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wanderingsoul
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“I called Papa Doc and told him to be expecting you. Told him your name was Matt. Not a good idea to tell him your real name. Not a good idea to tell him much of anything.” Dale’s voice held a warning I understood. And instinctively I knew—just like everyone else in the world knew—that people who dealt in drugs were not the most trustworthy people, were NOT people you told your life story to. It chilled me a bit that Dale had felt the need to tell me that. Maybe that’s what he meant to do.
He handed me an envelope, one of those green diamond ones you find in offices everywhere. It was addressed like it was ready to be mailed. I looked at the address.
“It’s a fake address.” Like I hadn’t already figured that out…
The envelope was heavy. Knew there was money in it. Didn’t ask how much. That was NONE of my business. But it felt like a lot. And all I had to do was to take the envelope to this guy, Papa Doc. He would give me a package and I would bring it back to Dale. Simple. No big deal. Wouldn’t take me that long and I would have a quick $100—plus whatever I needed, whenever I needed it. I tried to warm to the prospect. But it was hard. I knew the area where I was to meet this Papa Doc. I had lived in that city early on in my life. Not in that neighborhood, but I knew that neighborhood. It was a bad one. Gangs. Drugs—obviously. And I was still 19. Not all that old. And I was never really comfortable with people I didn’t know. Could have been sent to knock on the door to Mary Poppins’ house and would still have been a nervous wreck. But to have to go up to a house in that neighborhood, knock on the door and face a drug dealer… I was scared ****less.
Dale laughed as he saw my hands shaking on the envelope. “Relax, baby. I wouldn’t send you into the ****ing lion’s den, you know.” He caressed my cheek with the palm of his hand. “And I have something for you before you go.” He grinned and handed me a bag. It was whiter than usual. He smiled, those turquoise eyes of his just boring right through me. Dale could smile a smile that could melt Antarctica when he wanted to. “Some of the good stuff, baby. Told you I would take care of you. I don’t forget when people do me favors.” He laughed again at the way my hand was still shaking when I took the bag. “Man, baby, you better take a hit before you go. People like Papa Doc can smell fear a mile away. And trust me, you don’t want him to think you are afraid.”
Not sure that helped much. Really didn’t need to be told not to show fear. Really didn’t need to think there was a REASON why I shouldn’t show fear. But I took his advice. And it was definitely some of the good stuff. Hit me instantly and hard. A good hard. I noticed when I picked up the envelope my hands no longer shook.
I suppose that was a good thing and a bad thing. I felt calm, relaxed. Any anxieties I had felt—about this and anything else—were gone. What did I have to be afraid of? Was a simple transaction. And the neighborhood wasn’t THAT bad. I suppose one of the bad things was that when the anxieties went away, a little of my self-preservation instinct went as well. I didn’t feel worry. Didn’t feel afraid. So I didn’t pay as close attention as I probably should have. But it wasn’t like I had anything to be afraid of.
**
The house looked decent from the outside. It was a little better than most of the other houses in the neighborhood. It was an older house, a bit tired looking, but not falling apart. Probably in my dad’s day the house would have been freshly painted, the little yard in front of it would have had flowers growing and there would have been kids playing in the street. But my dad’s day had long since passed. And a lot of the other houses in the neighborhood were not so good. A lot of them looked vacant. Stairs missing, windows boarded up. Most had graffiti spray painted on them. Gang symbols. I recognized some of them. That this particular house didn’t have those symbols on it said a lot to anyone who had a clue.
I climbed the steps and knocked on the door and waited. What if they weren’t home? How long would I have to stand there before I could just leave and tell Dale no one was home? The door opened. A young Hispanic guy looked me up and down. “You better have a ****ing good reason for being here, white boy.”
Somehow the words didn’t stick in my throat. “Da-bo sent me. I’m Matt.” Da-bo was the name they knew Dale by.
He stood aside and motioned for me to come inside. Seconds later I was up against the wall with someone’s hands running roughly over my body. I could see the guy who answered the door—they weren’t his hands. A hand ran slowly along the inside of my leg, up to my crotch—where it fondled my balls and my ****. I jumped instinctively and both the guy who had answered the door and the one whose hand was on my balls laughed.
They dragged me into another room, both of them, one on each side of me. There was a big black guy sitting on a couch watching a big screen TV. He had a young girl—a pretty white girl, probably no more than 15 or 16, next to him. She had her shirt open and he was fondling her tits.
“Hey, Papa Doc.” The guy who had fondled my balls spoke. I glanced at him. He was a tall black guy, maybe my age, maybe not quite. He had a tattoo on his cheek. I recognized the symbol. It was one of the ones that were spray painted on the houses. “Get a look at this fine piece of white ass Da-bo sent you.”
Papa Doc looked up and then glanced at the girl. She immediately got up and left the room. He got up—slowly, like it wasn’t easy. I was immediately hit by how big he was. He had to go at least 300 lbs. and had to be over 6 ft tall. He looked me over as he came closer. The two held my arms tighter. I couldn’t have moved if my life depended on it. Felt a brief wave of panic as that thought hit me. It wasn’t lessened when Papa Doc ran his fingers through my hair, which was long and soft and curled at the ends.
“Very pretty for a white boy.” His voice wasn’t what I expected. It was very soft, sounded well educated. If I closed my eyes I might have thought I was listening to a teacher or a doctor or some similar person. But I didn’t close my eyes. He looked down at my crotch and smiled slightly, his eyes meeting mine. The eye contact made my skin start to crawl. Just scared the hell out of me.
“Da-bo has decent taste in his *****es.” He started to turn away and they let go of me. I took the envelope out of my jacket’s inside pocket. My hand was shaking again as I held it out to Papa Doc. He ignored me.
“Papa Doc don’t be getting involved with ****ing **** like you, *****!” The tall black gang member spat at me. He grabbed the envelope from my hand. I had another moment of panic, wondered if he was just going to take the money, wondered how I would face Dale if he did. But he turned and counted it away from my eyes and nodded to Papa Doc.
The other gang member went into another room and came back with a package. It was wrapped nicely in a UPS wrapper. It looked like any other package ready to be shipped. He threw it to me. I dropped it and they both laughed. I bent over to pick it up and one of them groped my ass. “Better get your pretty white boy ass outta here before I make you my ***** too.” They both laughed and I could hear a sound that might have been laughter coming from Papa Doc.
They made some other comments also—but I didn’t hang around to listen.
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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12/1/2003, 5:01 am
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wanderingsoul
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Dale thanked me for helping him out. Made a big deal out of how I had helped him out of a bind and how he wouldn’t forget that. He kept telling me how glad he was that he had run into me that night at the bar. How fate had brought him something nice for a change. Dale was never one for saying nice things. Always more quick with a criticism than a compliment. And on the rare occasions when he did say something nice it felt like a treat, like I was being given something I hardly deserved—but which he gave anyway—because he cared so much. Only a few words from Dale could make me feel really special. And he took me to dinner. Took me to the Best Western again. He knew that I really loved their prime rib. We had wine with dinner and afterwards had some of the best sex I had ever had. Not like the last time we had gone out to dinner. There was nothing gentle and loving about it. It was hard and rough and I was just numbed enough by the wine and the heroin that I took it as hard as Dale could give it—and begged for harder. When I woke up I the morning I felt sore and bruised, but more completely satisfied then I had felt since Paul had left. I looked in the mirror in the bathroom, at the bruises on my shoulders. They were from his fingers. A tingling shiver ran through me as I remembered how his fingers had gripped my shoulders as he had ****ed me. But I couldn’t remember how I had gotten the black eye. I shrugged. Didn’t matter.
I made a pickup for Dale once a week. Apparently Dale had quite a business going. I never asked him about it. It wasn’t my business. But I had figured out that the people that came in the night were coming for drugs. I suspected they weren't just users, though. I guessed that they were street-level dealers. Dale wasn’t quite the type to deal directly with the public, so to speak. I really couldn’t see him having the patience to collect nickels and dimes from each little college kid that knocked on his door. No, that wasn’t his style. He would stay in the middle, out of the sight line. And apparently that position was a good one, a profitable one. Dale never lacked for money. And he never hesitated to spend it. Sometimes he even spent some on me. Bought me an old book of poetry once. Was called “A Treasury of the Worlds Best Loved Poems.” I still have it. I knew he hadn’t spent much on it. It was old, but not antique. But it was the thought that warmed me. He knew I loved poetry.
Each week the routine was pretty much the same. I seldom actually saw Papa Doc. The two gang members—that was how I always thought of them, though I found out their names were Ramon and Tyrell—always met me at the door and handled the transaction. They would always make comments about me. They seemed to delight in that. Tyrell especially. Ramon would occasionally throw some smart-ass comment at me, but Tyrell never missed a chance. He would ask me if Da-bo ****ed me good. Maybe I’d like a nice big black **** instead? Once he took it out and waved it at me. “This probably too big to fit up your tight white ass, isn’t it mother ****er? You gotta stick with those little white ****s. Da-bo got a little white ****, *****? Bet he gives it to you every day. I would if you was my *****.”
But I got used to them. They never actually did anything to me. Just liked to tease me, to see if they could scare me a bit. But they didn’t. Not really. But again, that was one of the side effects of the heroin. Took away my anxieties, but it took away my sense of self-preservation as well. I didn’t feel worry. Didn’t feel afraid. So I didn’t pay as close attention to things as I probably should have. And thinking back, I’m not so sure it was Ramon or Tyrell—or even Papa Doc that I should have felt afraid of, that I should have been watching out for.
Like I said, each week the routine was pretty much the same. And I got used to the routine. And it felt good having money in my pocket—though never all that much. But still, I could pay my share of the rent, buy some food—whatever I was in the mood to eat, drink whatever I wanted. And since Dale gave me all the heroin I needed as a fringe benefit, I still managed to always have some money in my pocket. That was a good feeling. Began to feel like I had escaped the mad puppet master. Should have known better.
It was about two months after I started running for Dale. Everything was business as usual. Tyrell took the envelope and counted the money. But this time something was wrong. He glared at me and said, “You ****ing move and you’re dead, *****!” I stood like a statue. I had no clue what was wrong. My heart was racing. He left Ramon standing behind me and went into the other room. When he came back, Papa Doc was with him. Ramon grabbed both of my arms and held them behind me. Tyrell pulled out a knife and held it to my throat.
“Seems we have a little problem here.” Papa Doc’s voice was soft, disappointed. “I been doing business with Da-bo for a long time, boy. In all that time the money has never been short. But it seems that now all of a sudden I’m missing $300.” I could feel the blade of the knife pressing against my throat. Felt like if I swallowed too hard, it would cut my skin.
“Now, you owe me that money, boy.” It was a simple statement of fact.
I felt panic rising in me—enough panic to make me speak when I KNEW I should have just kept my mouth shut. “I didn’t take the money. I’m sure it’s just a mistake. I know Da-bo will make it up next week.”
Papa Doc laughed, a full, hearty laugh filled with genuine amusement. “Nothing is on credit here, boy. And the package is already set. And YOU bring me the money, so YOU owe me the money if it is short. Why don’t you just give me the $300 and I am sure Da-bo will give you what he owes you. That Da-bo is an honorable man.” I thought I caught a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
“I don’t have $300, Papa Doc.” I had about $30 in my wallet. “I-“
Papa Doc didn’t wait to hear more. He back-handed me across the face. I could taste the blood. Then he ran his hand along my cheek. “So pretty for a white boy. Nice little *****. Da-bo does have himself good taste in his *****es.” He reached in my pocket and pulled out my wallet. He took out the $30 I had in there and slipped it into his pocket.
“I’m going to give you a break this time, boy. Only because me and Da-bo go back a ways. Papa Doc understands how things are. You probably needed to score or wanted to get a little pussy—or maybe a big **** on the side.” Ramon and Tyrell laughed. “Can’t blame you there. A fine boy like you likes to have a little fun. But you gotta learn that you can’t mess with Papa Doc. No, Papa Doc has bills to pay. Think I live here for free? Think I got me this big screen TV for free? Think I got me these fine clothes and these diamonds for free? No, I got bills to pay. But I’m going to give you a break—this one time.” He smiled at me. “Next time you come, you bring me the $300.”
I felt like a death row inmate must feel when he gets a reprieve. Felt so relieved I could have cried. Then he reached down and unzipped his pants. Ramon and Tyrell forced me down on my knees.
“I’m going to let you give Papa Doc a little deposit on that money. Ain’t no head worth $300, but I bet that pretty mouth of yours can suck the sugar from the cane.” He pulled out his ****. “You make Papa Doc feel good, boy, and you walk outta here with your balls still hanging by your ****.”
Ramon pulled my hair hard, snapping my head back so I was looking up at Papa Doc. “You don’t make Papa Doc feel good and you’ll be taking your balls home in your pocket. So you go ahead now, you make Papa Doc feel good.”
I gave him the best blow job I was capable of. And that was damned good. Paul had taught me well and I had practiced my art on Dale. And even Dale never complained about my blow jobs. Said it was the one thing I could do really well. And I gave Papa Doc my best. Took my time, made him shake so hard I thought his legs were going to give out, half expected to end up crushed underneath him. Made him come so hard I nearly choked as his cum it the back of my throat.
I managed somehow to make it to my car before I bent over and puked my guts out.
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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12/1/2003, 7:18 am
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wanderingsoul
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Dale was sympathetic—to a point. “It was a mistake, Luc. Do you think I did it intentionally?” There was a challenge in Dale’s voice. It made me think for one moment…
“No, of course not, Dale. Why would you do something like that?” Why would he? Had he?
“No reason I would. But god knows what **** gets into your head.” He turned away. “No big deal. Next week you can bring him the $300 with my apologies.” Dale took $30 from his wallet and threw it on the kitchen table. “Here, wasn’t your fault. No reason you should be out for it.”
I looked at Dale, and I could almost see the expression in my own eyes. I knew they had to be showing the horror I was feeling, knew they had to be showing the vomit that was rising in my throat. “Dale, I don’t want to go back there. Papa Doc-“
Dale hit me. Hit me hard. It wasn’t just a quick backhand across the face. Used his fists this time. Both of them in rapid succession. Knocked me to the floor and nearly knocked me out. “Who the **** do you think you are?” He railed at me, his fists clenched. I saw raw fury in his eyes.
I cowered like a puppy who had just been kicked by his master. I had never really been afraid of Dale before. He had made me uneasy. He had made me wary. But I had never truly been afraid of him before. I always knew he would hit me and be sorry right away. And he never really hit me that hard. But this time…
“You were lucky, you little ****. Papa Doc must have been in a good mood. You don’t piss off a man like Papa Doc!” He kicked at me. I managed to move just enough so that it was just a glancing blow. “Do you think you are better than Papa Doc? Who the **** do you think you are? Papa Doc has more money in his pocket than you will EVER have at one time. You are NOTHING. Papa Doc wouldn’t even bother to wipe you off the bottom of his shoe! You are so ****ing lucky that Papa Doc didn’t just slit your ****ing throat.”
I couldn’t help wondering, as he was yelling at me, why any of this was my fault. I hadn’t made the mistake with the money, yet Dale was acting as if it had all been my fault and I was lucky to have gotten off so lightly. With one more kick at me, Dale stormed from the room. I just sat there. I wiped my hand across my mouth. When Dale had hit me, I had bitten my lip. It was bleeding pretty good. My nose was also. I wondered if it was broken. I went to stand up, wanted to put some cold water on my lip, wanted to look at my nose. Wanted to clean the blood off of the floor before Dale got pissed at that. But my head swam. I almost puked. I closed my eyes to keep the room from spinning.
Don’t remember Dale coming back into the kitchen. I just remember his hands on my arms, helping me to my feet. “I’m sorry, baby.” I felt a cold washcloth on my face, felt it brushing over my lips, felt it pressing against my nose. I opened my eyes. Dale was looking at me with those turquoise eyes. They were concerned, contrite, convincing.
“It was just that it could have been so much worse. He could have killed you. And it would have been all my fault.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I never did that before. In all the years I NEVER messed up a count.” He pulled me close to him, his arms wrapped tightly around me. I could feel his lips brushing against my hair. “I’m so sorry, Luc. I just called Papa Doc and explained everything to him. I know it wasn’t good for you, baby. But I’m glad you were able to take care of Papa Doc.” He looked down at me and kissed my lips lightly and smiled. “Very well, too, according to Papa Doc.” He pulled me against him again. “I’ll make it up to you, baby. You really helped me out again. You know I never forget things like that.” His hand stroked my hair gently.
And it was true. Dale never forgot a favor. Hadn’t he made good on his promises before? And really, after all that he had done for me, I owed him so much. If I didn’t go back, if I didn’t bring the $300 to Papa Doc, how would that look? Maybe Papa Doc would get angry with Dale. And really, it hadn’t been such a big deal.
“I’m sorry, Dale,” I murmured against his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have acted like such a baby about it. Not like I’ve never given a blow job before.”
Dale laughed and pulled my hair lightly. “True. And Papa Doc said you gave him one damned fine one.” He smiled down at me. “But then, you are the best, Luc.” He ran a finger over my lips. I winced a little when he touched where they were cut. “Sweetest lips that ever wrapped themselves around a ****.”
I smiled up at him. It was good to be appreciated. It was really good to be appreciated by Dale.
**
But when the next time came, I didn’t want to go. I felt tension and anxiety building in me, felt the old fight or flight response gearing up toward flight. God! I REALLY needed a hit badly! But I was out. And so was Dale. Dale was very apologetic. Had been a big week. Had a new buyer and he had underestimated his need. Couldn’t very well short him. Never good to disappoint a client. You wanted them to keep coming back—not go looking elsewhere. Surely I understood that. He needed a hit, too. But sometimes you just had to suck it up.
Of course, I understood that. I could see Dale was probably hurting even more than I was. He’d been using so much longer. He needed more.
“I know how you are feeling, Luc. But I really need you on this one.”
Of course, I would go. Dale needed me. It was good to be needed.
By the time I got to Papa Doc’s I was well into withdrawal. It had been nearly a whole day since my last hit. I was feeling nauseous, shaky, irritable, anxious. Everything that the heroin kept at bay was filtering back to me. Since I had started using, I had never gotten this far into withdrawal. I had gotten to the point of feeling sick and a bit dead—but I had never gone this long without. This time I got a true taste of my addiction.
Papa Doc was sympathetic. He saw my condition as soon as I walked in the door. Came up to me and ran a finger along my cheek. “Da-bo not taking care you, boy?” He looked at Ramon and nodded his head. Ramon left the room.
I handed Papa Doc the envelope with the money and handed him the extra $300. My hands were shaking badly.
He laughed. “Don’t you worry, boy. Papa Doc will take care of you. I got some good ****. Really good. Not like that **** Da-bo gives you.” He ran a hand through my hair and I wondered irrationally, irritably why the **** everyone was so obsessed with my hair. Thankfully, that thought never rose to my lips. That was one thing I had gotten much better at—NOT saying everything that came to my head.
Ramon came back with a syringe and Papa Doc smiled. “Gonna give you some of my own ****. You gave me the best head I had in a long time, boy. Worth a little of the good **** to make you right.” He waved the $300 in my face. “Almost worth this!” He laughed, as did Ramon and Tyrell. He nodded and Ramon handed me the syringe. With my hands shaking, I found a vein and shot up.
It was good. I could tell it was better than anything Dale had ever given me. The burn was hot and the heat spread quickly. It was almost immediately that I felt all my withdrawal ease. I took a deep breath that ended in a sigh. And as the sigh left my body, I wondered what I had been so stressed about.
Then Ramon and Tyrell pushed me to my knees again. “Now you gonna make Papa Doc feel good again. You make Papa Doc feel as good as you did last time. Papa Doc took care of you, now you take care of Papa Doc.”
It was easier this time. I sucked his ****. Sucked him as good as I had the last time. Maybe even a little better. As he came in my mouth I wondered what my problem had been the last time. Wasn’t a big deal. God! Why had I been such a baby about it?
“Boy, you sure know how to make Papa Doc feel happy.”
I went to stand up, but Ramon and Tyrell were there again, holding me down. I looked up at him, a question in my eyes—but not on my lips.
“Now you’re gonna suck Papa Doc hard again, boy.” I felt a sudden wave of panic sweep through me. Even the heroin couldn’t block this one. I knew what was coming next. Papa Doc could see the panic in my eyes, could see my instinctive attempt to get up, to run. He reminded me with a backfist—not a backhand, was too big a reminder for something as gentle as a backhand—that I really didn’t have a choice.
And I knew, really, that the fist was a concession. It could have been a knife. It could have been a gun. The blood could have been coming from my throat, could have been coming from a hole in my head—instead of just from my nose and mouth. And wildly, crazily, I actually felt grateful for that!
As he was ****ing me, I realized that I didn’t feel what he was doing. I realized that I had gone numb. Oh, I could feel it physically. It hurt like ****ing hell. As rough as Dale was, Dale was not big. Papa Doc was just as rough and a hell of a lot bigger. It hurt like I was being torn in two. And he took a while, seemed like he took forever.
But the odd thing was that it wasn’t like it was hurting ME. I felt almost as if I were watching, as if I were noting the details from a point somewhere off to the side.
After, as I was driving home, a nice bag of Papa Doc’s own **** in my pocket, I went over the whole thing in my mind, read the notes I had taken in my head. And I felt a wave of hatred wash over me. I hated Papa Doc. I hated Dale. I hated myself. But mostly, I hated Papa Doc. Not for ****ing me. That wasn’t a big deal. Not like I hadn’t been ****ed before. Not like I wouldn’t be ****ed again. But when he had ****ed me I had shut off. I had just detached and numbed. And I hated him for reminding me. Hated him for making me feel the same, for reminding me how it had felt then—like I wasn’t me, like I was just a thing. “Who the **** do you think you are?” I heard the voice demanding. And the answer was that I was nothing. Nothing that was wanted, nothing that was needed, nothing that was loved—just a thing to be used. Not me. There was no me. There was just a thing. And I hated him for reminding me that that was all I was.
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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12/1/2003, 6:37 pm
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wanderingsoul
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The drive home was a long one. No longer, physically, than usual. But it seemed it would never end. I just wanted to get home and take another hit. I really needed one. Needed to block the voice from my head. Needed to put everything away behind a locked door. I needed to forget everything that Papa Doc had made me remember.
It is a strange feeling to feel both numb and like an exposed, raw nerve at the same time. Part of me still felt that detachment. No, that wasn’t quite true. I didn’t still FEEL that detachment, but I remembered it. Remembering a lack of feeling. But I wasn’t remembering with involvement—I was remembering with still a further feeling of detachment. I was detached from the detachment. I remember going through this bizarre line of reasoning as I was driving 80 mph down the highway. I guess I wasn’t quite sure how I felt.
But then, some of the things I was feeling were raw and exposed—as they hadn’t been in years. I hadn’t felt like nothing, like no one in a long time. Not since the first night Paul had held me in his arms. Not even Dale had given me that feeling. Dale never made me feel like no one. I knew I had value to Dale. He wasn’t always the best at expressing it. And he had a temper and would sometimes lose it with me. But in every case, every time he had hit me, I had done something wrong, had overstepped my boundaries. And he always felt so bad afterwards. Always made it up to me.
But Papa Doc had made me remember how it felt to feel like nothing, like there was no me.
Dale took the package from me and tossed it on the kitchen table. He grabbed my shoulders and I could feel his eyes boring into me. Could feel, not see. I didn’t look up. Didn’t want to meet his eyes. I didn’t want him to see what was behind them. But, of course, Dale had an instinct that always told him when to take a closer look.
He put a hand roughly under my chin and raised my face to look up at him. I could see him noting my cut lip and the bruising that had already formed under my eyes. My nose was most likely broken, could feel that. Knew what it felt like. Had been broken before.
“What the **** happened?” he demanded harshly. He didn’t wait for me to answer. He released me abruptly, with a slight push. I fell back against the door and nearly fell.
“Take a goddamed hit, will you? You look like ****ing ****.” He turned and stalked from the room. I sat at the kitchen table and did as I was told. Would have anyway. I needed one so badly. I could hear Dale’s voice on the phone as I dissolved the heroin on the spoon. My hands were shaking and I spilled more of it than I actually managed to keep on the spoon. I cursed because it was GOOD ****—nearly pure by the look of it—and by how it had felt when I had shot up at Papa Doc’s. I couldn’t make out what Dale was saying on the phone, but I thought I heard him laughing a little. But I may have been mistaken. And by the time Dale came back into the kitchen, I didn’t care. The heroin was already working its magic on me. It is a damned fine pain killer. My lip didn’t hurt—barely noticed it. And the pain from my nose felt dull, not really like pain at all. And the rest—well, that was well on its way to being locked behind a door, put away nice and tidy once more.
Dale sat down beside and covered one of my hands with his. “Papa Doc told me what happened, baby.” He reached out and ran a finger over my cut lip. I didn’t feel it. “Told me you and he had a little misunderstanding, but that everything worked out just fine.” He smiled and ran a finger over my nose. “Looks broken. Do you want to go to the hospital?”
“No, it’s not that bad.” He knew I would say that.
He leaned forward and kissed me. “Papa Doc really likes you, baby. Told me you took care of him real good again.” His expression got very serious, and his voice held a warning that was unmistakable. “Like I have told you before, Papa Doc’s a dangerous man, Luc. Has always dealt fairly with me, but I have no illusions. He would kill you as soon as look at you if he wanted to. Having him like you is a good thing.”
He looked at the bag on the table, and at the spilled liquid. He smiled and shook his head. “He gave you some of his own ****, I see. Must REALLY like you then.” He flicked my nose with his finger, flicked it hard. I felt it, even through the heroin. “Try not to waste it, baby.”
I looked at him, looked into his turquoise eyes. They were concerned, contrite, convincing. I smiled a smile I didn’t quite feel.
Dale grinned and stood up, pulling me up with him. “Ok, then. You look like you could use a shower and then I think a nice soft bed?” The meaning in his voice was clear. It wasn’t really about what I could use, but what he wanted. But I wanted it, too.
We showered together and I gave him a blow job. I loved to do that in the shower. Loved the taste of the water on his skin. Afterwards, when we went to the bed, Dale was sweet, kind. He ****ed me gently, almost made love to me. And I found for the very first time that it wasn’t enough for me. Oh, he made me come. He always made me come. But I wasn’t truly satisfied. And as I lay there staring up at the ceiling, listening to Dale’s steady breathing as he slept, I figured out why. Gentle sex meant love. Gentle, tender, loving sex was what I had with Paul. I had loved Paul. I didn’t love Dale. I needed Dale. I was addicted to Dale—as addicted to Dale as I was to the heroin. But I didn’t love Dale.
Last edited by wanderingsoul, 12/15/2003, 2:00 am
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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12/13/2003, 6:50 am
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The heroin Papa Doc gave me was good. Real good. Much better than the stuff Dale gave me. Could have used a lot less, made it last a lot longer, and have gotten the same effect, the same relief. But I didn’t. I won’t say it didn’t occur to me. It did. Briefly. But I didn’t want to. Plain and simple. I liked how Papa Doc’s **** made me feel. Or I guess, really, I liked how it made me NOT feel. It put more distance between me and those things that nagged at the edges of my consciousness. It put bigger locks on the doors to those rooms where I kept everything put away. So I used it just as I had used the stuff Dale had given me.
The problem was, of course, that it didn’t last very long that way. And when I ran out, I had to use whatever Dale gave me. And Dale loved that. I see that now. I didn’t see it then. Then all I saw was that Dale would give me whatever I needed whenever I needed it. He never said anything when I started needing more. He just gave me what I needed, whatever I asked for, whenever I asked for it. And in return, I kept running for him. It was a fair trade. I got what I wanted, he got what he wanted, and Papa Doc got what he wanted. Everyone was happy.
But Dale would run low toward the end of the week. He had a lot of clients, he would say with a smile. That was a good thing. Business was good. And I kept asking him for more and more, he would say with a smile. But sometimes he just couldn’t give me what I wanted when I wanted it. “Nothing I can do, baby,” he would say. “I have to take care of my paying clients first. Just good business, that’s all. But you know I’ll make it up to you.”
So most of the time, by the time I went to see Papa Doc I was hurting, hurting so badly that I would have done anything for a hit. And Papa Doc would be there with what I wanted. It got to be a routine, really. Papa Doc would laugh when he saw me, when he saw how shaky and sick I was. He would shake his head and comment on how Da-bo wasn’t taking care of me properly. Then Ramon or Tyrell would bring me a syringe with some of Papa Doc’s own in it and I would shoot up. Like I said, it was good. I would feel better pretty much immediately. So much better that I sometimes didn’t wait for Papa Doc to undo his pants. Sometimes I just went right ahead and did that for him.
“That’s right, boy, you take care of Papa Doc and Papa Doc will take care of you.” He would always say the same thing.
And then he would take a bag out of his pocket and hold it up, examine it, turn it over in his hand. “Man, this is good **** I got this week, boy. Anybody but you would be paying big bucks for this ****.” He would hold his hand out to me, the bag practically under my nose. “You want it, boy?”
I would nod, still on my knees. “Yes, please, Papa Doc.” I knew how to use my voice, would make it soft, submissive. And I would look up at him with eyes that said, “Yes, I want it, more than anything in the world. And you know I will do anything you want if you give it to me.”
And he would bend me over the back of the couch, always over the back of the couch, and he would **** me. And it wasn’t a big deal. Most of the time I would just separate, detach from myself. Was easy enough to do. Could do it and still give Papa Doc all the positive feedback he liked.
“Oh Papa Doc! That’s so good! Please **** me harder, Papa Doc.”
“You like my big black **** up your ass, boy?”
“You know I do, Papa Doc. You know I love how you **** me, Papa Doc.”
But I felt nothing, nothing beyond the physical pounding of Papa Doc’s **** in my ass.
And afterwards, he would give me that bag of the “good ****.” And sometimes I would take a hit of it as soon as I got to my car. Just a small one. Just enough to make those locks on those doors just a little bit bigger. Just enough to get me home.
**
I’d been with Dale nearly a year. I won’t pretend it was all good. But it wasn’t all bad either. All in all, life had settled into a comfortable routine for me. But the nightmares were starting up again. I would wake up in the night more often. Dale was getting impatient with me.
“****ing Christ, Luc, just take a bigger hit before bed!” He would growl at me. Of course, once he was awake he wanted to ****. It was the last thing I wanted when I was still shaking and still feeling that sense of overwhelming anxiety rushing through my body. But I always gave Dale what he wanted. And I found if I took a hit as soon as I stopped shaking enough to mix the damned ****, I would be fine, would be able to please Dale and manage to get back to a reasonably dreamless sleep.
But I really felt like I needed some air. I just needed some time away from Dale. I started going to the apartment during the day. Mark and I still technically shared the apartment, though I was seldom actually there. I gave Mark my share of the rent each month, but that was about it usually. But I started going there more often. Wouldn’t do much while I was there. I would do a little housecleaning, watch a little TV, catch a nap on my own bed. But I found that even the naps would turn into nightmares. I would wake up screaming, my body convulsing with fear. And I was grateful that I was alone. Glad I didn’t have to explain, didn’t have to apologize. I would just get up, go to the kitchen and take another hit. It was almost bearable, almost.
Mark worked during the day. And I was glad of that. I had managed to hide things from Mark. He didn’t know I used. He didn’t know Dale hit me. And thank ****ing Christ he didn’t know about anything else. I felt bad about hiding things from Mark. Sometimes, when I thought about it. We had been best friends since I was 13. I had never kept any secrets from him. Oh, he had kept one big one from me for a long time—but I understood that. I never held that against him. Would never have kept a secret from him just to make it even. That wasn’t why I didn’t tell him anything. I just knew it would bother him. He knew about the pot, accepted that—more or less. But he wouldn’t understand the heroin—or why I needed it. And the rest…
But I wasn’t at the apartment much. And honestly, when I was using you couldn’t tell. No more than I had been able to tell Dale was using. I truly could function normally. And I seldom used enough to put me into that sleep state—only when I was actually trying to sleep, when the nightmares came. And I felt perfectly normal while using. Acted perfectly normal, felt perfectly normal.
But one day I was at the apartment and had been woken from a nap by the usual nightmares. I was in the kitchen when Mark walked in the door and caught me shooting up.
“Luc! What the **** are you doing?” The look on his face was like a slap to mine. I felt like I had been “caught.” Felt like a little boy who had been caught sneaking a drink of his dad’s beer.
“What the **** does it look like?” My voice was heavy with sarcasm. It was a defensive reaction. I finished the injection and closed my eyes for a moment, letting the heroin hit my bloodstream.
“What the hell is that ****, Luc?” His voice was controlled. I knew him well. I could tell he was trying to maintain a calm he did not feel.
“None of your ****ing business, Mark,” I muttered, cleaning everything up. “Who do you think you are, my ****ing father?” I probably felt more guilty than I would have if he HAD been my father. Mark was… well, Mark was Mark.
“No, it isn’t.” He set his things down on the counter and walked past me into his bedroom. I heard him shut the door.
**
He waited two days before he said anything else to me. Called me at Dale’s. Asked me to come home for a bit. Said he needed to talk to me. Of course, I went. Mark was Mark. If he wanted to talk, if he needed to talk to me, I would be there. Had promised him that once. Had promised him that I would always listen if he needed to talk.
“I’m so sorry, Luc.” Those were his first words to me. Knocked me right back on my heels.
“Why are you sorry?” What could HE be sorry for? I was the one who had kept things from HIM. I had promised him—we had promised each other that we would never do that, that we would never keep things from each other again. I had broken that promise. I was the one who should be sorry, not him.
He looked at me, but didn’t quite meet my eyes. “Because I didn’t notice, Luc. I didn’t see what was going on.”
“There’s nothing going on, Mark.”
“Yes, there is.” He met my eyes and I could see concern in his eyes. “I thought things were just going good for you. Thought you were happier. You always seemed to be whenever I ran into you.” He turned away for a second. “I thought Dale was helping you get over Paul, was helping you forget him.”
“I will NEVER forget Paul, NEVER!” I nearly spat the words in his face. And a look crossed his face. I had seen that look once before, when I had told him I couldn’t feel THAT way about him, that I just wanted us to keep being friends. But it was there for only a second, then it disappeared back into concern.
I sat down and rested my elbows on my knees, rested my head in my hands. “I’m sorry, Mark.” Of all the things I could have said, why did I have to say that? Why did I have to snap that in his face?
He sat beside me and put his arm across my shoulders. “It’s ok, Luc.” He meant it. It was ok. He understood.
He then went on to ask me a lot of questions. That was Mark’s way, though. Once something caught his attention, captured his interest, he would ask questions until he knew everything he wanted to know. He asked me what I was using. I told him it was heroin. He asked me where I got it. I told him from Dale. He asked me about how I managed to pay my share of the apartment, eat, drink, buy heroin—which he knew wasn’t cheap—and still have money in my pocket? I could feel the thoughts behind that question. I evaded. Told him I DID have a job, after all. I suspected he knew I didn’t—well, not one that paid me a paycheck. But he didn’t push.
And he never questioned me about that again. But he did ask me to promise him I would never shoot up in front of him. “I just can’t stand to see that, Luc. Can’t stand to see you put that poison in your body.” And I promised him. I promised him for two reasons. One, when he had seen me with the needle in my arm I had felt ashamed. I had felt like what I was doing was wrong—and that was NOT a feeling I wanted to repeat. And two, because he was Mark. And anything he asked of me, if it was within my power to do, I would do.
But he never asked me any questions about anything after that. He would just ask me from time to time if I were ok. Would ask me that whenever we ran into each other. And that started to be a bit more often. I started sleeping in the apartment a couple of times a week. I would always be sure to take an extra strong hit right before bed, and wash it down with a few beers or some scotch. I didn’t want to have the nightmares and that would usually keep them at bay. But sometimes they still broke through.
I would wake up screaming. Mark would come into my room and sit with me until I was able to go back to sleep. Most of the time I would be pretty incoherent. The heroin—but mostly the alcohol mixed with the heroin—dulled me to that point. But I would feel his hand on my back or sometimes even his arms around me. And I would hear his voice. Most of the time I was too far out of it to make out the words, only heard the sounds. But sometimes I did hear them. I would hear him telling me he was there, that he wouldn’t leave me, that he loved me and that he would always be there for me. I never interpreted his words back then. I just heard them, heard them and reacted to them. I just let them make me feel safe.
**
Of course, Dale noticed I wasn’t staying with him as much at night. I told myself—and told him—it was because the nightmares were becoming more frequent. Said I didn’t want to wake him up. I remember when I told him that. We were in the kitchen. He just looked at me. His turquoise eyes seemed harder, colder than usual.
“My bed isn’t good enough for you all of a sudden? What else isn’t good enough, Luc? The **** I give you isn’t good enough—so you give your ass to Papa Doc for some of his ****. My bed isn’t good enough—who you giving your ass to for a bed? Mark? He ****ing you too? You’d let anyone **** you, wouldn’t you, for something you want.” He laughed harshly. “You think he wants you? If he did, he would have been there for you when Paul took off. Who was there for you then, Luc?”
I had been looking down, had not wanted to meet those eyes. And I didn’t think he really wanted an answer. But apparently I was wrong. He grabbed me by the hair and snapped my head back, forcing me to look up at him. “Who was there for you then, Luc?” he demanded.
“You were, Dale.” It was the answer he wanted. And it was true. He had been there for me.
He flung me against the kitchen table, my neck snapping hard enough to make my head spin. “Then don’t ****ing forget that.” He stalked from the room.
I wanted to go to the apartment that night. I wanted to sleep in my own bed. I didn’t really think too much about why I wanted that. Looking back, I suppose I wanted someone to be there if the nightmares broke through the heroin. Wanted someone who would hold me and speak softly to me and stroke my hair and rub my back and tell me they would always be there for me. But I didn’t think that far into why. But it didn’t matter anyway. Dale didn’t like my going to the apartment when he wanted me there.
So I stayed with Dale that night. Dale was in a pissy mood. I don’t know why. I didn’t ask why. But he took it out on me.
Rob and Dale were talking in the living room when I came in. I had gone to the store to buy some beer. Not that there wasn’t any beer in the fridge. There was always beer in the fridge. I just wanted something a little different. Was just in the mood for some Labatt’s. Dale always had Michelob.
I didn’t like Rob. I didn’t really like most of Dale’s friends. But Rob was really crude. He was always making jokes about my being Dale’s *****. I know Dale thought that was funny. I suppose it was in a way. But there was something about the way he said it. I don’t know. Just didn’t sound funny when he said it. But I don’t know.
I walked in the front door of the apartment. Dale looked up at me and as soon as I saw his eyes I knew things weren’t going to be good. I said hi to Rob. I hadn’t one time and Dale had pointed out that I was being rude. I always made a point of remembering to say hello to Rob after that. I walked past them and into the kitchen to put the beer in the fridge. I had set the 12 pack down on the kitchen table when I heard Dale’s voice behind me. “Where the **** have you been?”
Was pretty obvious, I thought. I had just come in the house with a 12 pack. Obviously I had been to the store to get beer. “I just went to get some beer.” I tried to keep the tone out of my voice. Apparently I didn’t quite manage.
“We have ****ing beer. Where were you? With Mark?” He didn’t wait for my answer. He backhanded me across the mouth.
I shook my head. “No, I went to the store—“
He hit me again. “Don’t ****ing lie to me, you little ****!”
“Dale, I just went to get some ****ing beer!” I pointed to the beer on the table. “I wasn’t with Mark. I wasn’t with ANYONE. I just went to the ****ing store!” I could see Rob standing in the kitchen doorway. He was smirking.
Dale swept the beer off the table with his arm. He grabbed my hair with one hand and yanked open the refrigerator door with the other. He shoved my head in the fridge. It hit the freezer door on the way. “Look! All the ****ing beer you want in there. Or isn’t my beer good enough for you either?”
He flung me away from him and I fell against one of the kitchen chairs. He grabbed the back of my collar and pushed me hard against the kitchen counter. “Is anything of mine good enough for you anymore, Luc?” He pressed himself hard against me, his breath close to my ear. “How about my ****, Luc? That good enough for you still? Or you gotten so used to Papa Doc’s big black one that mine doesn’t do it for you anymore?”
“Dale, you know—“
“Shut up, *****!” He pushed my face down on the counter. I could see my blood dripping onto the countertop.
He held me down with one hand and forced my jeans down with the other. I could hear Rob laughing. Dale had his **** out and was rubbing it against my ass. I could feel it was already hard. Dale always got hard when he hit me.
He didn’t waste any time. He shoved his **** roughly inside me. I cried out. He meant it to hurt, and it did. “My **** not big enough for you, Luc?” He pulled out of me and shoved his **** back into me. Again, he meant it to hurt and again, it did.
I cried out again. I tried to make it sound like it was with pleasure, but it didn’t fool Dale. “I told you to shut the **** up!” He pushed my face down against the counter again. This time he held it there. And as he ****ed me my face smeared the blood all over the counter. And that was what I focused on. I didn’t pay attention to Dale’s harsh words as he ****ed me harder than he had ever ****ed me. I didn’t pay attention to Rob’s laughter and jeers as he watched Dale **** me. Instead, I watched the blood spread on the counter, watched the patterns it made, watched as it swirled in circles, watched as lines crossed those circles.
“****ing Christ I’m tired as ****.” I heard Dale saying when he finally finished with me. I was just standing there. My head was spinning a bit. I reached down to pull my jeans back up and got so dizzy I nearly fell.
“Christ, Luc, get a hold of yourself, will you?” There was disgust in his voice. “And clean up this ****ing mess before you come to bed.” He pointed to the broken bottles of beer with his hand, while his eyes looked at the blood on the counter.
I didn’t even try to hear what he and Rob were saying as they went back to the living room. A few minutes later, while I as picking up the broken glass, I heard the front door open and close and heard Dale go into the bedroom.
I finished cleaning up the floor, wiped down the countertop and went into the bathroom to clean myself up. I looked in the mirror. I didn’t recognize the face that looked back. It was covered in blood—but that wasn’t what made me not recognize it. It was the eyes. I didn’t recognize the eyes. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. But the eyes that looked back at me were empty. I didn’t see a soul in them. I didn’t see ANYTHING in them. I wiped the blood from my face. Just a bloody nose, really. Nothing major. Nothing to get all worked up about. And the “nothings” struck me. Nothing to get worked up about. Nothing major. Nothing behind the eyes. Nothing… And that’s who I was.
I went back to the kitchen and opened one of the bottles that had not broken. I drank it quickly and opened another. But before I drank it, I pulled a small bag out of my pocket. I looked at it. It was nearly empty. I would run out again. Dale probably wouldn’t have any for me—and even if it did, it wouldn’t be as good. But it didn’t matter. I mixed up the last bit of the **** Papa Doc had given me. It felt good as it hit my blood. I downed the other bottle of beer and turned the light out and went to bed. Dale appeared to be asleep as I got in bed. I hoped he was. I didn’t want anymore right now. He stirred briefly and I held my breath. But he was asleep. I let my breath out and lay down. I closed my eyes. The heroin and the beer were kicking in quickly. I started to slip into unconsciousness—not sleep, I knew it wasn’t sleep. It felt warm and comforting and I wondered if that was what death felt like.
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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12/16/2003, 4:06 am
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It was about 4 hours later that I woke up in a cold sweat, my body shaking, my arms wrapping around myself. I looked quickly at Dale. He looked like he was still asleep. I got out of bed, trying very hard not to disturb him. I didn’t want to suck his **** right now and I sure as hell didn’t want to be ****ed. What I wanted was another hit. I grabbed my clothes and walked naked to the kitchen. I didn’t want to risk getting dressed in the bedroom. It would be bad enough if he woke up while I was still in bed, but Dale didn’t like me to get out of bed in the middle of the night. He used to say it was because he missed me. He would say it with those turquoise eyes looking into mine, a finger running along the curve of my cheek. But he didn’t say that anymore. If he said anything it was that after all he did for me, the least I could do was to be in his bed when he wanted me.
As I got to the kitchen I remembered I had used the last of my heroin before bed. “****!” I all but yelled the word. As soon as the word left my lips, though, I froze. ****! What if Dale woke up? I stood perfectly still, holding my breath, not even wanting to breathe, not wanting to make ANY sound. I listened for several minutes before sighing with relief. No sounds from the bedroom. Dodged a bullet this time. I laughed to myself at the thought. Dodged a bullet? No, more likely dodged a fist.
I got dressed quietly, my mind racing. I had so much in my head. The dream lingered this time. Well, it usually did, but I had become accustomed to driving it away with another hit. But I didn’t have that option now. Well, I really did. I could go to Dale. Could ask him for some. He probably would give it to me—for a price. But for once, probably for the first time really, I wasn’t willing to pay it. I wandered around the apartment restlessly. I sat down on the couch. Couldn’t watch TV, though. Couldn’t risk waking Dale. I closed my eyes. Maybe I should just go back to bed. Maybe I should just get in bed, slide over next to Dale and let him do whatever he wanted. At least I wouldn’t be sitting here with thoughts all jumbled up in my head trying to get out.
And I suddenly realized that I wanted to write. For the first time in a LONG time, I wanted to write. Hadn’t written since Paul left. Had hardly written anything even before that, not since I left school. It had once been such a part of me. I used to spend every spare moment writing. I had wanted to be a writer. That was ALL I had ever wanted to be. But that had all gone away from me. Had lost that part of me. Had that part beaten out of my head until it ran from me and down the drain. But here it was again. I was almost afraid to give it a try. But I got up and grabbed an old notebook Dale had lying around. There was nothing in it. He would always take the pages out and get rid of them. Never asked him what he had written in them. Found a pen, put my jacket on and went outside on the back porch.
It was early December, but the night wasn’t that cold really. Well, it was cold enough to be snowing. Those big, wet flakes that stick to everything they touch. I stood on the porch and looked up at the sky. The night was fairly clear—only a few clouds in the sky, just enough to make the snow that was falling. I looked up and stuck out my tongue, let the snowflakes land there, tasted them as they melted there. For a moment I felt like I had once felt. When I was 14 I used to go outside in the winter and walk over to the high school and sit on the steps and write. I would sit there, usually with snow falling all around me, my notebook on my lap and write. Poetry sometimes. Sometimes stories that I would dream would some day become novels. But I would sit there and look up at the snow and let it land on my tongue as I stared up at the night sky. It was a beautiful thing, back then, filled with the possibilities of infinity. Nothing was impossible. And no darkness could ever be complete—not as long as there were stars to light the midnight sky.
But that was back when I was 14 and still innocent. Back when I still couldn’t wait for tomorrow. I was 20 now and innocence wasn’t even a memory any more. And tomorrow was just another day. But I sat down on the porch steps and opened the notebook and looked up at the sky. It had been such a beautiful thing, the winter sky, back then. But now as I looked up all I could think was that the winter sky was a terrible thing. And I wrote the first poem I had written since Paul had left.
abyss
the winter sky at midnight is a terrible thing
black as the ink that spills from my pen
abysmal in its depths like a black hole
a whirlpool of darkness
sucking from me all that is light
the winter stars have a cold and lifeless beauty
cutting like diamonds through the black
never illuminating, never giving relief
only pointing out the darkness
teasing me with what I cannot have
both reveal how small and insignificant
one single drop of ink must be
in a sea of black that has no shore
unnoticed, unrecognized, ignored
even when cast violently into its midst
both mock me, casting me into the void
of fear and anxiety that surrounds my soul
showing me the infinite stretching
of a universe without beginning or end
offering no hope of rest
neither proffers a promise of peace
no sense of safety surrounds me
leaving me to reach out desperately
to find no hand there to grasp mine
as I fall from the earth into the sky
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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12/16/2003, 10:38 pm
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I think the full force of my life, of my addiction hit me that night. I needed the heroin to be able to function—not just “normally” but pretty much at all. Without it, aside from the physical reaction—which could get bad, but which I could deal with—I felt less than nothing. While it was in my body, I felt good. I felt like the world had hope. Felt like I was NOT nothing. It was what made me feel alive and significant. Without it—even early in the stages of withdrawal when it was just beginning to wear off—I was one mass of anxiety, doubt and despair.
And I realized that Dale had given me that. Paul had given me back my life. He had reached behind the walls I had built, behind the scars that had formed and had found me. He had freed that little dying thing from its prison deep inside of me and had held it in his hands, pressed it close against his chest and had given it the beat of his own heart. He had breathed life back into me. When he left, I thought he had taken it all back, had taken my life away with him. But it had really been Dale who had taken it. He took it, used what he wanted, and left me with nothing. He would hit me with one hand and caress me with the other. Tell me I was worthless, then tell me how much I meant to him. He would beat me and comfort me. Push me away and pull me close. I thought Dale was my savior, my heaven, but he was really my hell.
But he was all I had. Without him, without the heroin that I got through him, I had nothing, was nothing.
It’s funny how things seem to happen all at once, how it seems random things all come together at the same time. Again, that demented puppet master at work, I suspect. But maybe not. Maybe we create our own fate—or at least influence it. Maybe we make decisions unconsciously that change the path we are on.
It was nearly dawn by the time I went back to Dale’s bed. After writing my poem, I went to my car and slipped the notebook under the seat. I didn’t want Dale to find it. Didn’t want him to know I had used his notebook, didn’t want him to know I had written a poem. I just didn’t want to hear the words I knew he would say. I didn’t need more reasons to feel like ****. And it was a **** poem, I knew that. But it was mine. My words, from my head. And while a big part of me was feeling the pain and despair behind the words, part of me was just glad I still could find them, my words, was just so glad that I hadn’t completely lost them.
I had downed the rest of the Labatt’s before going back to bed. And I had washed the beer down with 3 shots of vodka. I just wanted to pass out. I wasn’t feeling the physical withdrawal from the heroin yet. I had enough of it in my system to still keep that at bay. But I was feeling the emotional withdrawal. That sense of anxiety and hopelessness was starting to filter through. I knew as I got in bed that Dale would be waking up soon. And he always wanted sex when he woke up. But I didn’t care. I knew I could just give him what he wanted, let him do whatever he wanted. It wasn’t a big deal. And maybe he would give me a fix afterwards. At least enough to get me to Papa Doc’s.
But when I woke up, Dale was already up. I heard him in the kitchen. I looked at the clock. It was just after 11:30. Two hours before I had to go to Papa Doc’s. I sat up and felt like I was going to puke. I tried taking slow, steady breaths, tried to fight that feeling. I knew it was a combination of withdrawal and the alcohol. I had felt it before. But it wasn’t working. I somehow managed to get myself to the bathroom before I heaved. Was going to be a long two hours if Dale wouldn’t give me a hit. I took a quick shower. It seemed to help a bit. Not much, but a bit. I got dressed and went into the kitchen. Dale was drinking coffee. He looked up.
“You look like living ****.” His voice was cold.
“Feel like it, too.” I tried to keep my voice steady, noncommittal.
He got up and got me a cup of coffee. I was surprised, all things considered. “Thanks.” I sat down across from him. I stared at the cup. I was remembering that first morning. It was the same cup he had handed me then. Don’t know why I even noticed that. He had given me that cup many times, I’m sure. Just grabbed whichever one was closest. But I just noticed it this time. I took a sip of coffee, nearly spilling it. My hand was shaking already.
“Used up all Papa Doc’s ****, didn’t you?” There was maybe, just maybe a slight edge of satisfaction in Dale’s voice.
I nodded. I hoped.
“Man, Luc, you gotta plan that better. You know by this time of week I am usually out. You know I would give you some if I had it. But I just took the last hit of mine. I would have shared it with you if you had been up.” There was a hint of accusation in his voice. He knew I had been out of bed. He knew I hadn’t come back to bed until nearly dawn. I could hear it in his voice.
“I know you would, Dale.” I wanted to believe that still. Didn’t want to think he didn’t care at all.
He stood up and went into the bedroom. He came back with the usual envelope and tossed it on the table. “Well, here’s the money. Why don’t you head out a little earlier. I can see you are hurting. You wait 2 hours and you won’t be able to drive and it’s too late for me to make other arrangements.” He put on his jacket and went out the door.
I just stared after him. There had been no concern for me in his voice. Before he would have covered my hand with his or would have put his arm around me and given me a quick kiss and asked me to be careful—because he needed me, cared about me. Right up until yesterday he would have at least pretended to care. But he hadn’t even bothered to pretend today. Or maybe I was just seeing through him. Maybe he was starting to wear off just like the heroin was. I remember looking down and staring at that coffee cup for the longest time after he left. I wanted things to be back the way they were then. Wanted to feel his turquoise eyes staring at me, burning into my skin. I wanted to feel that desire, that feeling of being wanted. I just wanted someone to love me. And that was stupid, because I knew Dale didn’t love me. I knew he had never loved me. But he had cared. I knew he had cared.
I closed my eyes because I could feel tears stinging at the back of them. I didn’t want them to fall. I hadn’t cried in a long time. I had no reason to be crying now. As I sat there I let my mind drift a bit. Well, I had no choice, it was going to drift whether I let it or not. One of the odder reactions I had to coming off heroin. My head would drift a bit, lose track of itself. As I sat there, I started to remember good times with Dale, times when he had been there for me. I could feel him sitting with me when I had a nightmare, remembered his hand rubbing my back, remembered his voice, so soft, so soothing as he held me close, telling me he was there, that he would always be there, that he loved me… And then I realized it wasn’t Dale who had said those words. It wasn’t Dale I was remembering. It was Mark.
I stood up, grabbed my jacket, grabbed the envelope and left as quickly as Dale had. I drove the hour drive to Papa Doc’s in 45 minutes. Told myself I was just in a hurry because I REALLY needed a fix. But I knew I was just running, running from my thoughts. But I really did need a fix. And by the time I got to Papa Doc’s, I knew that if Papa Doc had told me to **** his dog to get it, I would have. As it turned out, the dog would have been a hell of a lot better than what I got.
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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12/18/2003, 3:39 am
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Ramon and Tyrell met me at the door. “What you doin’ here so early for?” Tyrell demanded. He didn’t give me a chance to answer, just grabbed my arm and pulled me inside, slamming the door behind me. “Papa Doc ain’t here just now.” His voice sounded odd to me. But I was coming off so I wasn’t sure what I heard.
“I know. I was just hoping I could—“
“I know what you was hopin’, white boy. I see the way you shakin’.” He pushed me against the wall. “Like I said, Papa Doc ain’t here just now. You gonna have to wait for Papa Doc to get what you want.”
He leaned up against me, held me against the wall with his chest and reached down and rubbed his hand over my ****. “But that just means we gots some time to ourself.” He kept rubbing his hand over my **** and started rubbing his **** against my leg. “Now I knows you just let Papa Doc **** you ass for the ****. We both know Papa Doc is one ugly mother ****er. But I see how you lookin at me. I knows you gots you eye on my fine ass, I saw you lick those pretty lips when I waved my big black **** at you.”
He ran his tongue over my lips. I pushed at him, trying to push him away. Tyrell was a lot taller than I was. I had about as much chance of fighting him off as I had with Papa Doc. Probably a hell of a lot LESS chance. Tyrell was as lean and as muscled out as a middleweight boxer. It made no sense at all to try to fight him. I should have just let him do whatever he wanted. Not like I hadn’t been ****ed before. Not like I hadn’t come here with the expectation of getting ****ed. Had counted on it, really. Had counted on sucking Papa Doc off and the letting him **** me—letting, like I had a choice!—so I could get a hit and a nice bag of the good **** to take home. God knows what the **** was in my head.
He hit me. Hit me with one solid uppercut that sent my head back against the wall so hard I saw stars. “I not good enough for you, white boy?” He slammed his knee into my groin. I instinctively leaned forward—and took another uppercut that sent my head back against the wall again. Had he let me go, I know I would have just slipped right to the floor. But I wasn’t going to be so lucky.
“You think you better than me, *****?” He was inches away from my face. His breath smelled like peppermint, like he had been eating a candy cane. “You nothin, *****. You nothin but a piece of ass with a mouth. That all you good for—****in and suckin.”
I saw Ramon behind him now. He was smirking. Reminded me of Rob.
“I woulda treated you right, *****. Woulda ****ed you good. You woulda liked my big black **** up you ass, woulda liked my sweet lips on you little white ****. But no…” He punched me in the stomach. “You gotta push my ass away. You gotta make like you don’t want Tyrell to **** you ass.”
He let go of me suddenly and I fell forward to my knees…right into his raised knee. I fell sprawling back onto the floor, the back of my head hitting the wall again. He kicked me over onto my stomach. My head was swimming, every noise in the room echoing. The ticking of the clock on the wall sounded like the pounding of a hammer. Tyrell’s heavy breathing sounded like the roar of a tornado. I acted completely on instinct. I had no thoughts in my head. But I knew I had to get up. I had to get out of there. I tried to bring my knees under me, tried to get off the floor. Another mistake. Should have just lain still. Ramon kicked me hard in the ass, sent me to the floor on my face. I knew it was Ramon because I could see Tyrell’s feet.
Seconds later Ramon was holding my shoulders down. He could have left them alone. I couldn’t have gotten up anyway. But he probably enjoyed that. Had I looked up I probably would have seen that smirk on his face—so like Rob’s—but I didn’t. I had already started to shut off. There was no question in my mind what was coming next. “Who the **** do you think you are?” The words echoed in my head, but they weren’t from Tyrell or from Ramon. They were from an earlier time.
“Now I ain’t gonna be so nice, *****!” Tyrell was pulling my jeans down, pulling them all the way off. “Damn! You got one fine white ass, *****! You coulda had my fine black **** take good care of that ass.” He shoved my legs apart. I moved a little and was rewarded by Ramon’s shoving my face against the floor. “Now I ain’t gonna be so nice.” He shoved that fine black **** in my ass. Shoved it hard. I winced and bit my tongue. No way I was going to cry out. No way I was going to give him that satisfaction. Wasn’t much I could do to stop him, but I wasn’t going to give him that.
I shut off completely. I could feel Tyrell ****ing me. He ****ed me hard. I heard his voice, heard the hatred in it. But I didn’t hear his words. But I heard that clock ticking. Heard it ticking like a hammer pounding. I felt him get off me when he was done. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding. I wasn’t dead. I wasn’t unconscious. And he was done.
Then it was Ramon’s turn. He didn’t say anything. Never heard his voice once. He just shoved my face down against the floor—just hard enough to make my head spin—in case I had any thoughts of trying to get up. But Tyrell wasn’t going to let that happen anyway. He put his foot on the back of my neck and forced my face against the floor. And I knew he could have just stepped a little harder and snapped my neck. And I knew he knew that also.
Ramon was ****ing me when Papa Doc came in. “What the **** you boys doing?” His voice wasn’t loud, wasn’t angry. But Ramon sprang up like he had been picked up. Tyrell took his foot off the back of my neck and I heard him start to explain to Papa Doc.
“This ***** come early, Papa Doc. He say he wanna score some **** for hisself but didn’t wanna take care of Papa Doc this time.”
“That’s right, Papa Doc. And when we told him you wasn’t here he started beggin’ us for some ****.” Ramon jumped in. “We told him he had to wait for you, Papa Doc, but he started to get crazy, man. Started to pull down Tyrell’s pants, tried to suck his ****. Kept sayin’ he didn’t want to wait for Papa Doc.”
“Yeah, Papa Doc. And what I gonna do, this boy suckin’ my ****? He one fine piece of white ass, Papa Doc. But then he change his mind. He just wanted to go. Told him Papa Doc was expectin’ him. Told him he didn’t wanna disappoint Papa Doc.” Tyrell was doing a fine job.
“And he said he didn’t give a **** about Papa Doc.” Ramon put in.
“That’s when I figure he need a lesson. So I give him one. And then Ramon give him one, too.” Tyrell was convincing as hell.
I hadn’t raised my head, hadn’t looked up. Didn’t want to see what I knew was going to come. Papa Doc came over to me and reached down and picked me up by the back of my collar. When my feet touched the floor, turned me around, held the front of my shirt with his left hand and backhanded me across the face with his right. “That true, boy? You trying to get in and out before taking care of your Papa Doc?”
I shook my head. It swam.
“Now who am I gonna believe, boy? Over here I got my boys.” He looked at Tyrell and Ramon. “They MY boys. I trust them with my business. I trust them with my life.” He switched hands and backhanded me with his left hand. “Here in front of me I got a pretty piece of white ass that would **** his own mother for a hit of ****. Now who you think I gonna believe?” He dragged me over to the couch and shoved me against it. “Hasn’t Papa Doc always taken care of you, boy? Hasn’t Papa Doc always given you what you want? And all Papa Doc ever ask for in return is a piece of your tight little white ass.” I could hear the zipper on his pants.
“Who you think you are, boy?” He shoved his **** in my ass. I cried out in spite of myself. Papa Doc could hurt like no one could hurt. “You ain’t nothin’, boy.” He pulled out and slammed his **** in me again. I cried out again. “Papa Doc don’t give a **** about you.” He pulled out of me again. I bit my lip hard. I didn’t want to cry out again, didn’t want to give him that. He slammed into me again and kept doing it over and over and over. I wanted to shut off, but that switch seemed stuck on. I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t get inside myself.
When he was done, he threw me to the floor. “You ain’t nothin’ to no one, boy. Ain’t no one give a **** about you.” Someone, no clue who, threw the usual package at me. “Now get your ass outa here before Papa Doc forgets how good you give head and shoots your white ass.”
I managed to get to my feet and get my pants back on. No clue how I managed that. I felt like I had been run over by a truck. I picked up the package and stumbled toward the door.
“You tell Da-bo next week I want a hundred more for the same ****. You piss Papa Doc off, boy. Don’t know how long it’s gonna be before Papa Doc gonna feel right again.”
My stomach clenched, sending a wave of nausea through me. As I got into my car, as I started driving back to Dale’s, I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that the best part of my day was over—and the worst was yet to come. I was so right.
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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12/18/2003, 3:42 am
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Dale was waiting for me at the door. I could barely manage getting out of the car. Every inch of my body hurt and I was feeling sick, like I was going to puke at any minute. The sick was the withdrawal, the rest was courtesy of Tyrell, Ramon and Papa Doc. And I needed a hit so badly. I knew the hit would help. Would take away everything-—he pain, the words, everything. But I took one look at Dale’s face and just knew nothing was going to go away.
Dale didn’t give me a chance to speak. I set the package down on the kitchen table and as I turned, Dale’s fist connected with my face. “Who the **** do you think you are?” He hit me again, sent me back against the counter. “I got a call from Papa Doc. Told me you ****ed up. Told me he wanted $100 more for the same **** next time.” He punched me hard in the stomach. I felt the contents of my stomach come up. Dale backed away in disgust. “Who the **** do you think you are? All the **** I’ve done for you and you **** with Papa Doc?”
I looked up at him, met his gaze straight on. “You haven’t done **** for me Dale. Anything you’ve ever done, you did for yourself. I don’t mean a *******ed thing to you.” I choked the words out, the vomit still threatening to rise in my throat. And I knew as I spoke the words that Dale was going to beat the **** out of me. But I didn’t care. I was already hurting so bad it couldn’t hurt worse. And I just didn’t care.
“Your damned right I don’t give a **** about you. You aren’t **** to me. You think I keep you around because I give a ****?” He grabbed my arm and flung me against the kitchen table. I felt my shoulder pop. “I keep you around because Papa Doc likes to **** you and that’s part of the deal. He ****s you and I get the good ****. I can cut that **** twice and still keep my customers coming back for more.”
He stood over me. I looked up at him. I expected to see rage, hatred. But instead I saw indifference.
“You think I give a **** about your ass? Oh, you give great head, I’ll give you that, better than any ***** I’ve ever had. And you have a nice tight ass and you take it as hard as I can give it. But ****, I’ll **** anything if I’m horny enough. **** you, **** Rob, **** a *******ed sheep. No ****ing difference between you and a sheep anyway, except the *******ed sheep wouldn’t be so ****ing needy.” He kicked me hard and turned away.
“But I’ve made a ton of money off your ass, Luc. Best whore I ever had. Better even than Chris. And the nice thing about you, Luc, is that all I gotta do is give you a hit, look at you with my big blue eyes and say I’m sorry and you’ll just bend down and suck my **** and wag your tail and beg for more.”
He turned back and looked down at me, at the blood on the counter, at the blood on the table, at the vomit on the floor, at the blood on my face. “Clean up your ****ing mess and stay out of my sight for a while. I have to cut this **** and make me some more money. You want a hit, you clean yourself up first. You look like ****ing ****. Wouldn’t even let you suck my **** looking like that.” He grabbed the package and left the kitchen.
I just turned and walked out. Left the mess on the counter, left the mess on the table, left the mess on the floor and walked out. I got in my car and tried to put the key in the ignition. My hand was shaking so badly. I tried to reach it with my left hand, to steady it, but I couldn’t move it in that direction. I put my head down on the steering wheel and felt it swim. But I had to get away. I had to get away from Dale. Oh, I knew I would come back. Dale was right about that. I would come back, my tail between my legs, begging him for a hit. But right now, I just needed to get away. I tried again to get the key in the ignition. After a few tries I managed.
It wasn’t far to our apartment, Mark’s and mine. And that was good, because my left arm was nearly useless. I had probably dislocated my shoulder when I fell. That was probably the pop I had heard. I saw Mark’s truck in the driveway when I got there and my stomach flipped. I had hoped he wouldn’t be home. I pulled in behind him and turned the key off. I went to open the door and realized I couldn’t. I couldn’t move my left arm far enough forward to grasp the handle. And I couldn’t reach across to do it with my right hand because I hurt so badly I couldn’t turn in that direction without my head swimming.
I don’t know how long I sat there. I was nearly 24 hours without a hit and that was starting to break through the pain from the beatings. I felt sick. So very sick. And every word Papa Doc had said, every word Dale had said—they kept bouncing through my head, banging off the walls of my skull. I knew every word they had said was true. No one gave a **** about me. Why the hell would anyone give a **** about me? Who the **** did I think I was? I was nothing. Those words had been true when I was 16, and they were just as true now. And they would always be true. I would always be nothing.
The door of my car opened and I looked up.
“Jesus ****ing Christ!” Mark’s face went white as he looked at me. He practically lifted me out of the car. I could barely stand. He all but carried me into the apartment. He sat me down on the couch.
“Did Dale ****ing do this to you?” I heard something in his voice I had only heard once before, a long time ago, when I was 16.
I nodded.
“Luc, I can’t take any more of this ****. I can’t let this go on.” He turned and went into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” I called out to him. My voice sounded hoarse, cracked.
He came back in with the phone. “I’m calling Roger.”
I panicked. Roger was Mark’s cousin. Roger was a State Trooper. “What the **** are you doing that for?” I tried to get up but couldn’t.
Mark turned away. “Luc, I gotta get you out of this. I don’t care how. I’d rather see your ass in jail than see you like this.”
“****ing Christ, Mark! I thought you were my ****ing friend.” I kept trying to get up, but the more I did, the more I hurt, the more I felt like I was going to either puke or pass out.
“I am your ****ing friend, Luc!” He still didn’t look at me. “That’s why I gotta do this. I know you’re running for him, Luc. I figured that out that first day. I know you don’t have any job. It’s a ****ing small town, Luc.” He turned to look at me at last. I saw his eyes were bright, like there were tears in them. “And I know you’re a clumsy bastard, but even YOU can’t trip over your own feet enough to explain all the bruises, the cuts and the broken noses.” He looked at my face, cringed and turned away. “And he did this to you this time. What’s he going to do to you next time, Luc? Or the next time after that?”
He started punching the numbers.
“Mark, please. Man, I don’t want to go to jail! Please, just forget it. I won’t go back to him. I’ll stay here. Please, Mark!”
He went into the kitchen and I could hear him talking, hear him asking for Roger, hear him asking Roger to come over—NOW.
“Mark, you ****ing son of a *****! You are no better than Dale! You don’t give a **** about me either. You are WORSE than ****ing Dale. At least Dale doesn’t pretend to give a **** about me.” I could hear him hang up the phone.
“And you once said you loved me, you ****ing prick.”
“I do love you, Luc. Christ, don’t you see that’s why I’m doing this? I told you I would always be there for you when you needed me. You need me now, Luc, even if you are too ****ed up to see it!”
“Always be there when I needed you? You have never been there when I needed you. You weren’t there when Paul left, you weren’t there when your friends ****ing raped me—“ I stopped realizing what I had just said—shocked at what I had just said. I looked up at Mark and saw that my words had hit him square in the chest. He looked stricken. That was the only word I could think of that fit that expression. Stricken.
Mark turned and walked out the door. Didn’t even grab his jacket, just went to the door, opened it and went outside. I could see him just standing there on the front porch. I leaned back against the cushions of the couch. I wanted to die. At that moment I knew I just wanted to die. And it wasn’t the pain in my body, nor the withdrawal that had now completely broken through the pain. It was the look in Mark’s eyes when I had said that last thing to him.
I just sat there staring out the window, staring at Mark standing there on the porch. His back was to me and I was glad of that. I didn’t think I could stand to ever look at his face again. It seemed forever before Roger arrived. I had met him before, at Mark’s parents’ house, at one of the holidays. He looked a bit like Mark only older. I heard him talking to Mark, but didn’t hear what they were saying. Then he came through the door, another Trooper followed him. He gestured toward my bedroom and the other Trooper went into my room. I knew what he was looking for. And I knew Mark had told him where to find it.
You can be arrested for possessing drug paraphernalia. You don’t have to actually have any drugs in your possession—just have to have the paraphernalia associated with them. Mark knew that. Why wouldn’t he know that? He was related to half the ****ing cops in the county. Roger helped me to my feet. He was really careful when he put the cuffs on me. Could probably see my shoulder was dislocated. He could probably also see that I wasn’t going to put up a fight. He read me my rights as he led me through the door and out to the police car.
As we passed Mark, I heard him say, “I’m sorry, Luc. I’m so sorry.”
And I could tell by the sound of his voice he didn’t mean for having me arrested.
Last edited by wanderingsoul, 8/22/2004, 3:41 am
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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12/18/2003, 3:43 am
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I leaned back against the backseat of the police car. My head was pounding and I couldn’t make up my mind whether I was going to pass out or puke. I closed my eyes, hoping it was pass out. I really wanted to escape my head, wanted that blackness. But my head spun and I kept seeing Mark’s eyes, bright, wet, tears in them but not falling. I had put those tears there. And I watched them change, watched them go from concern and sorrow to shock and guilt. I groaned a little, my stomach twisting. And then I heard my own voice saying, “You are no better than Dale… You are WORSE than ****ing Dale!” And I watched those eyes change again, watched them change from Mark’s baby blue eyes into Dale’s turquoise ones. No! He was NOTHING like Dale! I opened my eyes with a start, wanting to shut that image right down--and my head swam and my stomach lurched.
“****, man, I’m going to puke.” I groaned the words, hoping like hell that they would stop the car, open a window or something. I really didn’t want to puke on myself.
“****!” Roger’s partner exclaimed and quickly pulled the car over, turning the wheel so sharply that I hit my head on the window. That didn’t help. Roger got out and opened the door just in time. I leaned out, nearly fell out really. Roger grabbed the back of my collar to keep me from falling face first onto the pavement as I puked my guts out.
I could hear Roger’s partner going on about ****ing drug addicts puking all over his car, but I didn’t really care. Roger pushed me gently back inside the car and I winced as he shined his flashlight in my eyes. “Boy, whoever hit you did one hell of a job. My guess is you have a concussion on top of everything else.” I looked at him through squinting eyes. I could see him shaking his head. “You’re going to be in for one hell of a bad ride down.”
“Christ, Rog, let’s get this kid to county before he pukes all over the seat!” Roger’s partner was impatient. I didn’t hear what Roger said to him. I had already passed out.
**
I came to in the infirmary of the county jail as the doctor was popping my shoulder back in. It hurt a hell of a lot more going back in than it had when it had been dislocated. I let out a yell and was immediately rewarded by being restrained by two enormous deputies. Don’t know what they expected me to do. I wasn’t in any condition to put up much of a fight. But I suspect they encountered all manner of violent drug addicts on a daily basis. There was no reason for them to suspect that I would be any different. And I am sure I looked the part. I could hardly see out of my one eye—it was pretty much swollen shut. And I knew my nose was broken, again. I had no illusions. I looked like I had been in one hell of a fight. Some fight.
Roger had said it looked like I had a concussion. The doctor confirmed that I did. That, and the cracked ribs, got me a stay in the relative comfort of the infirmary for the night. It didn’t get me out of the traditional strip search and all of the other welcoming procedures that accompany a stay in jail.
All things considered, I guess the enormous deputies were a good idea on their part. I was one mass of pain, but that pain was accompanied by one hell of a bad attitude. I was in withdrawal—which was bad enough physically. But with me, the physical effects of withdrawal—which I had been experiencing on a weekly basis lately—were NOTHING compared to the emotional effects. My anxiety level was rising off the charts and I had this overwhelming sense of something lurking just at the edges of my consciousness, something dark and all encompassing, ready to swallow me up like a black hole. If I had to label that feeling, I would call it despair. Nothing was ever going to be good. My life was over from this point on. And it was what I deserved. I was no one. “Who the **** do you think you are?” Kept hearing that over and over in my head. And the answer kept being “No one.” And I had brought it all on myself.
I wasn’t exactly cooperative. I had been a good little druggie at the apartment, going quietly without a struggle. But I had just hurt my best friend—deeply—and the shock of my own words had numbed me, deadened me. I had just wanted to die. I wouldn’t have cared if they had been leading me to the electric chair. And part of that was probably still in my head—not the numb part, but the wanting to die. I didn’t give a ****. I refused to answer questions. I even took a swing at one of the deputies and tried to run. That just got me pinned to the floor and the cuffs back on me—behind my back this time, which made my shoulder hurt like hell. It also got me charged with resisting arrest and attempted escape.
And the real hell of it all was that I knew there was no way out of what I was feeling. There was no hit to look forward to. I had always been able to endure withdrawal, had done so on a weekly basis when Dale was being a ****—because I knew that if I just waited long enough, I would get a hit and within minutes it would all be better. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I reasoned that if I didn’t die from the physical withdrawal—which I suspected I wouldn’t—I would eventually stop feeling like walking ****. But everything in my head was only going to get worse. I knew that. Couldn’t reason myself out of that tunnel. Couldn’t see any light at the end of it.
I got my one phone call. Got Dale’s machine. I didn’t think about why I called him. I really didn’t expect him to help me. What could he have done? Well, I suppose he could have afforded to bail me out. But really, considering the business he was in, it wasn’t likely he would voluntarily walk into a police station or a jail. Too much chance of not walking out. And maybe what I was really doing was warning him, giving him a chance to get out before they found a legitimate reason to search his apartment. I figured Mark had told them what he knew about Dale. And really, that wasn’t much. Even I didn’t know Dale’s last name. I know that sounds incredible, but I never asked; he never said. And by the time the thought even occurred to me to wonder, I had learned not to ask questions.
So I called him. Left him a message on his machine. Told him I was in jail. I didn’t ask him to come. I knew he wouldn’t. And it really didn’t matter much anyway. The judge denied bail. I was considered a flight risk. He was right. I would have run.
**
A jail cell is no place to go through withdrawal. There is nowhere to go, no place to hide, no place to run to. When I wasn’t lying on the bed shaking and sweating and feeling like my insides were about to become outsides, I was pacing. I felt like a caged animal. Acted like one a few times, as well. I remember throwing myself against the bars, just screaming for someone to just ****ing shoot me and get it over with. I wished they would. God, how I wished they would! I remember thinking that if I could I just get loose for one minute, if I made a grab at the guard’s gun, or if I ran for it, maybe—just maybe the guard would shoot me. And if I were threatening enough, maybe he would shoot to kill.
The court appointed lawyer wasn’t much help. I see that now, looking back. Really, possession of drug paraphernalia wasn’t that serious a charge. That alone, while it may be reasonable cause for arrest, is—I believe—no longer even considered a chargeable offense in New York. Of course, I did give them resisting arrest and attempted escape. But any decent lawyer could have gotten me off with probation at worst. But I wasn’t seeing things clearly. And I knew that I was much deeper into things than just possessing the paraphernalia. Well, they knew that also. The piss test I had the day they brought me in tested positive for heroin. So they knew I was using—if they had needed any confirmation of the obvious. But I knew that Mark must have told Roger that I was running for Dale. And really, that was why they held me. Not because of the paraphernalia charge—that was the smoke, what went on the papers. What they really wanted was information on Dale—and, more importantly, Dale’s supplier. They wanted enough information from me to bust one or the other of them. Breaking up “major drug rings” always looks good on records. I wasn’t sure at the time how “major” it actually was. I suspect now it was decent sized if not “major.” Dale was probably pretty small time, actually. But Papa Doc was gang connected, and was in a different county than Dale’s area of operation. So that alone tells me that he must have had a decent sized business if it spilled into two counties. But in any case, the prospect of a “major drug bust” was a carrot dangling in front of someone’s eyes.
But I refused to talk.
Last edited by wanderingsoul, 8/22/2004, 3:49 am
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And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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12/24/2003, 3:52 am
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