Heroes Among Us
Checking in at a Days Inn on the outskirts of one of Baltimore’s many suburbs, Chris and I were anxious to get out of the cold and begin our night. By that point, we had been absent each other’s company for about a week. We were lovers of the worst kind. For the last three months, he and I had been on a rampage of sex, drugs, and crime and I can’t be certain of which we did the most, or which was taking the greatest toll. We paid for our room at the front desk, and I had the feeling in my gut that the concierge was not ignorant of our intentions. I did my best to hide my guilty conscience, but honestly, in a few minutes, I wouldn’t care anyway. His white shirt and burgundy vest would fade from conscious thought, supplanted by the bliss of today’s score.
Chris would have carried the bags if we’d had any. He tried to be a gentleman like that. We tried to act as if we were just passing through, but we weren’t traveling. Not in the conventional sense. Truth is, neither of us had a home to travel from any longer. He had lost his parents’ trust, and his younger sisters were terrified of him. The week before, at my mother’s request, Fairfax County Police had removed us from her household on the suspicion that we had drugs in my room, which, of course, we did, and we were both arrested. I was still driving her silver 2002 Honda Accord, having disappeared with it earlier that night, but had nowhere to go. The halfway house couldn’t let me stay if I wasn’t sober, and any friends I may have once had were gone now; his were locked up. Crack-houses were beneath us, so the hotel would suffice.
We were given a room on the third floor. The elevator ride seemed to take an eternity. Sure, I was happy to see Chris, but underneath it all, I was dying for more of what I knew he had. The room was nice. Nothing special. It had cable, a coffee pot, and one of those wall-mounted hair-dryers, so as far as I was concerned, it had everything we needed. Tossing the day’s goods down on the bedside table, he took a hit of coke from the pipe he carried in his coat pocket, and went about his usual routine, making sure the blinds were completely closed, and the door locked.
I sat in silence, assessing the assortment of bags and capsules before me. Reaching for one with Batman logos on it, I paused for a moment, remembering that old television show when instances of violence were cut out using screen-flashes of words like “BAM” and “POW.” I laughed quietly to myself at the irony of the miniature collection of childhood superheroes, whose symbols were represented on the tiny bags that were strewn across the wooden bedside table-top in a hotel room that was a far cry from my childhood innocence. My laughter did not go unnoticed, and the silence was then interrupted by rustling in the comer of the room. Glancing over, my companion was taking turns peeking out the peephole of the hotel room door and casting wary looks in my direction. I sighed, shook my head, and turned back to the little Batman bag.
Sometimes, the tops were seared shut with a flame to keep the precious goods they held from escaping. This one had not been, meaning I didn’t have to bite it; just open it like a little Ziploc bag. I was grateful for that because I knew for a fact that some dealers would cut the seam behind the front zipper of their jeans and store the bags there. My companion had insisted on testing it first, and judging by his inability to act like a rational human being. I guessed it was pretty good stuff.
I went to work melting a small white crumb into the hand-made metal filter of my glass pipe. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my companion still entranced by the scenes in the tiny, dime-sized window, and seized the opportunity to slide one of the tiny bags into my bra. He’d never miss it, and I could always pretend I’d just smoked it, that he’d been over there longer than he realized. Even after just a few hits, he was too messed up to know better. Once the rock had disappeared and the white smoke began to rise off the hot metal, I put my lips to the other end of the glass tube, and inhaled slowly but purposefully. The sound of the lighter and the crackling of the coke (ever wonder where it gets its name?) attracted his attention. Good thing I grabbed that bag when I did!
I drew in as much as my lungs would allow, and held it until I heard the bells. Like the chimes from the read-along books I read as a child, I let their song take me away as I exhaled the thick, white cloud. Euphoria washed over me, and I stared off into the beautiful nothingness. It was like climax during sex, better even than the ecstasy I’d done years ago. I relished in it, knowing how soon it would pass. The only hit that matters is the first one, they said, so I did what I could to make it count. Warmth spread through me; my face flushed. It was freezing outside, but in there. it felt like a sauna.
The room seemed a little less dismal; the lights shone brighter. The wretched floral pattern of the bedspread appeared more fascinating than it had only moments before. Every sound was magnified, and carried the metallic edge of something out of a techno song. My racing heart pounded furiously, almost audibly. My whole body was rigid, and I fought the urge to grind my teeth. I was certain my pupils were the size of moons. I got up, pipe in hand, and walked over to the mirror, shedding articles of clothing as I went, but not before moving the little hidden Batman bag to the coin-pocket of my jeans. I was always amused by how big my pupils got. I looked like a cartoon character. Those black holes in my eyes were the bottomless pit that my soul had become, filled only briefly by the contents of the little Batman bag. I don’t know why it fascinated me so to gaze into them in that state. Maybe it was that false and fleeting glow of the high, or the tiny flame of hope that sometimes still lingered there. Either way, I didn’t care. I felt on top of the world.
Turning around, I found that my companion had returned to his chair by the bedside table, and was preparing a hit of his own. I joined him, seating myself on the edge of the bed. I was hesitant to speak to him. I never knew if it would be him that answered, or the demon residing within. He broke the silence.
“Good shit. huh?”
“Yeah, real good,” I answered, smiling. I was glad he had somewhat returned to his senses. Not that there’s anything sensible about smoking crack, but at least right now, he wasn’t shushing me, unplugging the telephone, or saying his good-byes before “they” came to get him. I tried to ask him once exactly who “they” were, but I never could get a straight answer. I think “they” were the shadow people, conspiring against him, waiting to seize him in the night when he least expected it- the ones who only seem to appear after being up for days on end smoking coke. He was always ready for them, though. He had new names for us, fake addresses and personal information if we were interrogated, and plans for where to meet up if we got separated. I never had the heart to tell him that “they” were all in his head. It seemed so real to him, and in those fits of paranoia, had I tried to convince him otherwise, he wouldn’t have believed me anyway.
He was much older than me, about fifteen years my senior. He had dark blonde hair and dark brown eyes, the kind you stare into for hours while deep in conversation, and yet, never feel like you’ve reached in far enough to see the whole picture. On the surface, he was a joker. Many thought he was the dangerous side of crazy, and I was warned on countless occasions to stay away from him. To me, though. it was like looking in a mirror. I saw so much of me in him. Often, I resented him for badgering me about what was on my mind. He could see through me. Every now and then, he’d reveal another secret from that storehouse of mystery that he seemed to carry. Pain and regret weighed heavy on him, and as awful as some of the stories were, I understood the hows and whys. I think that’s why he enjoyed my company. I listened, but never judged. I heard, and better yet, I understood, in a way that I suspect no one ever had.
He liked to believe that I loved him, that I’d spend the rest of my life with him. I liked to let him. I suppose I did, inasmuch as one could in my current state. He supplied my drugs, so I offered him the only thing I had left: empty promises. I had already accepted that I might die from this one day. perhaps soon, and had long since stopped caring. On better days, I’d dreamed of somehow rising up and out of the whole situation, living up to my potential, fulfilling my obligations to my family and to my daughter. Then, reality would hit. The high would wear off, and I’d know better. I’d see the truth: that I was a troubled young girl, strung out on some of the most addictive drugs known to man, who had the pleasure of being painfully aware of each and every moment of deterioration in that tornado she called a life. I missed the black-outs of my drinking days when my more horrific and embarrassing moments were erased from my memory, never to return again. The truth hurt, and the worse off I became, the more it hurt, and the more drugs I had to do to make the pain go away.
He and I were like the string players on the Titanic, determined to keep the song going until this thing swallowed us. Even during perilous times, it’s comforting to have company. No one wants to die alone. No one wants to drown in solitude. So there we were, making the best of our last moments. I know that neither of us wanted to go out like that, but it was clear we’d lost the choice.
I was aware every moment of the dire need for change in my life, yet it was as if I were watching it fall apart through someone else’s eyes. I wanted to be someone else – anyone else. This wasn’t me. Yes, I was still present in body, but my mind was not my own. I couldn’t formulate a rational thought if l tried; all I could think of was where I’d get my next hit, and when it ran out, where I could get more, and when the money ran out, how I could get more.
After a few more hours and a lot more coke, it was time to go to bed. The sun would be up soon, and the outlook for tomorrow was uncertain, so I knew I’d better try to sleep while I could in a warm bed while I still had one. My companion wouldn’t sleep, but he would hold me while I did. After shooting up a dime of heroin, I nodded off in his arms.
***
The sound of the shower woke me. Peering through squinted eyelids, the clock read “8:32.” I knew I should get up and shower, too. Rolling to the edge of the full-size bed, I stood up. The aches had already set in this morning, but I wasn’t as queasy as usual. I checked my jeans pocket. My tiny stash was still hidden there. I also had a good amount of heroin to jump start my day. Feeling better at the mere thought of it, I put the hotel’s trial-size toiletries to good use, and joined my companion in the shower. My skin had begun its crawling sensation, the same odd feeling of your socks being crooked, but all over. It was cool and damp to the touch, threatening the sweats at any moment, but the hot water eased my discomfort long enough to shower, shave my legs and arm-pits, and get myself looking presentable. My mind was already racing. It had started the moment I opened my eyes, planning for the day, deciding where to go, what to steal. The thought of getting caught nagged me, but I shoved it aside.
After my shower and brushing my teeth, I felt good again, the last bit of normalcy that existed in my life. That part of my routine was the one thing I held onto, justifying all else by the simple fact that my teeth were brushed. Not everyone did that, especially not the ones who got high like I did. They were lucky to have any, some of them. I had mine, though, and I took care of them, so that set me above the rest. I heard someone say once that they were “laying in the gutter, screaming I’m number one!'” That was me: that was my delusion.
I knew it might be a long day, and I had two dimes of scramble left: one for now, one for later. They were packaged differently than the raw heroin I had bought in years past. “Pills,” they were called, which made sense. They looked like oversized medicine capsules, but instead of being pink and white or red and yellow like Benadryl or Tylenol, they were clear. The “medicine” they held, though, did far more than Benadryl or Tylenol ever did, for me at least. Scramble’s rush was supposed to be more intense than Raw’s: it was. I wanted both pills, but knew better than to run out entirely before the day even started. One would suffice.
Before I got dressed, I pulled out my kit. Grabbing some water from the sink, I laid it all out before me: a fresh needle, my spoon, the water, my lighter, a little bit of a cigarette filter, and my belt. To the side, still in my purple Crown Royal bag, were a tube of Bacitracin ointment and a bottle of anti-bacterial hand-gel. I might be a junkie, but at least I’m clean, I thought to myself. I carefully poured the speckled powder into the spoon, extracted water from the needles’ cap until it reached the little 20 mark, squirted it slowly over the powder, and used the tiny plunger to stir it up. Lifting the spoon from the table, I waved the lighter’s flame beneath it until the edge of the mixture started to sizzle and the dope dissolved into a nice, light-brown liquid. Quickly, I threw a little piece of cotton from the cigarette filter into the spoon (you know, to remove the bad stuff, placed the needle’s tip into the cotton ball, drew the liquid into the needle, and flicked the bubbles out. Almost in the same series of motion, I had wrapped the belt around my arm, just above my elbow. My veins started to bulge.
I had one that I called “Old Faithful.” It was a bleeder, but the flow was good and it was easy to find. The brand-new syringe slid in with such ease that I hardly felt its prick. Drawing back slightly, the tiny tube filled with deep, red blood. Success. Careful not to move, I emptied the needle’s contents into my vein. In another life, I might have made a successful phlebotomist. Releasing the belt, I removed the needle quickly, placed a finger with light pressure over the small puncture, and waited for the rush. My skin went from clammy to warm instantly. I let out a deep breath, and allowed my eyes to grow lazy. My arms felt heavy, and the needle fell from my grasp onto the table. A drop of blood began to form where the needle had broken skin and punctured vein. I might have wanted to dab it with a tissue, but my mind was too far away to concern itself with such a menial task. In that moment, it felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders, like I was capable of anything, even as the blood trickled down my forearm.
Nausea interrupted my euphoria, and I ran over to the toilet in the bathroom to vomit. I was used to it. It happened every day, and depending on how much dope I shot, sometimes several times a day. It seemed normal, and I never thought much of it. It had been so long that I’d forgotten what a day without vomiting might be like. Whether it was puking from too much beer, hurling from having shot up too much dope, or being dope-sick and then vomiting, it was a constant in my daily routine. My day didn’t feel right if I hadn’t thrown up yet. It was almost as refreshing as my shower, purging myself, and starting the day cleansed of the contents of yesterday. I was getting thinner; I knew that. Unable to ever hold down food, I was wasting away. Whenever I’d visit my mother, she’d comment on how thin I was, and worried that I wasn’t eating enough. It was a valid concern, considering five or six years prior to that, I had suffered from anorexia, and had dropped down to eighty-seven pounds. I wasn’t doing it on purpose this time: bulimia wasn’t really my thing anyway, but with dope, I didn’t have much of a choice.
I leaned against the tub, dabbing the corners of my mouth with a tissue. As I stood to brush my teeth again, I noticed burn marks along the edges of the beige tub. I wondered how many before me had sat in that bathroom and laid their pipes or spoons down on its ceramic edge, leaving their marks like hand-prints on concrete sidewalks. It was chilling, and I shuddered to think that one day, all that might be left of me is the blistered edge of a tub in a cheap hotel. I always wanted to make a difference in the world, but not like that. My companion’s voice cut my thoughts short: it was time to go.
It was February, which I only knew because of the Valentine’s Day decorations on the store-fronts. Were it not for that, I would have had no idea. I wasn’t even sure what day it was. Every week, the crowded lots at the local churches would indicate another Sunday had arrived. I imagined they were in there, listening to a pastor screaming about how they should change their ways and turn from sin, or else bum for eternity in the fiery abyss. Ha! What did he know about hell? I had no reason to fear death: anything would be better than the hell I was living in. I lit a cigarette and turned on the radio in the stolen truck. I wanted to feel bad about it – the truck, I mean-but I hadn’t actually taken it: he had. So, on that note, I relaxed a little. He was driving, and if we got stopped, I could always play innocent and act like I had no clue.
The arrest at mom’s house was my second one. Only two months before that was my first arrest ever. Six months prior to that, while still in rehab, I remembered thinking it wasn’t so bad because I hadn’t gotten into any legal trouble. That seemed ages ago: twenty-one days of feeling better than I had in years. I was “president” of the therapeutic community, and I thought I had done well on all my assignments, but the day I left, my counselor had told me she didn’t think I was ready. My feelings were hurt. I had done everything I was asked to do, and did the best I could at the time, but for some reason, she seemed very worried about me. I was determined to prove her wrong, and I almost did it. Almost…
After rehab, I had moved into a halfway house, where I met my current companion and a lot of other sober people. Everyone had been so kind. They invited me into their homes and fed me. Some had driven me around town so that I could apply for jobs at places that didn’t serve alcohol (apparently, that was important if you were new to sobriety). They really tried to make me feel like I was one of them.
Somewhere between early August and mid-October, however, something in me snapped, and I gave up. I came home exhausted after working my second job. I no longer lived at the halfway house, or talked to any of the people I’d met, except my companion. Opening the door that night, I’d found him in front of the television with a beer in his hand. I remember feeling a sense of despair, of impending doom, but before I knew it, I had one also, then another, and another, and another…
Eighty-seven days. I had made it eighty-seven days before falling off the wagon. I had never done that before. I knew then that I should have stayed at the halfway house, and should have continued going to the meetings. It was unbearable at times, being sober. I hated feeling so anxious. I was terrified of everyone and everything. I couldn’t look people in the eye, and never knew what to say or what to do with my hands. Beyond all of that, though, it felt so good to be able to think and feel again, but my mind never let go of the fear of the unknown. I suppose if I had done that fourth step everyone was talking about, that fear might have been addressed. I never gave myself the chance. The next morning, I felt awful. I never remembered my hangovers being so bad. Really, it had been a few years since I’d drank; I’d been getting high mostly. All I could think about was how a shot of dope would give me all the energy I’d need to face the day.
That one pill became several. The days turned into weeks. I lost both of my jobs, too sick to show up. I had a custody hearing for my daughter. Full custody was granted to her father. I didn’t even put up a fight. What could I have done, anyway? I was high that day in the courtroom. Everyone shook their heads in disgust. I didn’t bother getting a lawyer; I had no leg to stand on. I just let her go, let her stay where she would be safe. In my mind, I was saving her from the memories that now haunt me. She would never have to see it.
I thought going to jail would change my mind, or at least instill in me the willpower to change, but it didn’t. I didn’t want to be a junkie, but I didn’t know how not to be. That was two months ago, on a cold night in December. We had borrowed Mom’s car. I forget what lie we had told to convince her to let us use it, but I’m certain that it had nothing to do with our actual intentions. It was after dark, a bad time for “copping” in the city. More cops were out, the dealers were sketchier-all around, it was just more dangerous. But addiction has no concept of hesitation. We went to the usual spot, and a police officer driving a paddy-wagon caught us conversing with one of the local “yo boys.” My companion thought we could out-run him, and we did, but both of us were so ill from withdrawal that we tried again, only this time, it was the paddy-wagon and six patrol cars. They surrounded us with their guns drawn, warning us not to move. While they frisked us, we insisted we were merely lost and asking for directions. Neither of us had anything on us except cash, but the “works” (drug paraphernalia) in my purse told the real story of why we were there. One of the officers found a half-full pill in the driver’s side door. To this day, I’m not certain it was really there to begin with. Perhaps it was, but I doubted it. Users don’t lose drugs. If I had known it was there, we wouldn’t have had to drive into the city that night. Regardless, I spent that night in Central Booking at Baltimore City jail.
I was released the following morning on Personal Recognizance. Two months later was when Mom had called the cops and I was arrested in Fairfax on similar charges. She was under the impression that I wouldn’t be doing the drugs were it not for my companion’s influence. Maybe that’s partly true. Anyway, her attempt to rid her household of him brought a thorough search of my bedroom, the discovery of more paraphernalia than the cops knew what to do with, and charges for several counts of possession for both of us. Again, my fight was gone. I had agreed to let them search the room, and even helped them find all of what was tucked away in drawers of jewelry boxes, in corners of closets, and between mattresses.
It was the beginning of the end for me. Desperate to stop, I didn’t care about admitting guilt to an officer who would stand before the judge and recall my words verbatim. The cops seemed grateful for my cooperation, and even let me have one last cigarette before they took me in. The officer driving the car I was placed in seemed concerned that he might need to take me to the hospital rather than the detention center. Earlier, when I realized Mom was calling them, I had shot up everything I had. I assured him I was fine. He asked me about the little bum-holes that peppered the lap of the pink fleece bathrobe I was wearing. I explained to him that when you do drugs like heroin, you nod off, and I had done this many limes while holding a cigarette.
“Aren’t you afraid you might light yourself on fire.” he asked.
“Not really.”
He seemed utterly baffled by my response. “Why would you do something that has such an awful effect on you?”
“Sir, if I knew why, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Maybe, when you get out, you should go to rehab.” he offered.
“Maybe I will.”
I didn’t. My guilt-stricken mother bonded me out a few hours later. My sister criticized her for it. “You should have left her in there. She’s only going to do it again!”
I wanted nothing more than to prove her accusations false; I lasted a week. Being fed Suboxones by my ex to curb the cravings, I stayed a week at his house, spending time with my daughter, trying desperately to make sense of my life. I tried calling a few rehabs, and even tried the one I’d recently gotten out of. The man on the other end told me that unless I was still getting high, they couldn’t take me. I was practically begging, but the answer was “no.”
I couldn’t do it. Life got itchy; I tore it off like a wool sweater and ran. It didn’t help that my companion had called and stopped by earlier, looking for me. The part of me that still thought I was having fun was bitter that he was out there and I wasn’t. I tried to leave then, but my ex’s mother literally blocked the door. With a build of nearly three-hundred pounds, she succeeded in holding me hostage. I considered crashing through the bay window, smashing antique plates as I went, but thought better of it. No, I’ll talk my way out of this. I convinced them to allow my mother to pick me up.
Later that evening, back at my mom’s apartment, I waited for the right moment. Everyone had been watching me like hawks since I arrived there. No one trusted me, and for good reason. Perhaps an hour or so before, I had rummaged through every pocket of every article of clothing I had, searching desperately for money, but still unwilling to steal it from my family. At one point, my sister and her boyfriend stepped out back for a cigarette, and mom had to go to the bathroom. My brother sat at the table with his back to me. I knew this was my chance. I muttered something about my allergies, and pretended to get Benadryl out of mom’s purse. I even opened and closed the bottle for good measure, while looping my pinky through the ring of the car keys. Heading for the door, my brother asked where I was going.
“I’m walking to the store to get cigarettes.” Moments later, I disappeared with my Mom’s car. The switch had flipped again. I was off to the races.
I put the bit of change I’d managed to scrounge up into her gas tank, stopped at a Safeway along 295 to boost a few boxes of Crest White-Strips, and hurried up to the Baltimore suburb, Brooklyn, to sell the goods. Seeing the illuminated store-front with the bright yellow awning brought great relief. I’d made it just in time to cash in at the Fast Cash shop. They paid a third of what the merchandise cost in the stores, so that gave me about $80 to work with.
Even I knew better than to go downtown alone on a Saturday night, so I scoured the streets of the suburbs and went into a bar that was often frequented by the lower-end street dealers. The man standing outside turned out to be my ticket, so upon his request. I drove him to a nearby house to meet his boy and get the stuff, and being a bit old-school about the whole drug thing, I invited him to smoke a bit before I dropped him back off. It never occurred to me that this probably wasn’t a good idea. I’ve been called naive many times on many occasions.
We rode around a bit. He thought I was crazy for trying to smoke and drive at the same lime, so we pulled off into a neighborhood that was vaguely familiar. The thought of what might happen when the crack ran out never crossed my mind. He tried to make conversation, and I probably answered him, but I hadn’t come there to talk. We took a few hits each. I forget what spurred the decision to relocate ourselves, but for whatever reason, a run to the store seemed in order. Perhaps it was the way he leaned the passenger seat all the way back while he hit the pipe. There was something somewhere inside me that forced me to consider that returning to a well-lit area might be a good idea right about then. Either that or I was just being selfish and unwilling to share my entire purchase with him.
Riding back down Patapsco Avenue, a white truck revved up beside us out of nowhere. I didn’t want to look over at the driver, fearing another arrest, but this guy was driving way too recklessly to be a cop. Peeking over, it was my companion, signaling wildly for me to pull over. He then sped ahead of me, turned down a side street, and stopped. I casually pulled in behind him. I rolled down my window, and greeted him as if I were out for an afternoon joy-ride. He was not at all amused, and ordered the man in the passenger seat to “get lost.” My druggie buddy got out, and my companion turned back to me.
“What the fuck was that.” he demanded.
“I wanted to buy some stuff. He knew where to get it, so I drove him where he needed to go to get it. I was about to go drop him off.”
“Are you really that naive? Did you even think about what might happen once you smoked up all your shit?” His eyes glistened, not with anger, but with great concern.
“No, not really. Should I have?”
He shook his head. “Don’t ever do that again, please.”
Like I said, I never really considered how that night might have ended, had he and I not crossed paths. I didn’t care to think on it too long, either. It’s a scary thing, running out of drugs in a place where it seems like everyone you meet is somehow connected to the disease running rampant amongst the countless others out there that were like me. Whether they smoked, sold the goods, or indulged in the girls willing to do whatever it took for the next hit, everyone played a part. I was just happy to be reunited with a familiar face on that dark, lonely night – the same night my super-heroes came to my rescue in that hotel room, preserving my safety and sanity for one more day.
– Kathryn Nordan, 2nd Place in Short Story