Wednesday, September 17, 2014

If it wasn't for bad luck...

Addiction makes strange bedfellows. This statement is highly inaccurate because heroin takes away any desire I had to fuck anyone. Well, that is unless I was kicking. Kicking heroin is a cruel fucking set up. It is as if every fluid in your body chooses that exact moment to abandon the broken ship of your aching body at one time. Let's see- snot. Check. Runny eyes- check. Liquid ass- check and double check (your underwear). Puke- reporting for duty. The cruelest trick of all is that suddenly sneezing may make you have the first orgasm you have had in 8 or 9 months. I would full forget I had a pussy unless I was 1. storing dope in it or 2. trying to find someone to pay me an entrance fee. My period was long gone, were my tits. I used to really enjoy them too. Damn.

Anyway, that particular day I was sick out of my god damn mind. A female hustler has a tendency to gravitate towards hard luck cases. Deep inside, we wish we could care for pets or children, so we care for adult men with dope habits. In this case, I had picked a real winner. The man was a vet. I could not imagine it, but that was what he said to me. I imagine he was kicked out of the military for being a sissy. I don't just mean gay I mean he was a flaming queen yet so hideously ugly, "queen" does not seem the correct term. I imagine he wasn't sucking any random cock in his current condition. He had long unkempt hair that was a rusty red like ginger Jesus. He had long dirty finger nails and broken glasses. The worst part was his green teeth. I am not even sure how teeth got that color. I had never seen any thing like that in my life before or since.

 He used to tell me about how fine he was in his youth. I found that claim to be somewhat dubious. But then, I had to think about myself. How would I look with ten or fifteen more years on the street. I was relatively young at 24. I would see the progression as people came to the city. They got chewed up and spit out by the streets. The beautiful young men became shells of their former selves. Maybe he was telling the truth. Either way, I felt safer with someone then being alone in the world. We would sleep in the doorway at night reading books and dreaming of the great come up that was never going to happen for us.  My life was filled with characters that came in and out of my life. This one was a cross between a troll and leprechaun with a monkey on his back.

He irritated me but at least he made me feel safe. He wasn't going to rape me in my sleep, that is always a plus. He did give me a wicked case of body lice from sharing blankets with him. I liked him because I hated everyone else. Most of all, I hated myself. He would tolerate my suicide as long as I was willing to share a bag or two with him. Since he had no looks, no hustle, no charm- that was enough- to listen to me. Well, I guess he did have a hustle. He worked the shit out of me.

I was sick that day- so motherfucking sick. Most days I *tried* to save myself a wake-up. Try was the key word. I never was one of those "Let's do it all and fuck tomorrow people". Those people got on my nerves. Those people were poor planners. I was more of a heroin maintenance type. I wanted not to feel anything 24/7, not just feel numb a few hours a day. I needed this hit. I had taken me allllll day to hustle up money for a half gram.

We went behind the jack in the box. The Alley was a mixture of food garbage, broken crack pipes, socks that had been used to wipe dirty asses, and human waste. This was the closest place. I trusted my little troll friend to get my shot ready for me. He was generally quick. I also found it EXTREMELY irritating that he could find a vein in two seconds while I struggled in some door way with a shoe lace and my leg over my head trying to find a vein. Time and Tar had been cruel to my dope pathways. These bitches had shut the fuck down.

Then, the impossible happened. It really did. The trollmaster was gently swaying the lighter under the cooker when he screamed "OUCH" and dropped the fucking cooker into the ocean of filth that lie on the concrete. If you have never seen a junkie cry spontaneously, imagine the look when your hopes and dreams went into the gutter with your $50 and your chance to get well.

"WHAT THE FUCKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. I am sure someone dropped their Jumbo Jack from the volume of my high pitched squeal. My God. The agony I felt that day. It took every ounce of strength not to beat his fucking ass. I had no strength. UGH. I turned to the side and dry heaved into the street. And then- you know what comes next- I picked the cooker out of the gutter to see if ANYTHING could be salvaged. One pathetic rinse was left. He had the nerve to ask me if I would share it. Fuck to the no. Kick rocks troll man.

That was the end to a great friendship. Ok, Ok, not really the end. He ripped me off for my last $19 on Thanksgiving. Walked off with my money went I sent him for a bag. If it wasn't for bad luck, i wouldn't have any at all. Just the daily grind of a heroin addict that rolled on for a few more years before I finally got clean.




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