One day in the late 1990’s…
Early morning. It has been a broken night; I have not managed much sleep. The night has been victim of my own poor sleep patterns, my unusual work hours, and my addiction. Time after time I awaken to the bright red digits on my alarm clock, their early morning numbers unblinkingly taunting my sleepless mind. The digits change from minute to minute, but the underlying message remained constant: You’re wasting your life. With every injection of H, you dig your own grave, woman. Every taste, such a waste. This is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time…
I blink, sigh, and wish myself back to sleep. Wish in one hand, and shit in the other… which one fills first? The voice in my head will not go away; in fact, it grows loudest in the early morning hours, when the world is asleep and all is quiet. Peace? Not bloody likely.
Somehow I manage an hour and a half of sleep. When I open my eyes again, the sun is streaming through the window; the world outside is awake and moving. My stomach sinks, as it does every morning. Rise and shine? Hardly. Well, rise and dial… dial the number that will bring me what I need…
The number is hardwired into my mind, I have called it so many times before. The call connects; a female voice answers flatly. “Yeah.” “Hi, it’s me… You around?” The voice on the other end answers in the affirmative, and my heart leaps with hope. “Please drop by, I need to see you for five minutes,” I say to her - my dealer. She knows what I mean. She assures me she’ll be there within the hour, and hangs up.
Waiting. Waiting. A junky spends a good part of his or her life waiting. With so much practice, you’d think it would get easier – it doesn’t. I manage to fill the time, much as I fill the countless spaces in my life like this one, somehow… somehow idling the time away, marking time until the important stuff happens. As always. The important stuff? Nothing more than the next score, the next hit. This is what my life has boiled down to. Waiting.
Forty-five minutes later, there is a knock on my door. Oh, early for once, I think, as I open the door with a smile and a nod. “Come in,” I say, as my dealer mumbles her greeting. I murmur something in return, but even as I go through the motions of politeness, all I can think of is H, Harry, Hammer, Skag, Smack… the H… come on, give us the HEROIN already dammit…
The deal is quickly done; money traded for a packet of white powder. Once upon a time, not so long ago, this very dealer used to comment on how I would continue chatting to her after our transaction, blithely ignoring the precious gear in my hands. No longer. Today, I am mixing up my packet of dope even as I smile and listen to my dealer’s bitching about the crosstown traffic. I am tapping up a vein on the inside of my arm, as she says, “I’ll let myself out. You be careful, now. That stuff’s good.” Good stuff? Excellent, I think. “Okay, see you later,” I call out distractedly, my eyes on the prize… the blue vein pulsing beneath my fingertips, the syringe full of heroin in my other hand.
Footsteps across the floor, the door opens then closes behind her. I am alone again (S. is at work; I’ve put his taste aside for later.) I take a deep breath, aim the syringe, then slide the needle into my vein, draw back the flower of blood which tells me I’ve hit the spot.
I press the precious liquid home, and sigh. The drug quickly rushes through my system; I feel ready to face the world again.
This is my daily routine. This is my life, measured out in coffee spoons (and orange-capped syringe and needle sets). T.S. Elliot surely never envisaged such a life… the junkylife.
The internal voice - that nagging alter-ego which haunts my early-morning, dopesick hours - is silenced momentarily, mercifully, under the blanket of opiates coursing through my body. I savour the brief rush, then go about the motions of getting ready for work.
Another day, another dollar, another taste. Another nail in your coffin, woman. The infernal treadmill…
