Just Another Day

It was time to wake up; I didn’t need an alarm clock to tell me that. As a matter of fact, I didn’t even own an alarm clock. My natural body functions were the only clock I needed. I knew that once I got out of bed, the misery would begin. Staggering to the toilet, I managed to hold back my insides only long enough to release my kidneys. My body was jumping from involuntary spasms; the bile in my stomach reached my mouth, I was shivering, sweating and throwing up.

My body was screaming for a fix. Food wasn’t even a thought. My stomach would reject any attempt of invasion. Walking to the bedroom was an effort; every step was accompanied by a throbbing in my head. I grabbed pants and a shirt from the pile on the floor. I had to move. I headed out the door for the “F” train.

Waiting for the train was the worst part of the trip. Pacing the platform only made me more uptight. All these people on their way to work, most of them frowning at the thought. If they knew what my world consisted of they would be thankful for their routine. God, I hate what I do. Make the pain go away. I boarded the train.

Forty-eight minutes later, the train pulled into the Second Avenue station. Exiting the station, my nostrils were filled with the stench of urine. I was getting close. Soon the pain would be gone. Grant Street, Delancy Street. Rivington, Eldridge Street-four more blocks. I wonder what the meaning of these streets meant to the people who named them. I knew they meant something totally different to me. Stopping at a store, I brought two Nestle Bars. The sugar would help keep my stomach in check a little longer.

The Red Club was a fortress: four-way locks on the door, salivating Doberman pinschers, and gun-toting kids. The man stood across the pool table from me. Four dimes of heroin, two nickels of coke, and a set of works is what my fifty dollars bought. I stashed them in my shirt and was gone.

I was about to wait to get home to do my shot; I was sick. Walking down Avenue A, I glanced first left, then right; to make sure no one that mattered was looking. I climbed through the window of the abandoned building. Maneuvering over what was left of this steps in this rat-infested building was like tightrope walking in circus. The fall might not be as far, but the floor in this circus was made of broken glass, steel beams, and jagged edge cement. My body cried out for a cure.

Taking a deep breath, I began my ritual. First, I placed the bags on my alter. The four bags of heroin went into the cooker first. My hands were shaking, in need of a fix. The two bags of cocaine were next. I drew the cocktail from the cooker to the syringe, tapped the air bubbles out, and took the belt from my waist. I strapped the leather around my arm and clenched it in my teeth. There weren’t many veins left to choose from, I found my target. The needle penetrated my vein and a hint of red flowed into the clear liquid. I lifted the barrel of the syringe and watched the clear fluid turn blood red. I knew the next step would take me from hell to heaven, I sent the drug into my vein.

The cocaine rush was first; I closed my eyes as my body and mind were being treated to a rush. I wasn’t afraid because I knew the warming hand of heroin was right behind. At that moment my stomach turned as if to say thank you. My body was warming and the pain was over. Mother Heroin was working. The last thing I remember thinking was how good the stuff was. I black out.

As my eyes began to focus, a bright light was all I saw. Jesus, I died and went to heaven. Then I heard a voice and two faces appeared. What the hell is going on? Where am I? My mind was working over time. One face was masked and the other had on a blue hat. The masked man spoke; he informed me he was a doctor and explained that the officer had found me and I was lucky he did or I would have died. He suggested I thank the police officer for saving my life. I turned to the cop and informed him that he did not save my life-he just prolonged my death.

When and how will it end, this living from minute to minute, worrying only where my next fix would come from? I thought of the first time I got high and thinking to myself, “This is living.” If they call this living, then someone’s lying. I am in bondage.