Part ONE
Whenever God sends angels my way, they seem to be the lazy ones, too afraid to fly into my darkest hours . . .
I got the stuff. This time, it was a little yellower than usual. I drove a couple of blocks to a nearby alley just off Hoover. Dog shit, human shit, litter everywhere. Homeless people resting, sleeping, and shooting up. Gang graffiti, the relentless swarming of flies. Skinny stray dogs. Rats scurrying about like cockroaches among the cockroaches. I parked between two trash dumpsters, which shielded me from passing cars. Just south of Dodger Stadium, all the alleys in the Hoover-Pico District looked the same. I knew almost all of them. I took a slice of tin foil from the glovebox, wrapped it around the Bic pen, twisted one of the ends shut, then pulled the aluminum cylinder off the pen. I used the blunt end of the pen to make a small crater in the makeshift pipe. Then I used the pen’s tip to make four holes in the mini-crater and dropped a piece of the stuff inside it. My brain couldn’t wait for me to unleash the pleasure of the stuff by engulfing it with the flame of a cigarette lighter so that it could spread through my lungs and everywhere else, including my brain. Before I took a hit, I used my cell phone to call Cheryl back. “My water broke!” she shrieked. “Nathan’s coming! Head to St. Jude’s!”
“Now!?”
“Yes, now.”
“What happened?”
“It happened.”
“Okay, but it’s rush hour.”
“Just get here,” she said.
“All right.”
“How’d court go?” she asked.
“It’s worse than the fucking DMV. I hate being a lawyer.”
“Okay, come as fast as you can,” she said. “Where are you right now?”
“I’m on my way.”
I looked around for cops. Then I took a couple of hits of crack from the foil pipe, trying to revisit the early days of my use, where it was only pure pleasure that I had felt. Over 85% percent of users eventually segue into paranoia. Still, they use to feel the glory of the first few hits again. I was one of those users. Suddenly and viciously, I was in full-blown paranoia after less than a minute of pleasure. I made my way to the 110. There was an invisible soldier of Satan in the backseat. There was a serial killer in my trunk. There were members of L.A.P.D. on the roof of my car. I had to keep driving so none of them could get a hold of me. At one point on the 60, I thought an 18th Street gang member was hanging on the undercarriage of my car. He would be ready to kill me as soon as I stopped. I quickly glanced at the gas gauge: I had enough gas, but I was really worried about a flat tire.
I headed toward Montebello, the city where I had spent most of my childhood. I knew more than a few cars on the freeway were undercover FBI and CIA. They were tracking my every move. Every helicopter overhead was following me. On the 57, the paranoia had dissipated a little. The drive suddenly became bearable. I wanted another hit, but I decided it would be best to wait until I was in the hospital parking lot.
I got to St. Jude’s Hospital, a medical icon of sorts in Fullerton. It was dark out. I stayed in the parking lot for over an hour before walking into the hospital. I smoked some more crack while I read tomorrow’s Racing Form. I was worried hospital security might see the flash of my Bic lighter from time to time and investigate further.
Addict’s Way, by Stephen Liosi, can be found on Amazon.
