's desk. I sighed deeply and let my high take hold of me, mind wondering for a few moments, thoughts racing. Eric threw me his half empty pack of Camel lights and I scrounged up a forgotten lighter from off the desktop.
With a soft click and a turn of the door handle, the others entered,
"We're back. And we've got presents!" Tim exclaimed, throwing open the door, as he, Lou and a few others, clad in filthy corduroys and sporting dreadlocks, piled into the already crowded apartment. Lou tossed me a tiny white bag. I looked it over, and opened it. It wasn't enclosed in waxy paper, it definitely wasn't dope. But it wasn't the same consistency as white either. I must have looked puzzled because Lou answered my thoughts before I even voiced my concern,
"Meth, baby." My mind went blank. I had never even considered that before. "Don't worry; it's got coke in it." I was excited, I was sick of the same old stuff we had been getting. Even our new hook-up was getting stuff that wasn't worth the money and effort we were putting forth. My highs weren't lasting as long or as intensely as they once had, I wanted something more.
I let Lou cut it for me; his eyes bulged out as his steady hand worked the razor. His concentration, precision, overwhelmed me. I nose-dived into my first line. It was heavy and strong, better than anything I had ever tasted. I let myself sit and enjoy the intensity of the drug. The boys didn't move me to get their hits; they worked around me careful not to bring me down, not to disturb my euphoria.
The Wizard of Oz was the only movie that Lou had in his entire apartment, and he couldn't afford cable. So we turned it on, we took out paper and crayons, markers and paint. I watched the Wicked Witch terrorize Dorothy, the Munchkins tell her how to find her way to Oz. I doodled the Good Witch's blonde curly hair in mustard yellow, her dress in gray, and her shoes with flecks of blue for sparkles. I found it hard to keep still. I colored frantically, trying to keep up with Dorothy's travel along the yellow-brick road. I painted the flying monkeys; I painted them on poster board and on printer paper, onto Eric's leg. My heart raced as Dorothy spun back into reality. I blinked my eyes, closed my mouth tight to wet my dry gums, tried to return with Dorothy.
The movie ended, and repeated. More lines were formed, perfect, white, reflecting off themselves on top of the mirror, on top of CD covers. I heard the distant scrape of razors on plastic, on metal, on glass. Periodically, a hand mirror was passed in my direction; I rolled my lone dollar bill and took my turn. Time passed quickly and before I knew it, it was time to go downtown to see the hippies.
The taxi driver stared at us with contempt. I could almost hear him thinking, "Goddamn drug addicts." as he looked at us shaking and sniffling through the rear-view mirror. I stared out the window at the black kids on the corner rolling dice and drinking beer and picked at my nails and face until we pulled up to the E Factory.
The mob of hippies was incredible; Eric and I became separated from the others almost instantly. He and I wandered around crowds of dreadlocks and VW vans scoping out the best dealers.
Circles of twenty-something's stood around, carelessly tossing one another a hacky-sack, passing home-rolled cigarettes to strangers as they wandered passed down the alleyway. I took a hit, and the alley became nothing but a blur of shapes; of triangles, of rectangles; of colors, vibrant and flowing. I stared as the aqua blue of the nitrous man's minivan bled into the black gravel that I was stumbling on, the river that Eric and I were swimming through. I allowed Eric to handle the business aspect of our journey, and we made out well; our pockets stuffed full with bags and our hands holding now half-full balloons. This is what it was all about.
Hours went by before we heard from the others. They informed us that they were heading to a frat party up on the other side of the city, close to where Lou's apartment was. Eric and I hailed a cab, and it took us over twenty minutes to locate the townhouse that the party was going on inside of. As we walked in, arm-in-arm, I immediately wanted to leave and make use of what we had obtained at shake-down at Lou's apartment. But Eric grabbed me up a shot of Grey Goose, insisting that everything would work itself out, and he and I headed towards the bathroom to get another fix.
We spent the majority of the evening memorizing this stranger's bathroom tiles and licking my compact. We told each other jokes and snorted lines, leaving only when the line to the bathroom became so long that complaints could be heard over the music blasting in the other room. On Eric's and my last trip to the restroom, we opened the unlocked door only to find it occupied by junkies who had dislodged the wall mirror and placed it on the floor for easy fixing. As Eric and I pushed the door open, beige and white powder flew into the air, onto shoes, tee-shirts, the toilet. Chaos erupted as people struggled to reclaim what was rightfully theirs, licking, snorting and shooting whatever they could recover. Eric fled, grabbing my arm and dragging my down steps, onto the sidewalk, before trouble could start.
"I fucking can't stand drug addicts." Eric huffed as we ran back to Lou's studio. I smirked as the comment, irony fierce and contradictory. Only minutes later would we find ourselves on the roof of Lou's apartment complex, sixteen stories up, with our legs hanging over the ledge, taking ecstasy and watching the sun rise.