Independence: March 1998
Lou isn’t speaking to me anymore, not since he found out I am seeing CR. And Sofia is out of town, and I need a fix. I’m in trouble.
I’ve been an addict for three years, nearly, and in all that time I’ve never once had to score for myself. JP had always done it, or Lou, or Sofia; it was a well-considered plan that took into account simple economic realities. Lou and Sofia already had criminal records, and between JP and I, I was the one who made more money. If I got caught I would lose my job; therefore, it had been decided early on that I would be protected at all costs, for the good of everyone.
Which had been fine, when JP had been around, or Lou, or Sofia; now, however, I am sick and alone, and there is no one to make the buy….no one except me.
I drive to the West Side, past some of the spots we’ve used before. Most of them are closed now; Drake and Iowa is gone, and no one is calling out blows along Chicago Avenue . I finally find something going on at Ferdinand and Harding, a spot where Lou and I had once gotten a fix a few months before.
“Park,” they tell me, and so I do; I cut off the engine and wait, feeling absolutely naked and obvious.
The narrow street seems perfect for dope deals, but it makes me nervous. Harding runs up against the railroad embankment, a nearly-dead end street except for an alley in the back that connects it to Springfield, one street to the east. It’s half an escape route, half a trap; a police cruiser could easily conceal itself behind one of the garages that front on that alley.
Apparently that thought has never occurred to the workers, or else they’ve decided it doesn’t matter; as I sit there, six or seven other cars, and a few pedestrians, come into the street on the same mission I’m on. It takes a few minutes, but I get what I came for and speed away in triumph.
I go back to that spot every day. The dope is good, and I get used to the rhythms of the spot itself; I learn to tell when something is going on, a bad deal or rumors of police.
I am sitting waiting one day, the engine shut off as always, when a tap at my passenger window makes me jump.
“Jesus!” I yell. “God, you scared me.”
The white girl smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, “ she says, passing me three bags and taking a twenty and a ten from me. “RayRay told me to bring these over.” She gestures to a house fronting on Ferdinand. “I live over there. I’ve seen you out here a few times…I’m Paula.”
“Gladys,” I say. “You LIVE here?”
“Yeah, me and RayRay. You can come in, if you want…”
“Actually, I gotta go right now, but I’ll be back tomorrow…Which house?”
“That white one. Come around to the back door and up the stairs,” she says.
The next day I stop at the spot and walk up the stairs, my three bags under my tongue in case I get stopped. I walk in the door and spit the bags into my hand.“You guys get high?” I ask Paula.
“Oh, yeah. RayRay works the spot at night, and they give him a bag or two when he’s finished. We both do it.” She pauses, looking at the backs of my hands. “You toot or shoot?” she asks, even though the answer is pretty obvious.
“Shoot,” I tell her.
“Damn,” she says. “You’re the only one I know who shoots it.”
I pull out an old glasses case, with my works concealed inside. “Mind if I do it here?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, and hands me a lighter.
I calmly shoot myself up, and Paula, RayRay, their roommate James, and a couple of crackheads watch me as the shot hits my blood.
I’ve been an addict for three years, nearly, and in all that time I’ve never once had to score for myself. JP had always done it, or Lou, or Sofia; it was a well-considered plan that took into account simple economic realities. Lou and Sofia already had criminal records, and between JP and I, I was the one who made more money. If I got caught I would lose my job; therefore, it had been decided early on that I would be protected at all costs, for the good of everyone.
Which had been fine, when JP had been around, or Lou, or Sofia; now, however, I am sick and alone, and there is no one to make the buy….no one except me.
I drive to the West Side, past some of the spots we’ve used before. Most of them are closed now; Drake and Iowa is gone, and no one is calling out blows along Chicago Avenue . I finally find something going on at Ferdinand and Harding, a spot where Lou and I had once gotten a fix a few months before.
“Park,” they tell me, and so I do; I cut off the engine and wait, feeling absolutely naked and obvious.
The narrow street seems perfect for dope deals, but it makes me nervous. Harding runs up against the railroad embankment, a nearly-dead end street except for an alley in the back that connects it to Springfield, one street to the east. It’s half an escape route, half a trap; a police cruiser could easily conceal itself behind one of the garages that front on that alley.
Apparently that thought has never occurred to the workers, or else they’ve decided it doesn’t matter; as I sit there, six or seven other cars, and a few pedestrians, come into the street on the same mission I’m on. It takes a few minutes, but I get what I came for and speed away in triumph.
I go back to that spot every day. The dope is good, and I get used to the rhythms of the spot itself; I learn to tell when something is going on, a bad deal or rumors of police.
I am sitting waiting one day, the engine shut off as always, when a tap at my passenger window makes me jump.
“Jesus!” I yell. “God, you scared me.”
The white girl smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, “ she says, passing me three bags and taking a twenty and a ten from me. “RayRay told me to bring these over.” She gestures to a house fronting on Ferdinand. “I live over there. I’ve seen you out here a few times…I’m Paula.”
“Gladys,” I say. “You LIVE here?”
“Yeah, me and RayRay. You can come in, if you want…”
“Actually, I gotta go right now, but I’ll be back tomorrow…Which house?”
“That white one. Come around to the back door and up the stairs,” she says.
The next day I stop at the spot and walk up the stairs, my three bags under my tongue in case I get stopped. I walk in the door and spit the bags into my hand.“You guys get high?” I ask Paula.
“Oh, yeah. RayRay works the spot at night, and they give him a bag or two when he’s finished. We both do it.” She pauses, looking at the backs of my hands. “You toot or shoot?” she asks, even though the answer is pretty obvious.
“Shoot,” I tell her.
“Damn,” she says. “You’re the only one I know who shoots it.”
I pull out an old glasses case, with my works concealed inside. “Mind if I do it here?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, and hands me a lighter.
I calmly shoot myself up, and Paula, RayRay, their roommate James, and a couple of crackheads watch me as the shot hits my blood.
posted by GJC at 12:21 AM
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