Silver Van--August 1995
The silver van stops on Wood and Division on Friday mornings.
We have timed our existence to the movements of the silver van. If we miss the Friday stop at Wood and Division, the next time we can turn in our needles is on Tuesday at the Humboldt Park stop. That leaves us a whole four days with no new needles, and those points go dull so fast.
So on Friday mornings we burst out the door, JP and Lou and I, and bound down Division Street four blocks to Wood. New needles are a bright spot in our routine, and so we are animated, laughing, teasing each other.
The syringes come in bags of ten, their tips sheathed in little orange caps. On the orange cap, as well as the white plastic shield over the other end, there is a burn-mark, a melted plastic indentation that shows the cap has never been removed. This is how you are supposed to know that you’re getting a new needle. We had, once or twice, bought needles off the street, and even though the burn-mark was there, we were still not taking any chances—each of those needles got a twenty-minute bath in pure Clorox. Within the confines of possibility, we are careful in our way. Each of us has their own set of works and their own separate storage place. Even JP and I, who have been fucking without protection for over a year now—since day one—still keep our works separate.
God, Lou says on the way. If I poked myself one more time with these dull-ass needles…
JP and I both nod; we know exactly what he’s talking about. Use Just Once And Destroy--so says the needle barrel and so said Kurt Cobain, and both of them had a point. The needles we are exchanging are so dull that some of them have burrs at the tip where the infinitesimally thin point of the metal has bent over. Where a fresh needle slides into the flesh and the vein, these needles tear and burrow, and it’s often impossible to get a clear shot.
We each have cards that say we are allowed to carry syringes, that we are participants in a harm-reduction program and we are legally allowed to have our works with us. Without this card, if we were stopped on the way to or from the silver van we could be charged with possession of paraphernalia. But now we’re safe. The card says. We know that if we ever are stopped, that story will not sit well. The Chicago Police have little patience with social-working hippy-dippy pro-drug harm reductionists, and outside the silver van we have heard stories that prove the point. Then again, the Chicago police have even less patience with Wicker Park junkies, particularly over on the West Side.
Each in turn, we walk up the steps of the van, show the little yellow card with our code on it.
“How many?”
“Fifty-seven,” I tell her.
“That will get you a hundred and fourteen,” she says.
Anything under ten or twenty they’ll count as we place them into the sharps container; however, when we’re turning in about fifty or sixty needles apiece, they just tell us to shove in the whole bag and wave us through to the next station.
The exchange rate is two fresh needles for one used one; ten-to-one if you’re turning in less than ten. I take five sets of ten, even though I’m entitled to more; a hundred and fourteen needles seems like overkill, a number only an incorrigible hype would need. I move on to the back of the van and help myself to the accoutrements—alcohol pads, bleach and water in small bottles, little cotton bb’s to filter particles out of the heroin as I draw it into the syringe, metal caps to hold the heroin while it’s cooking. I leave the literature alone—the rehab pamphlets, the warnings of AIDS, the hours for hepatitis testing.
We halfway know some of the staff at the van, by sight if not by name, but we know none of the other clients. We don’t associate with others like us—we are different, more enlightened. We have our reasons for shooting heroin, and we know what they are. The others are just getting high.
I walk down the steps at the back of the van, my bag full of works in hand, and I wait around the corner for JP and Lou to finish. Back at home , sitting on the kitchen table, there are three bags of heroin we’ve bought earlier that morning, in anticipation of fresh works.
JP and Lou and I walk back to our apartment, each with a bag in hand, three good friends on a beautiful August day.
We have timed our existence to the movements of the silver van. If we miss the Friday stop at Wood and Division, the next time we can turn in our needles is on Tuesday at the Humboldt Park stop. That leaves us a whole four days with no new needles, and those points go dull so fast.
So on Friday mornings we burst out the door, JP and Lou and I, and bound down Division Street four blocks to Wood. New needles are a bright spot in our routine, and so we are animated, laughing, teasing each other.
The syringes come in bags of ten, their tips sheathed in little orange caps. On the orange cap, as well as the white plastic shield over the other end, there is a burn-mark, a melted plastic indentation that shows the cap has never been removed. This is how you are supposed to know that you’re getting a new needle. We had, once or twice, bought needles off the street, and even though the burn-mark was there, we were still not taking any chances—each of those needles got a twenty-minute bath in pure Clorox. Within the confines of possibility, we are careful in our way. Each of us has their own set of works and their own separate storage place. Even JP and I, who have been fucking without protection for over a year now—since day one—still keep our works separate.
God, Lou says on the way. If I poked myself one more time with these dull-ass needles…
JP and I both nod; we know exactly what he’s talking about. Use Just Once And Destroy--so says the needle barrel and so said Kurt Cobain, and both of them had a point. The needles we are exchanging are so dull that some of them have burrs at the tip where the infinitesimally thin point of the metal has bent over. Where a fresh needle slides into the flesh and the vein, these needles tear and burrow, and it’s often impossible to get a clear shot.
We each have cards that say we are allowed to carry syringes, that we are participants in a harm-reduction program and we are legally allowed to have our works with us. Without this card, if we were stopped on the way to or from the silver van we could be charged with possession of paraphernalia. But now we’re safe. The card says. We know that if we ever are stopped, that story will not sit well. The Chicago Police have little patience with social-working hippy-dippy pro-drug harm reductionists, and outside the silver van we have heard stories that prove the point. Then again, the Chicago police have even less patience with Wicker Park junkies, particularly over on the West Side.
Each in turn, we walk up the steps of the van, show the little yellow card with our code on it.
“How many?”
“Fifty-seven,” I tell her.
“That will get you a hundred and fourteen,” she says.
Anything under ten or twenty they’ll count as we place them into the sharps container; however, when we’re turning in about fifty or sixty needles apiece, they just tell us to shove in the whole bag and wave us through to the next station.
The exchange rate is two fresh needles for one used one; ten-to-one if you’re turning in less than ten. I take five sets of ten, even though I’m entitled to more; a hundred and fourteen needles seems like overkill, a number only an incorrigible hype would need. I move on to the back of the van and help myself to the accoutrements—alcohol pads, bleach and water in small bottles, little cotton bb’s to filter particles out of the heroin as I draw it into the syringe, metal caps to hold the heroin while it’s cooking. I leave the literature alone—the rehab pamphlets, the warnings of AIDS, the hours for hepatitis testing.
We halfway know some of the staff at the van, by sight if not by name, but we know none of the other clients. We don’t associate with others like us—we are different, more enlightened. We have our reasons for shooting heroin, and we know what they are. The others are just getting high.
I walk down the steps at the back of the van, my bag full of works in hand, and I wait around the corner for JP and Lou to finish. Back at home , sitting on the kitchen table, there are three bags of heroin we’ve bought earlier that morning, in anticipation of fresh works.
JP and Lou and I walk back to our apartment, each with a bag in hand, three good friends on a beautiful August day.
posted by GJC at 8:55 AM
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