The Civic Center Hotel- This was considered one of the nicer places. It was nice because it had a phone in your room so you could actually page your dealer. In addition, it gave you a front as if you lived a semi-normal life because your family was able to call you. There were no blood stains shot all over the walls in the bathroom. The doors locked (in some hotels they barely shut). I could buy dimes of dope in the hotel if I was REALLY sick, although it was cut all to hell, and the managers were women which was always a plus since they would smoke weed with me.
The Bristol- tweaker hell. Junkie hell. This place was more expensive than the rest because the rooms were slightly bigger. It was part of a few hotels run by a family of gangsters that were know to beat the hell out of tenants over disrespecting them. The manager was so generous (sarcasm). If you were late on rent, he would bring dates to your room because of course I want to prostitute for rent money RIGHT NOW or get out. When you checked in, you got a piece of towel and castille soap. The best place about this hotel was if you were used to being dirty, you fit right in. The bathroom down the hall was far too scary so you could use the sink. Hopefully, you had a window room so your friends could sneak up with a bump. There was always some half naked crack monster going from room to room. A few dealers were also located here. You could go in one of these hotels and not leave for a month if you had a hustle. Tits are a universal hustle unless your dealer is gay. Then you can always introduce them to your boyfriend.
The Kinney- the third level of the inferno. For $900 a month, I got bumped from room to room. It was a set up there. Between the trick ass manager trying to lay me and the opportunistic janitor selling time in the bathroom to street people, it was out of a scene from a war movie. After my friend got raped trying to take a piss, I was afraid to be there unless I had someone with me.
One day in particular, I was sick so a friend convinced me to do some coke. I hated coke- but do you have some? The junkie refrain. Anyway I was selling hop otherwise known as Chivah. I was all nestled in my room so I took the bags out of my mouth. I did my uptown and j was so sure I was going to fucking die but I was paranoid.
"Dude you have to leave!" I said as I practically pushed him out the door
"What the fuck?!" He looked at me.
Suddenly I was dripping sweat. I was having a heart attack. I knew it! This motherfucker is trying to kill me! He is trying to kill me and get my dope.
"Get out!" I scream.
I throw a bag at him "get the fuck out!"
I stick my head out the window and gasp for air. Ugh get out. I hear the door click.
Then the feeling comes over me. The turtle head forces it's way. I feel my ass being ripped apart. After a week of not taking a crap, I am gacked and paranoid. If you don't know what gacked is, watch a hop head after they shoot coke. It is as it electricity hit their ballsack and came out their eyelids. Yes, you guessed it. I shit in the sink and threw it out the window. Then I wiped my hands with alcohol pads cause yeah that is sterile. And fuckity fuck, I pay to live here.
Hell isn't a fictional place. It was where I was living. I could go on and on here. I got clean three months later. You can't go much lower than paying $900 a month to shit in the sink, can you? I don't think I will try again.