Have you ever woken up in a cold panic? As your eyes scan the landscape, a rush of trepidation comes over you like a barreled wave. Crash. Where am I? You sit up quickly, prop yourself up on your elbows. What happened last night? The drum beat between your temples is almost deafening, and completely in-sync with the terror thump in your chest.
Narrowing tightness on inhalation. Breathe, kid. Sluggishly, I start to recognize my surroundings. To my right, a slightly snoring black haired handsome man. To my left, a vibrating purse, which is what I was desperately wanting. I didn’t need or desire to disturb Lou, so I proceeded with pinnacle caution. Cluttered, confused & discombobulated don’t even begin to describe my current state of mind. This girl? She was a mess, no doubt. I needed to quell the chaos overpowering my introspection.
In other words, I needed a fucking Xanax. Or three. Stat.
What time is it? Shit, what day is it? I didn’t have my watch, the basement was shaded dark, and my phone was blowing up in my purse. Desperate to deaden it I bent to my left as swift & silent as a Recon Marine, scooped it up by the handle and laid it discreetly in my lap. Thankfully, Lou hadn’t budged. He was out. Cold.
I fingered my phone and hit the FU button without even looking to see who I was dissing. My dome was dysphoric. I needed no noise & conversation deprivation. I couldn’t think so talking on the phone seemed detrimental right now. My brain was a whirling dervish of firing impulses. For whatever reason, piecing together the events of “last night” was causing some strict anxiety. Fishing around, I found the tin and breathed a sigh of relief. Muffling the sound with my blanket, I pulled the top off and pinched a bar between my fingers. From there, I rushed it right under my tongue. Unfortunately, the cottonmouth permeating my mucous membranes made dissolving my benzo beyond the bounds of possibility. Dehydration was in full-effect. Saliva was dried up, depleted. The xanax coated my lips and tongue in a chalky, arid adhesive. I reached around my bag as stealthy as I could and came up with a Deer Park water bottle, almost empty but with just enough moisture to dampen my mouth. Thank you, God!
In a glass stained around the brim with lipstick, and smudged with fingerprints sat the diluted remains of a 7 & 7, but it seemed hopelessly out of reach. Not exactly the hydration my body needed, but now wasn’t the time to become some health nut, especially after what I just put my body through. If I stretched it was possible that I could get a finger in the rim, from there I could drag it toward me across the coffee table.
My phone started vibrating in my bag. Frantically I plucked it out, muted it to prevent the vibration, and dismissed the caller. I tried to stuff it into the side of the pull-out couch, but there was something poking out that was preventing me from pushing the phone down. I reached into the darkened abyss and felt something wooden, like a yardstick. Once extracted I was pleasantly surprised, relieved really, to see that the yardstick was actually a back scratcher! You know, the long wooden ruler with curved “fingers” at the end of it. Exactly the tool needed to pull the glass of watered down booze towards me! Luck of the Irish? You bet! By now, I could feel the caking of the xanax on the corners of my mouth. It was imperative I end this drought, so I carefully placed the scratcher on the inner lip of the glass and pulled it to me, ever so quietly.
Bam! Once within arms reach I scooped that glass up and down the hatch it went. It was surprisingly delicious, and strong. Lou got heavy handed with the drinks last night, and this one was extra boozy. But, it was full, it was wet, and it got the job done. Now, I closed my eyes & waited.
My thoughts slowed down, and a peaceful calm came over me as I felt my heart rate slow up. There was no real reason to be harboring anxiety. I had come to terms with the decisions I made last night and the ones I’d probably make in the near future- wait? What the hell time was it, anyway? I pulled the phone from its hiding spot, ignored the 16 notifications that indicated I’d missed some calls and texts, hit a button and illuminated the time: 3:25pm. Saturday. I wasn’t surprised. I’m fairly certain we didn’t fall asleep until 7am this morning.
I was startled by a knock at the door, “City?” I packed up my bag, zipped it and opened the door. Lou looked like he’d been crying, puffy eyed and red faced. Instinctively, I hugged him, and we remained in the embrace for what felt like a long time.
Well, the truth is, I passed out while Lou hit the bathroom, mid-game. The evening caught up to me suddenly, not unexpectedly. I just could not keep my eyes open a second longer! For the record, the game ended without much fanfare. And, I was totally cool with that. There is obviously a sexual tension that exists – it’s harmless, it’s fun. We’re both single. We’d probably make a perfect couple, but this was more fun, less corporate. We are way too much alike – which we love, and we value our friendship and each other’s need for independence.
The basement has windows in the bathroom and I recall seeing the glow of a sunrise during my final tinkle before bed. I also recall hearing Carmen & Jaime leaving the house for work around that time. God bless them.
Speaking of tinkle, I had to go. I didn’t want to wake Lou, but I couldn’t hold it any longer.
My head was pounding. My anxiety, however, was diminishing by the minute. I wasn’t harboring misdeed transgressions. Yes, my conscience was a little bruised, but I knew that this was a one weekend only deal – I wasn’t taking crack or heroin home, and I definitely wouldn’t be seeking it out once I got there. Nobody would know, and I could chalk it up to youthful benightedness if my thoughts got out of hand. Luckily, Xanax had my back in that department.
I promised Lou we’d enjoy this weekend, and I had every intention of keeping my word. Last night we were living it up. No doubt about it.
It was way past the time to hit the ladies room. Despite dehydration, my bladder was full-on functional, so that was good news. I crept off the sofa bed, and tip-toed my way into the restroom.
Instead of the blaring overhead lights I opted for the luminescence of a late afternoon sun peeking through the window. There was no way I was looking into that mirror underneath blazing bulbs that would disesteem my run-down and ragged reflection. I was desperate for a refresh, and that stunner of a walk-in shower was trying to seduce me. Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to wash these sins away.
I had grabbed my clothes bag on my way in and started ruffling through its contents. Yoga pants and tank with a lightweight zip-up sounded perfect. I had a feeling we weren’t going anywhere, shit, I didn’t even know if Lou planned on waking up today. All good, I was down for whatever. As soon as I showered.
That damn phone started its dreadful noise making again. I just wasn’t feeling it. Technically, I was on vacation. Ignoring it proved futile as its strong vibrations were able to knock my bag to the floor, contents spilling out onto the cold, marbled tiles. Frustrated, I snatched it up and withdrew the urge to toss it into the shower. My makeup bag had emptied itself, as did my altoids tin. Shit! The steam was making it hard to find white pills on a white marble floor, but I got on my hands and knees and started gathering. While finishing the hunt my knee came down on what I figured was a xanax, but I was surprised to pluck two blue pills out of the indentations it made. Hmm, I hadn’t known I was holding any. I put them into the tin and closed the top, satisfied that I’d found all the scattered bars.
Instantly I felt this sensation in my stomach. A good feeling, butterfly-ish almost. Why? Because drugs make you feel better about everything, and I had a hankerin’ to get high. So, I crushed ‘em up and sucked ‘em up.
In that moment I didn’t quite understand the urge fully. Later in life I’d experienced the same nervous/joyful energy – butterflied stomach – it always happened after the call was made and the goods were on the way, or once you scraped up enough dough to make the call to get the bundle or the brick. When “Meek” or ‘insert name of dealer here’ texted “omw” and the enthusiasm countdown clicked off. Unfortunately, at the highest elevation of heroin addiction, the incitement was the enticement of knowing that sickness would end. And that cycle sucked. Straight-Up.
I wasn’t an addict at this point, and wasn’t even close to becoming one (believe it or not). That mess hit me towards the end of 2013, 10 years later.
I wanted a quick smoke before I hit the shower, so I fumbled around my bag to find my cigs. I grabbed the phone too, feeling more mentally fit to face the guilt of disregard. The tally was 17 missed calls, 8 VM, and 8 texts. No family emergencies, thankfully, just Ma reminding me about Thanksgiving and my pops making sure I arrived in Brooklyn safely. They weren’t enthusiastic about texting, so I’d give them both a shout. Moving on I read a text from Dre. He had sent 2, called twice. The court date for custody was upcoming, and I think he had a lot on his mind. Told me he missed me. Needed to talk. I texted him back, letting him know that as soon as I got back we’d brainstorm. I had a quick idea pop into my mind – and I texted it to Dre. We’d see if he’d be down with it. Timmy texted to see if he could crash at my crib tonight, while promising to not have company and keep it clean. Tim’s fam had come to town for the Holidays and he needed a reprieve. No worries. He knew where the key was. It was something I offered my closest friends, and them to me. My brother texted asking what the plans were for Thanksgiving. The Waiter, just shooting a “hello” my way, wondering when I was working next and if I’d be at the Holiday party. Of course I would – we all had a blast last year. Cori was having some sort of emergency sitchi with the new guy she was dating. She knew I was visiting Lou, but it was rare if we didn’t hear each other’s voices every day.
Brian was up next. He’d called a couple of times, and sent a text asking me if I wanted to hang. I hadn’t told him I was heading outta town. Still on the fence about things, no doubt. He seemed to want a relationship, and I seemed to not be sure, but curious. And Lord Jesus, did I wish I had a crystal ball, because I would have avoided some of the most wretched and heinous pain I’d ever experienced, and ever seen inflicted on innocent children. But, I did not. And so “here”, in 2003, I was still contemplating this relationship. Fucking Idiot.
We have phones and robots that are taking over the world, you can have a virtual boyfriend these days…cars that drive themselves…but no crystal ball. Maybe we should start working on that. Imagine the lives it could change.
Thanks to my discovery of the wondrous blue pills I was feeling all-right. The shower was calling, so I answered, and hung on the line for a while. It didn’t absolve me, but I felt forgiven and cleansed. When I hopped out and looked into the mirror I still recognized myself. Indubitably, the shower was a game changer. With a little illuminator, some mascara, and my Mac lipgloss I’d be back to feeling alive again. I braided my long black locks, tucked them under a backwards Yankee hat and cleaned up my mess.
I placed my bags back into the rear bedroom. Lou was awake, sitting at the bar smoking a ‘port, sipping a glass of red wine while talking to someone on his cell. The conversation seemed lite, easy. He smiled broadly as I walked back into the room, and it was one of those contagious type grins. Brilliant and beautiful. Couldn’t help but beam back. While he chatted I tidied up our space. Bottles in the recycling, butts in the garbage, washed the shot glasses, opened a window, sprayed some Febreeze, folded the blankets, pushed the bed back into the couch, wiped the countertops down. Lou covered the mouthpiece of his phone and insisted I didn’t have to clean up, “You’re my guest, you don’t have to -” but I cut him off by waving my hand. “It’s my pleasure.” And it was. He told me he’d be right back and headed into the bathroom, still conversing on the way in.
I clicked the receiver and played CD roulette while I opened a bottle of water. First up? Makaveli. Ooh, one of my favs. Damn though, I was dehydrated. 6 chugged bottled waters later, I was feeling more fluidity, refreshed, and less mentally cluttered. I was ready for a glass of wine.
The Montecristo box was on the bar top, and it piqued my curiosity. As I filled a wine glass with the house cab sav I fingered the top of the box. The shower was running. I glanced over my shoulder and held my breath. Why? I don’t know. I didn’t want to snoop, but I was curious about that rig that I thought I saw in there last night. Stealthy, I used my pinky and flipped the top back. Bricks, check. Soap bar in cellophane, check. Smoldered tip crack pipe, present. Lou opening the door to the bathroom, shit! I flipped the box down and shuffled over to the bar stool, smoothly. My heart was thudding but I tried to play it cool. He was wearing a black hoodie with loose fitted cords, mussing-up his hair with a towel, nonchalantly polished. “I’d love one,” he smiled, pointing to my glass. I refilled our glasses. He walked the towel to the bathroom, came back looking refreshed, reinvigorated, cool. That smile…his distinctive scent. Overwhelming my atmosphere.
“You look good, City.” He seemed to like what he was looking at. I blushed. With a wink I announce, “You clean up pretty well yourself, McMann.” He held his glass up and we clinked, then drinked. Lou nodded toward the receiver, “Nice taste”. I laughed. “I don’t fuck around when it comes to music, you know this.” He smiled and muttered something smart-ass under his breath about me and fucking around. I knuckled his bicep. “Speak up?” This only caused giddy laughter first from him, shortly thereafter I joined him.
We were loose, relaxed & liberated. Holiday ambiance style, and I was in that festive mood. Lou started cutting up limes and lemons behind the bar and placed the slices on a plate. He unpopped a jar of Marischino cherry’s and I helped myself to one, popping it in my mouth, plucking the stem from my lips. Lou gawked, saucy little smirk said I had his attention, even though
I wasn’t trying.
I walked to the fireplace and got the kindle sparked, unleashing the scent of cedar into the living room. From behind me Lou asks, “You cool with hanging around here? I mean, we can totally go out if you want.” I glance back his way and shake my head, “I’d rather stay in if that works for you.” Working at a bar can give you more than your fill of the bar scene, and I was more comfortable just kickin’ it here. “That’s perfect,” and he seemed to mean it. The expression on his face told me that he agreed completely. The fire was established, cracking with pugnacity. Satisfied, I closed the screen and walked to the mahogany bar top.
Lou started mixing booze in shakers like this was “Cocktail” and that got my attention. Something about the downplayed confidence, the self-assurance in which he moved, the contentment and enjoyment in his presentation. The showcase of lighthearted exuberance. Blissful felicity. His innocence was showing, and in this moment I couldn’t help catching the contagiousness of his delight. I loved him, like best friends do. And I felt a delirious enthusiasm that was drug free discernable, it was real and awakened my soul. This was legit, youthful incitement. It was being 19 and enjoying every second.
Lou dumped crushed ice in two tall glasses and poured his concoction over top. The remaining went into a large pitcher. LIT, a specialty of his. He added maraschino cherry juice and sprite – the “secret” ingredients. From there he bopped around the bar, moving to the music, pulling a skillet from the top cabinets, and a pizza box from the oven. I recognized the box instantly, and had to stop myself from drooling. L&B Spumoni Gardens. THE BEST Sicilian square pie ever. Originating in the Gravesend neighborhood of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. “A middle and an end?” he asked, already knowing the answer. I smiled coyly at him. “You’re spoiling me, McMann.” I plucked a straw from the caddy and plunked it into my LIT. I squeezed the juice of one lime and two lemons into my glass. It was refreshing and delish, just as I suspected. “You’re the guest of honor, City, whattaya think I wasn’t gonna go hard?” He tried to poke my ribs with the spatula. I ole’d him and pulled him towards me for a hug. I’m not the sentimental type, but I was overwhelmed in the moment. Cheek to cheek I whispered my gratitude. He pulled back slightly, locked eyes with me and held his gaze. I withdrew the sensation to buckle, to look away bashfully. Instead, I held firm, looking straight back into his dark chocolate eyes. “I love you, too. As a genuine friend, I do. And your support and presence mean more than you could know.” In response, I kissed his forehead and pulled him back into me.
It’s those emotions that make you feel real life-raw. And we weren’t high. No, this affection had nothing to do with pills or powders. It was straight-up.
I made quick work of that LIT. Besides being scrumptious, I was thirrrrsty. Lou flipped me another bottled water and got to work on filling my tall glass with ice and more alcohol. He garnished it with two cherries and a lemon wedge. He platted us pizza, and took the empty stool to my right. There was a glass parmesan shaker and red pepper flakes but I passed on both. No need, this pizza was perfect. If you haven’t had L&B you’re legitimately missing out.
Alicia Keys christened the space between. What an unbelievable talent. We clinked “cheers” and I thanked him for his warm hospitality. “It’s how we do”, was his response. In between bites we made small talk. He inquired, “Where you working Thanksgiving eve?” It was a money maker, for sure. One of the best nights of the year to be a bartender. “Ashes”, I responded. His eyebrows raised and he smirked. “The old perv that owns the place”, he started, now side-eyeing me, “You know he wants you, right?” I rolled my eyes. “The old perv wants everyone.” I got up and grabbed our empty plates, walked to the sink and started scrubbing. Just thinking about T aggravated me. “I’ve heard stories about him. Lingerie parties? He makes you guys dress up in lingerie to serve the people who buy the humidors? That’s bullshit. And, that doesn’t sound like something you’d be down with anyway.” He was totally correct about the lingerie parties, and he was equally correct that I was a non-participant. He knew that though.
Against the owner’s wishes I respectfully declined. Or, disrespectfully declined. Telli wasn’t pleased, but I wasn’t about to show up to work in lingerie to make a buck (says the girl who tried crack…). It was this twice a year “show” he offered the Wall St. big spenders who occupied the third floor – the humidor owners. They would close the club to regular patrons for the night and “treat” the bigwigs to an evening of grabbing asses and downing glasses while puffin’ on primo cigars. It was a fucking joke. I was friends with one of the strippers he employed for the evening, and the horror stories were just that – horror. She started stripping to pay off student loan debt, and ended up with a coke addiction that almost ended her life. There came a point where she felt such shame for what she did, but was paid so well that she had a hard time quitting. So she started getting high just to get through the night, and one thing led to another…Apparently though, T let these dudes get away with shit that wouldn’t fly at the strip club. She told me he was paying top dollar to the girls willing to service the guys (she wasn’t one of them). The club would go back to normal the day after, like none of the offenses ever happened. You might say, “they signed up, so they asked for it”, but it’s not like that. Don’t be closed minded. Some of these girls got paid thousands of dollars, and were pushed to participate (or voluntarily did to make the night easier) in the drugs a’ flowin’ upstairs – girls trying to work their way through school, or put food on the table for their families. The drugs, I was told, helped them press on through the things that were requested of them. I didn’t want to think about it. Lou could tell he touched a nerve, and we dropped it.
I dried the dishes and placed them back in the lacquered cabinets. When I turned to face Lou he was rummaging through the box. He looked up at me with a million dollar smile. Ready to roll. His cell rang and he debated answering it before deciding “I’ll call her tomorrow. I just talked to her yesterday.” Smiling, sheepishly. “You know how Moms are.” It’s like he felt as if he had to defend not answering, but I knew he was a momma’s boy, and I wished he had.
I dried my hands on a plush dish cloth while thinking about my own parents. My dad, my soul mate if you will. He actively exhibits the demonstrable definition of true love & true friendship. Resolute, secure, and influential. A man who took immense pride in being a superior father & teacher while recognizing that there was always something more to learn. God blessed my brother and I, and that was an understatement. My mom, strong and dignified. She had been through so much, too much. A woman who was fiercely loyal and protective. She had so much love to give, and only asked for the opportunity to share it. I was looking forward to spending time with them Thanksgiving, and I know they were as well.
“Pretty City, my most favorite biddy, it’s time for us to get shitty” snapped me out of my pleasant preoccupations. He totally caught me off guard, and I erupted with laughter. Not exactly Tupac, but I was pickin’ up what he was putin’ down. Literally. I turned from the sink with a coy smile and averted my gaze towards the bar top. The pipe was packed, there was a long line of brown powder parallel to a long blue line. A white xanax dotted the exclamation point. With that shining smile, Lou swung his arms across the spread like he was presenting a banquet. And a banquet it was. Apparently it was time to get back at it. Having eaten and hydrated gave me a better mental space than what I was working with last night, or shall I say this afternoon when I woke up.
I wasted no time clearing the lines. Lou lit a smoke and I accepted. He hopped back behind the bar to grab the LIT pitcher, filled us with crushed ice and poured the tasty liquor over top. The ciggy was also tasty. The bar went under the tongue, and the pipe graced my glossed lips. I didn’t see myself loving crack. But, I did enjoy that first blast – the rush. As I inhaled I could hear it crackle under the fire of the zippo. The scent of the nail salon seemed to fill the air on exhale. But it just hits different. Like rush of adrenaline, surge of pure pleasure, sense of invincibility, endless energy, different. And that was just the first hit. I sparked it up again, trying to hold the inhale a little longer this time. Woosh, freely floating higher than heaven. I puff puff passed and swooped back down to earth, another long line of colorful powders occupied my landing strip. Pills and heroin swaddled you in a blanket of supreme tranquility. A cocoon of calm, relaxed, euphoric obliviousness. The combo converted crack & opiates into a power couple.
My blithe boy was busying himself with baked goods and beverage experimentation. In between blows and blasts, of course.
Enticed by the sweet smell of sugar cookies I let my nose lead me to something other than powder and joined Lou in the kitchen, “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” That cheerful smile hasn’t left his face since he woke up. I cozied up to him and he put his arm around me. “I’m drenched in holiday spirit, Stell. Thought I’d whip us up a lil’ sumpthin’ sumpthin’.” He set a timer, grabbed my hand, and we made our way to the couch. I threw a few more cedar logs into the fire, and found myself blankly staring into the searing inferno, captivated by the blaze. Lou ran back to grab his box and the two pitchers of mixed elixirs. As he poured the twilight tinted Sangria over our iced glasses his phone rang, snapping me out of my comfortable numbness. It was Jaime. Lou answered on the third ring, “What’s up bro?” Instantly, Lou looked shook, face drained of color as he ran his hands through his hair. Tears were welling up in his eyes. He turned away from the couch, paced the living room. “Oh my God, Oh my God!” I sat up, suddenly stone cold sober as I heard him ask, “Are they going to be okay?” His facial expression went from alarm to anger as he listened intently. “That’s awful, Jaime. What can we do for you? Do you want us to come to the hospital?” A couple of “uh-huh’s and okays’. Lou, still on the phone, ran up the stairs, whispering back to me with an expression I can only call pained, that he’d be right back.
Unexpectedly feeling overwhelmed, I quietly excused myself and headed to the ladies room. My head was spinning wondering what happened. All I knew is that it didn’t sound good. I stopped midway into the Sepia room when I heard the timer for the cookies, headed back into the living room silencing it, then pulled the tray from the oven and placed it on the burner. I hustled back to the bedroom, grabbed my bag and tucked myself into the bathroom. Drugs didn’t make serious situations any less serious – they just made handling them different. I felt helpless. I had no clue what was happening, let alone how to respond. But my emotions were more dulled than I liked, and that made me feel horrible.
I could still hear Lou talking above me, he was running from room to room but sounding less frantic, less distressed. I had an urge to call my dad, in an attempt to normalize things, so I did. It went to VM instantly, indicating he was either on the other line or that his cell was off. So I left a message ensuring that I made it safe and that I loved him lots. Both true. Before I tossed the phone back in my bag I checked my texts. Andre had gotten my message and I was pleased to see that he was down with my idea. Jahiz, Tony and crew were making plans for Thanksgiving Eve, wondering where I’d be so they could come by. I let them know, and suggested they definitely come through. I slipped my phone back in the bag and found my xanax. I had a handful of 0.5’s and decided to roll with two of those rather than the big dogs.
My head hurt, a dull ache behind my eyes. I tried to calm myself down, lit a smoke and sat on the counter. Lou was still on the phone upstairs when I heard the doorbell chime and the front door open. I thought I heard an older male voice conversing with Lou. Moments later the door opened again and closed. I said a quick prayer asking God to help whomever was in need, still unsure about the tragedy unfolding on the upper level. I ran the sink water until it was practically scalding, and placed my face down towards the steam. After a few deep breaths I felt my pulse start to decrease. To kill a little time while I waited for my breathing to normalize I opened my makeup bag and touched myself up. Rebraided my braids.
He grabbed my hand and we headed towards the couch. In a deja-vu moment I re-upped the kindling and threw more logs into the fire. Then I took my spot next to Lou, pulled my knees up under me, and listened. “Carmen and her mom went shopping for the Thanksgiving party that we were supposed to have tomorrow. On their way to the market they were hit, head on, by a drunk driver who swerved into their lane going 50+.” I gasped, covering my mouth in shock. Lou nodded and continued on, “Yeah, it’s bad. Ella, Carm’s mom, is in a coma in the ICU. The driver bashed Ella’s side, and sent Carmen through the windshield. No seatbelt, which is crazy because she never rides without it. She’s always on mine and Jaime’s case to wear ours. She’s unconscious, and Jaime said there may be some bleeding on the brain. Thankfully, no broken neck, and she moved her extremities at the site of the crash, but that’s all we know. She’s in critical but stable condition – is that even fucking possible?! They are both banged up real bad.” The tears started up again, this time from both of us. “What can we do?”, I asked, grabbing his hand with my left and the box of kleenex with my right. Lou wiped his face and shook his head. “Jaime said there isn’t anything we can do. Just pray, and wait. The hospital isn’t allowing visitors in the ICU other than Jaime and Mr. Delgado, Ella’s husband of 43 years. Jaime said he isn’t leaving, and Mr. D just stopped by to grab a bag I packed for Jaime on the fly while we were on the phone. He looked so fragile and heartbroken. They said he’d keep us posted.” The silence seemed so dense and dank with destitute despair. Then Lou furiously fired out, “Fucking Drunk Driver!” He sank into the couch and covered his face with his hands. I wrapped my arm around his shoulder, recognizing the guilt he felt for being one of those. And I let him cry while I held him. It’s extremely tough to overwhelm yourself with detrimental and damaging rationalization, none of which you can do anything about. Positive prayer, positive introspection, positive results. You can’t beat yourself up over something you cannot control. It’s in His hands, and I never doubt His plan.
After about 15 minutes Lou uncurled out of the nook of my shoulder. “Thank you” he said and I knew he meant it. He excused himself and hit the bathroom. I stretched my arms, grabbed my Sangria and gulped it down. I’d been silently sending prayers up to God, really hoping that he’d work his magic. I felt devastated for Jaime, Carmen and Mrs. D. For their family. For the individual who made the careless mistake that put these lives in peril. Helpless not hopeless, I left it in God’s hands.
Lou returned looking much better. He busied himself back behind the bar, mixing up another pitcher of Sangria and LIT’s. Looking apprehensive he tells me, “Stell, I don’t know what to do.” I grab the afghan blanket from the arm of the couch, reach for the CD player remote, point to the box that I know he wants to get into but feels too conscious-stricken to open, and pat the spot next to me. “All we can do is pray, hold the fort down, and hope.” I tell him, softly. That lessens the mask of stress on his face. “We can’t be at the hospital, and Jaime will keep us updated.” I started the receiver and Biggie’s “Ready to Die” came to life. I thought about changing it but Lou read my mind and said, “No, this is good.” He’d made his way over, tray in hand filled with goodies; pints of Ben & Jerry’s, pitchers of mixed drinks and a pitcher of crushed ice, extra glasses, a ladle (both for the ice and the ice cream, I suppose) and the cigar box. He lit a smoke, handed it to me, and climbed under my blanket placing the tray on the table in front of us. I used my toes to pull the table towards us. That netted me a “nice” and a dap from my boy. He smiled for the first time in a while, and I was happy to see it. From there, he dug right into the Montecristo, and I can’t say I blamed him. What else do you do when there isn’t anything you can do? He chipped off a very large piece of that rock and punished the pipe pushing it in there. He took a rip. Then another. When it had cooled down he cleaned the tip with a damp cloth and it came my way. Monkey see, monkey do.
While I blasted off to another stratosphere he crushed 4 blues and dumped 4 glassine packs on top, mixed them around and created 2 very long rails. “Ladies first” he passed the plate my way. It had such a medicinal taste as it coated the back of my throat which was numb from the inhalation of crack smoke. And almost instantly I was back to that place where nobody could harm us, and no heartbreaking news could hurt us. The cocoon of refuge and sanctity.
Lou licked the plate clean and accepted the pipe back, packing it up. He plucked a bar from the box, asked me to “open wide” and placed it under my tongue. I got a chill, ain’t gonna lie. Drugs did that. They turned normal notions into sexual potions. Then he put the pipe on my lips and lit it. The drag completely blew me away. Like, out of this world burst! Bang! “Again” he suggests and I do as told. As I inhale my eyes roll back into my head – on exhale I feel like I was shattered by dynamite. So.Incredibly.Fucked.Up. Disposition Demolished.
I needed those two new lines he’d placed in front of us, and I sucked them up like a vacuum on fire. He had 2 more waiting for me when I finished. I slugged ‘em back. You don’t even give yourself a second to realize just how smashed you are. It was utter lawlessness, maniacal and disorderly. Pipe, powder, pill. Powder, pill, pipe. Alcohol, alcohol, alcohol. The question I wanted answered was where the fuck did my tolerance come from? I should either be passed out in a corner or holding my knees to my chest while bashing my head against the wall. Because that’s what I imagined when I thought about these types of drugs and consumption of this amount.
Then, I closed my eyes and laid back. Suddenly, I felt the soft caress of fingers ever so slightly tracing my face. My forehead, lids, lips. Sensual. Sending goosebumps ALL up and down my spine. I shivered. Lou smiled. “Hey, I’ve got a question.” I sat up, inquisitive grin soft on my lips, l“Shoot”. He looked bashful, reserved and circumspect. Funny, because I felt the complete opposite. “Would you stay an extra day or two? I know you have to work this upcoming week, but I really could use your help navigating this upheaval.” I looked up to the sky like I could see my schedule in the air above me. “I’m not due to work in Red Bank until Wednesday night. I’m on call for Tuesday in Atlantic Highlands, but let me reach out to Mikey and see what I can do. He looked appreciative, relieved.
Once the deluge of drugs downpoured I found myself saying “fuck the umbrella” – let’s keep this rolling. If you’ve been there, you get it. Why in the world would you want to stop flooding your feelgood receptors? Lucky for me, I had a jukebox candidate for a first mate; my partner in crime whose ideas mimicked mine.
The fire was cracklin’ and the warmth fit perfectly with how I was vibing. Lou threw a few more on the top. Then, we just got going gettin’ going. I withdrew my zip-up, and pulled the couch out. All I wanted to do was lay around and get high. Oh, and eat that Ben & Jerry’s, ‘cause homegirl had a sweet tooth that couldn’t be satiated.
Lou unwrapped a brick with the “Cadillac” stamp. “This shit is fire” he proclaimed, and as a girl who appreciated American made lux vehicles I had to believe it to be true. I mean shit, what did I know about “fire” heroin? Nada. But cars? I knew a thing or two.
Gimme The Loot started playing and like old times we took turns with the verses.
“Ooh Biggie, let me jack her, I kick her in the back
Hit her with the gat…”
“Yo chill, Shorty, let me do that
Just get the fucking car keys and cruise up the block
The bitch act shocked, gettin’ shot on the spot”
“Oh shit! The cops!”
“Be cool, fool
They ain’t gonna roll up, all they want is fucking doughnuts”
“So why the fuck he keep lookin’?”
“I guess to get his life tooken
I just came home, ain’t tryin’ to see Central Booking
Oh shit, now he lookin’ in my face
You better haul ass ’cause I ain’t with no fuckin’ chase
So lace up your boots, ’cause I’m about to shoot
A true motherfucker going out for the loot”
Hysterical laughter. Clutching our stomachs & exchanging daps. Brought me back to the 3am rides home from the bar after work, bumpin’ this joint. Still energized and adrenalized after a long summer night shift. He’d come crash at my place, or me at his. Sometimes we’d load up some stragglers; friends, co-workers, newbs. We’d pass around a pint of Jager, a J, and a 12 pack, sitting around his makeshift fire pit, or my poker table, trading war stories or just rehashing the events of a busy night.
There is something about adolescent autonomy, that first feel of freedom – driving around in the car you worked for, answering to yourself & for yourself. No curfews, no responsibilities other than the things that make this freedom feasible. Taking all the positive things you’ve been brought up on, all the lessons our parents taught us, and using those teachings to direct and discipline yourself into a young adult you’re proud to see the reflection of. THAT was what this liberty was all about.
My phone shook me out of my brief daydream. Lou grabbed it, smirked, and soft tossed it to me. “Told you,” he laughed. I looked at the screen. Dre. I answered. “Yo!” For whatever reason, I had little flitters of butterflies. Maybe Lou was right. Maybe I knew that Dre’s old girl would make it impossible for us to work. I don’t know. “Hey, beautiful.” That smoky, deep voice. I stepped up and out the basement door. It was brick, and I wasn’t properly attired but I didn’t feel the cold. As a matter of fact, I didn’t feel much at all. Oh, except those endorphins, those I was feeling. I ask Dre, “Is everything okay?” He tells me it is, that he saw Tim, they caught up over a game of Madden. Just wanted me to know that he’d be taking the train to Hoboken Monday, and he’d be riding back home with me. We’d discuss the custody case coming up in three weeks. He had some other stuff on his mind. “How are things there?” he asked. I filled him in on the heartbreaking happenings. He sent his most sincere thoughts and prayers. I snuffed my smoke out while wrapping up our convo. “City, please be careful.” It caught me off guard, and I looked around for big brother, wondering how Dre knew I wasn’t exactly on my best behavior. “I got you.” Before we hung up he told me he missed me and I wondered if his voice was a little jealousy tinged. Maybe I was hearing things. But, I smiled to myself while promising that I’d be a good girl.
Inside, Lou was also on the phone. Jaime was overjoyed to announce that Carmen had opened her eyes and the scan showed no bleeding on the brain. Ella was still in a coma, but her vitals were normalizing. Hallelujah! God is Good All The Time. All The Time, God is Good!
We hugged when he hung up. Looking relieved and feeling reprieve, Lou’s smile lit up the basement. “That’s such positive news!” He was right. The mood shifted, and the tension of the unknown dissipated for the moment. I hustled back to the couch, suddenly feeling the chill of the night. Lou read my mind and threw a few chunks of cedar into the fireplace.
It felt so good to lay back, relax my mind knowing that God was up top, answering prayers. That impending doom feeling left. Lou snuggled up to me, tray and box straddling his lap as he got to work packing up & pouring out. “I fucking promise I’ll never drive drunk, screwed-up, faded, any of that shit.” He extended his hand, as to seal it with a shake. I accept his pledge and vow, “Word is bond.” We all think we’re invincible. We’ve all made a deficient decision or two. But just like that you could be the reckless indestructible behind the wheel that changes the fate of another human – and it’s an avoidable catastrophe if you do the right thing. Shouldn’t ever be easier said than done. Ever. (Just ask my 4x convicted ex who injured an elderly woman himself and now needs a blow & go to drive. No worries though, dad will cover those expenses, while he continues to pretend that his drunk driving and child abuse convictions make him the ultimate, Faultless Father). A no-doubter Narcissist.
As if out of nowhere, I could feel a rapid comedown. Bam! Slapped in the face with a breakneck breakdown. Instantly, engulfed in anxiety and a shift in my mood. The inability to take a deep breath induced a hysterical angst. I couldn’t breathe! Then came a sharp declining descent into darkness. Completely contradictory to the favorable enthusiasm that had taken me over. Awkward and antagonistic sensations and speculation. A quick downpour of paranoia seemed to drench the present. Heart started picking up, and my inability to get air into my lungs only exacerbated the tachycardia. My mind was playing tricks on me, Geto Boys style. I didn’t want to make it obvious, but I was restless, agitated and nervy. Jumpy & wired. Acting like a straight weirdo! I was trying to get an entire breath into my lungs but it was impossible. That had me shook.
Lou sensed my panic and got to work. I rifled around my bag and snatched up a bar, wishing that as soon as it hit my mouth the jitters would skitter. They didn’t. Overwrought with nervous energy I hopped up and hit the restroom. My pupils had erased my blue eyes. That only made me more apprehensive & antsy. So shaky, I couldn’t line my lips or mascara my eyes. It was dreadful. Period. I couldn’t stop moving, herky-jerky style. There was also a depression lingering – where the f*ck did THAT come from? Icky, that’s how I felt. Skin crawling, insecure, bitter, sullen, icky.
Saying “fuck-it” I popped a half’a benzo and ran back out to the living room. From there, I slid behind the bar, found the bottle of Jagermeister, poured 2 shots into a glass, pinched my nose and sent it down the hatch. This was a fervent & fretful desperation I’d never felt before. Lou called me to the couch and I think I ran to it, hoping for the ultimate accelerated fix. What I knew was that I didn’t want that pipe. I was finished. No mas. I accepted the long line of brown & blue pulverized powder, my nasal passages pounced. He made another line, and I made short work devouring it. “You good?”, he asked. I didn’t know. All I knew was that chasing the dragon would only bring the fire it spewed. No more crack. That was a feeling I didn’t want to relive, no matter what. He kept dolling out the dust and I kept accepting. At this point I’d do anything to ease my downer dome.
A mixed CD had made its way to the forefront, and I got all “not feeling it” about the songs that popped on. I grabbed the receiver remote and practically passed on every song. That’s most definitely not my style. Lou gave me the side-eye and I shrugged my shoulders. What a funk I found myself in. Praying, pleading for the powder to pacify me, pronto.
Finally, I felt the alcohol hit. Shortly thereafter the calm came on and I was beginning to feel more like myself. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, am I right? I went from gliding & giddy to grounded & shitty, and the sensation scared me straight. That dreary depression just hits different. And I did not want to toy with those emotions again. Nope. There was a legitimate appreciation for beginning to feel normal, and there was no way that I was going to fuck that up and endure the mental disparage that came with making a stupid decision. I knew this false calm, induced by opiates, benzos, and alcohol was just that – false. Hitting the pipe again could produce that paranoia and turbulence with just one pull, and I can’t express righteously how dreadful that whole disturbance was. So, I decided not to chance it.
Lou ditched the pipe too. I was coming out of the despondency, and feeling better. That Ben and Jerry’s was calling my name, and I could use a glass of Sangria. I’d also made a mental decision that I’d leave Monday morning, meet Dre at the train station and spend the day game-planning the court case, and the night fixing a little Thanksgiving feast for Mrs. Johnson and us. I promised him, and I keep my promises. Jaime had checked in twice during my episode and gave positive updates about both ladies. That was beyond awe-some.
Between spoonfuls of sweet cream and sips of Sangria I confess to Lou how embarrassed I am that he had to see me like the caged animal I felt like. He bursts out laughing. “City, I’ve been way worse, you have nothing to feel ashamed of. I’m sorry I put you in that predicament.” It wasn’t his fault, obviously. “Shit, one time I got so blitzed I thought the red light on my Comcast box was the FBI spying on me. And I tore the thing open, convinced I was being recorded, busted it into a thousand pieces. I was a fucking disaster. Had to pay Comcast $200.00 for a new box. And that was a 48 hour emotional madness. You think I stopped hitting that pipe? I couldn’t stop myself, even though I knew it was bringing on this delirious paranoia. Girl, it was certifiable nuts!” I was rolling on the floor laughing. “Holy shit, you’re joking?” And I could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t. “How’d you stop yourself from checking into Bellview?” He took a sip of Sangria then replied, “Xanax. I think I took 4 bars, smoked a J and slept for 2 days straight. I chucked the remainder of my stash in the toilet and hadn’t picked the pipe up for like 5 months, no bullshit. But then a dude I work with had his bachelors party and we got lit up. Started the ball rolling again.” It just didn’t sound or seem worth it to me – as a matter of fact I was totally good on ever self-inducing that feeling again.
Lou had a shit eating grin, glazed eyes seeming to be seeing something I wasn’t in his head. I bit because I was curious, “Shoot, McMann”. The Essential Bob Dylan came on the player and my soul smiled. “I was just thinking about the 2001 Summer Jam. We were like 50 deep, tailgating at Nassau Coliseum. One of the best shows I’ve ever seen. MJ & Jay? That shit was legendary! You were challenging all the guys to keg stands, we made them throw their money in, and you spanked them all. I think we walked away with a G that night!” We laughed and dapped. It was true. Ah, Summer Jam. We had such an unbelievably dope time. From what I recall, anyway. Jay-Z, Ja Rule, Eve, Jadakiss, Nelly, OutKast, Luda & Destiny’s Child. Hov brings the house down with the Nas/Prodigy dis track Takeover & then brings Michael Jackson – The King! – on stage with him. EPIC. I couldn’t stop laughing just thinking about that weekend.
From there, we opened Pandora’s box of memories. I gladly accepted the blues Lou offered, slightly afraid that my mind was still fragile, and if I didn’t spackle over the bad it was possible that those awful feelings could creep back through. “We never stopped dancing!”, I remembered. “It was like being in the middle of the biggest party-ever!” And that was true. Fucking blast! “Oh, shit! It most certainly was. The entire crowd sang along to every line, every hook, while we all passed blunts around until we literally dropped. Thank God we stayed at Jeremy’s place on the Island. There wasn’t a chance we’d all made it to the parking lot, let alone home.” I agreed with Lou. I’ve definitely been blessed with good friends and good times shared with them.
I hopped up to empty the watered down ice sitting in our glasses, refilled us with crushed, and poured the LIT mixture on top. Time to switch things up. “Good choice, City, you read my mind.” I smiled, “When don’t I?” He lifted his glass, “Cheers to that truth”. My phone buzzed, I sighed, not in the mood. It was almost midnight, and as my father always said – nothing good ever happens past midnight.
Lou heard it and his curiosity was piqued. “Late night booty call?” he asked, a devious smile on his lips. I didn’t even care to look, but just to prove him wrong I did and let him know that indeed it was, joking of course. He didn’t think it was funny, and the devious smile turned into a jealous stare. “Who was it? That damn thing stays ringing. You’ve probably got mad dudes texting all the time.” I shoved his shoulder. “Why, McMann? You green-eyed? What do you care about who calls or texts? I’m not your girl.” That LIT was calling and I answered promptly. I slugged it down and poured another. “I just don’t want you wasting your time with some schmuck that don’t deserve you. That’s all. I’d wife you up in a second, City, but you’d break my heart. I couldn’t handle all your guy friends. Straight-up, that would drive me cray-cray.” He broke the box out and broke up some blues, moving with a swift agitation. I chewed on that admission while I sipped my drink. “You’re so versatile, you get along with everyone, my mother loves you, shoot – everyone loves you, and you’re a stand-up girl. Music, sports, you’re the smartest and strongest person I’ve ever met, and your independence is enviable yet intimidating. You’re an old soul, wise beyond your years, and drop dead gorgeous.” While pouring the brown powder on top of the blues he continued, “You’re just not like any other chick, pardon my language, you’re one of a kind. And you deserve a guy who acknowledges all of that while appreciating what a rare gem they have.”
His face was red, incriminated by his omission, and it was sweet & adorable. I was beyond flattered and could feel my own cheeks turn crimson. On top of that I found myself speechless, yet appreciative. All I could muster was a kiss on his forehead and a “Thank you”. He looked up at me smiling and added, “I’m not bs’ing. It’s not the drugs, so you better not think that.” I refilled our glasses, squeezing a lemon into both, genuinely grateful and a tad shocked by his positive praise. Was it the drugs talking? I tried to ignore that notion. “You’re a doll, and it is quite a significant and meaningful compliment, especially from you, and I’m just a little taken aback – in the best possible way. Thank you, Louis. And fear not, it was my girlfriend from Florida, Cori.” He handed me the plate and the bill. I could see the stress leave his shoulders and I was feeling a bit shocked that he appeared to care so much. He grabbed his glass and downed it in record time. We were out of LIT’s so I assumed that Sangria would be a good alternative. I devoured my lines, gave him the plate, and lit a smoke.
Things weren’t awkward, but we both seemed to be internalizing what was said. I didn’t want there to be discomfort, so I started scrolling through the CD choices looking for something lite and easygoing. Nelly’s first album popped on and I rolled with it. “Oh shit! I haven’t heard this in a minute” was Lou’s enthusiastic reply. “Me either!” I proclaimed. And all seemed normal again. I chucked a log on the fire and cuddled up under the blanket. Lou poured out 2 packs for me, 2 for him, and we shared a xany amongst each other. I lowered the volume after I snorted my lines, put my arm behind my head and laid back. My nose was so stuffed up, pretty much putting me out of commission for a while. Probably a really good thing. I needed a chemical break. Sometimes drugs don’t create a perfect euphoric utopia, and that was a lesson learned and tucked into my “for future reference” pocket. Good to know.
I pulled the blanket up to my chin and felt Lou cozy up beside me. Here’s the thing – I would be so crushed if we did try to wade into relationship waters and it ruined even the tiniest bit of THIS. I thoroughly loved what we had, in every moment. He was one of my greatest friends, and I wasn’t willing to risk that. Maybe we’d see what the future holds after he gets back from rehab, but until then I’m existing in the here & now. Lou and his telepathy looked up at me and stated, “How perfect is this?” I wrapped my free arm around him and pulled him in. “We’re blessed, kiddo.” I closed my eyes and felt encompassed in a sublime warmth. “Let’s do a small Thanksgiving tomorrow, for the two of us. We’ll hit the market in the morning and pick up some things. Maybe by then we’ll be able to bring Jaime and Mr. D a plate. Whattaya think?” I thought that sounded splendid. “I’m absolutely game! What a great idea! Maybe we’ll shoot for early afternoon though?” Lou laughed, “No rush on the wake-up, City. I got you! He seemed content with his plan. I was content with finishing that ice cream and falling asleep on his chest. He passed me a pint and I made short work of it. This opiate induced sweet tooth was no joke! Lou popped up and headed to the fridge calling over his shoulder, “I’ve got more!” Always has my back, that kid. I lit a smoke and noticed that I was drifting off while sitting up. Probably not safe. Maybe the sugar would help. He popped the top, we clinked spoons and dug in. We’d be snoring within 20 minutes.
Confessions of an Outlaw Junkie 