It’s the year 2000 or thereabouts, I think…
South Brisbane, 3am. My eyes flicker open even before the alarm commands me to rise; it is payday, and the cash will have just hit my account. To be certain, I check my phone bank. “Your balance is…” YES! It’s there! I think to myself, smile, and hang up. I punch in the numbers of my next call from memory; long-practised habit means my fingers know the number better than my mind does. This is a good thing, as my mind is not at its sharpest first thing in the morning.
“Steve? Yeah, it’s me. Can I come see you?”
He answers in the affirmative, I thank him briefly and hang up. I throw some clothes on in the dark; S. is still asleep, catching a last forty-five minutes or so of shuteye before he must rise and start showering and getting ready for his five-thirty a.m. start at the meat packing plant.
This hour between three and four a.m. is a strangely silent time, even in the semi-industrial inner suburb we live in. The door of our run-down flat makes a loud screech, then a thud, in the dark, as I open it, slip through, and close it behind me. The wintry air hits my skin like a grandmother’s kiss, and I shudder, but the briskness stirs me awake. I tiptoe down the stairs, across the tiny front yard, and silently slip across the road to the ATM. The yellow-and-black sign is literally a beacon in the darkness.
The only sounds are the distant whooshing of cars and the digital sounds of the ATM as I punch in my keycode. Another number my fingers know better than I do… and then the whirring sound as the machine gives me my cash. “Sweet,” I whisper to no-one but myself, and slide the yellow, black and red polymer notes into my wallet.
Steve is the only dealer I know who keeps weirder hours than myself. This can be an advantage, given that I work swing shifts in factories across Brisbane, and I never have any set routine. Neither does he. Sometimes this makes for frustrating waits of hours, but more often, our schedules somehow mesh and…
(This serendipity is helped by the fact that I’ve managed to keep my car on the road. Ancient, decrepit, my 1972 Toyota Corona has more miles on her than I myself do - which is saying something - but somehow, year after year, I keep her going. Not many twenty-eight-year-0lds are still driving their first car, I reflect with equal parts satisfaction and shame - satisfaction because, well, so many drivers I knew were careless and couldn’t hope to keep hold of one car for five years, let alone ten; shame because… Well, I knew I’d have been able to buy a new car several times over with what I’d put up my arm - and S’s - in the past five years alone. Oh well.)
I slip my car keys out of my pocket and open the Toyota’s door. Condensation dripped down the inside of the passenger side window - I grimaced - (people who wouldn’t wind up the window properly! Eeesh!) but thankfully, I managed to start her first time. Steve moved around, and today he was across town, in New Farm.
The drive was a quiet one. Hardly anyone was out this early, and I blew across the Story Bridge in no time. Ten minutes later, I was cruising up the Brunswick Street hill past the sign that read: NEW FARM. My eyes scanned the cross streets for a phonebox (this wasn’t my part of town, and besides, I was now in that anticipatory state of nerves that one often got, just before a score…) There’s one, my mind registered. Please, let it not be broken…
It wasn’t broken. I slipped my forty cents into the slot and dialled Steve’s mobile. He answered in three rings, surprisingly awake for this time of the morning. He gave me a cross street and told me to meet him there in two minutes. I spoke my assent, silently hoping he’d be on time. When we both hung up, I hopped back into the car, and drove the short distance.
Two minutes later… three… There! my stomach leapt at the sight of him, and I smiled. He jumped into the passenger side of the Toyota.
“Just drive up the street a little,” he instructed me. “Have you got a cigarette?”
I pushed the pack toward him. It was empty, save for my cash - and one cigarette. He lit the cigarette, while exchanging the cash for a small packet of dope. “Not bad stuff, this.”
“Uh-huh,” I nodded, thinking That means it’s not cut until you can’t feel the dope for whatever other shit’s in there, anyway. Yeah, yeah. Steve rambled on some more, until he pointed out where to drop him. I was happy enough to comply - after all, I’d just scored, and I had a ten-minute drive back to my house. (Back in those days, shooting up in my car would never have occurred to me. Damned if I know why.)
The trip home is all the more sweeter, with the gear stashed and the anticipation of the morning’s shot to come… I smile as I pull up outside our flats, and notice a light on inside. S. would have the spoon ready, the syringes loaded, for sure. Pausing to lock the Toyota, I spring up the stairs. Before I can even turn the key in the lock, S. has the door open. I grin at his sleepy face.
“Hi honey, I’m home.” He opens the door and I slip past him, through our tiny living-room, into the bedroom. Sure enough, the table is set with a spoon, syringe full of water, and all the other paraphernalia we need, leaving me with only the mixing up itself to do. I immediately set to it, opening our precious parcel and tipping it into the spoon.
Two minutes later, I have two syringes ready to go. I hand one to S., who nods, then turns away to his task. I do the same.
Luckily, my veins are co-operating this week. Bang, there we are. Done. The glow spreads through me, and I slump across the bed. Damn, I love this moment.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I whisper.
