GALLERY 23 : Trailer Park Needle Dreams and Heresies

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No One Told You To You Came Up Here Anyway Raft Leaks, No Paddle A look under the rock at, the ugly realities of the war on drugs in the the early 90s, this story remains yet another "war on drugs" is declared. A well meaning but cynical and hopelessly addicted man runs a needle exchange and shooting gallery in a trailer park, under the supervision of the county health department. Self absorbed, self contained, and emotionally anesthetized, Lenski's reality is suddenly pierced violated and rocked by La India, a beautiful Chicana who ends up stranded at the trailer. In the tradition of William S. Burroughs, George Pelecanos, and J.G.Ballard, this takes you places where only madmen and fools dare tread. "Screams to be heard....gripped me to the final page" -Steve DeAngelo, author of "The Cannabis Manifesto"

Drama / Erotica
Age Rating:


(Summer 1991)

When sidewalks surprise with drops of warm viscous liquid hitting of the neck, too tired to even determine the culprit; time lags several paces down the block before the realization that it is saliva sets in, absent minded wiping from neck, another reason to stay out of Denver when possible. Garbage everywhere; a friend in line at the clinic with permanent bodily disfiguration resulting from a five on one beating years ago by gang members, Rollin’ 30 Crips, bored. I know some of them myself, walking untouched on their streets only by the grace of one woman, the Gangstress Gina G.’s decree “he’s mine, don’t touch him treat him right,” not romance but business in better years.

Clare is singing:
“Summer-time, and the living is sleazy, the cops are jumping, and the people are high, your dad’s on crack, and your mom’s a hooker, sleep little baby, don’t you cry….”

It makes sense to leave the city; by winter we’ve lost the building we’d been managing not because of the two crack houses and the farcical raids that always turned up nothing. The problem was that Clare let the TV crew in; bad PR for the landlord, he even offered us an extra 100.00 to get out in a hurry. We turned it down, took our time about it, stopping short of forcing an eviction. We rent a truck, throw our combined possessions in the back and head for a tiny one-bedroom apartment in downtown Boulder.

I get healthier; leave the coke and crack alone, and start selling just a little weed around town, finding one local longhaired street kid with a bicycle who knows his way around. A little money coming in does nothing when boredom, depression, and resorting to long periods of unconsciousness become a way of life. I lose all interest in sex.

This baffles Clare briefly; she’s unconventionally attractive, her wide hips a big butt, and narrower torso with small delicious breasts, large eyes the color of late fallen hardwood leaves, combine with a strong libido to make her a desirable partner. It’s too bad that my sexuality is leashed with a choke chain to chemical interactions in my blood and brain, which originate from the injection and other ingestions of foreign substances.

Clare finds another man, tall, good looking with the long hair and slightly malnourished features Clare finds attractive. He’s schizophrenic and creatively arrogant, they call him “Crazy Wolf” but it’s easier to just say Wolf. To this I have no objections, and when she announces that the two for them will be leaving for Montana, I sublease the apartment to some kids in town for Naropa University’s summer writing program, and miraculously find the trailer for sale 2000.00 cash, 150.00 per month lot rent, and it’s a done deal, I take my cat Stryper, and some jugs of city water, head out and move in. It’s very peaceful there, and I start with the illusion it will stay that way.

The summer of ’92 starts out OK, I’m invited by some old friends to go to the Rainbow Gathering. To my amazement I’m allowed ten bottles of methadone to take on the road with me. I almost kick the methadone at the Gathering, running out before I want to leave, and taking a large dose of the hallucinogen ibogaine. I spend the fourth of July tripping my brains out, ending up in my tiny void/cave/tent just before down, and waking up feeling a little weak, but otherwise free of symptoms. After a night in a motel room with a small bottle of Jack Daniels, I get the bus back to Denver. My freedom from the methadone ends after 48 hours. As soon as I get back to Denver, I head for the clinic. The first dose feels so good.

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