Friday, November 9, 2012

Monotony and Bad News (20)

Every single word written here is an extraordinary exaggeration of events that have played out in my head... based on the stories I have heard from people I have met in jail or while I was dealing with my own stupidity and carelessness, resulting from my own addiction to alcohol and drugs. This is in no way a glamorization of drug use, but a tool to lend some humanity to a subculture that has been demonized and written off as a hopeless and worthless part of our human family. I do not condone or promote any of the behavior or activities herein.
We closed all the curtains that we could in that house, shutting out all of the light from the incoming day.  We drank the entire 1.75 of Absolut between the three of us, and continued to shoot dope well into the next day.  We had pretty well depleted the two and a half grams in the original baggie I had produced from my bolt stash at the beginning of the previous night.  We had stayed incredibly busy by cleaning Rhonda’s apartment and organizing her DVD’s in alphabetical order, although my idea of further organizing of the DVD’s into year of release was shot down in favor of separating them into categorical order by style of movie.  This seemed like a better idea, but at first my mind couldn’t function outside of the idea of which year each movie had been released.  Rhonda had an extensive collection of DVD’s and I was extraordinarily fixated on this particular idea.  Every time one of the girls caught me slipping from ‘style’ to ‘year’, it produced groans, laughter, and embarrassment for me.  Eventually we ended up just putting the DVD’s back in the towers and onto the shelves in no particular order, as it was just too frustrating and hair-brained to think that meth-heads could accomplish anything as simple as the organization of a large DVD collection.
When we finally finished the first baggie of dope I suddenly realized that we hadn’t heard from, or tried to text Bull to find out what had happened, if anything out on the farm.  I was all at once angry with myself, and worried about my friend.
“Hey, fuckers… we need to check the phone and see if Bull texted.” I snapped suddenly.
“Hey kiddo… just relax," Rhonda sighed, "my phone is always right here, and nothing has come through.  Settle down now, you’re a little spun.”  She reached down and picked up her phone and waved it at me.
“Don’t you think you should text him and find out if everything is okay?”  I got up and walked to the kitchen, reached into the fridge and grabbed a cold beer.  I stood up and opened the cabinet to the right of the fridge and grabbed an available bottle of cheap spiced rum from in back, which was mostly full.  I swilled hard from the bottle, and chased the foul rum with cold beer, returning to my new friends in the sitting room.
Rhonda was texting when I sat down, and I can only assume she was texting Bull.  When she finished, she closed her phone and placed it on the table.  “There… I asked if things were cool, and told him to let us know when to bring you back.”  Rhonda cocked her head, and began again, “everythings okay, buddy… Bull is my daddy’s Godson.  I’ve known him since he was born.  I was at his fucking baptism for Christ’s sake.  I’m worried about him too…”
The phone vibrated on the table, and everybody jumped in surprise.  Rhonda flipped it open, read quickly and closed it again. 
“Well??”  I asked.
“Well, he says Dale got popped out there for driving without a license, and that its all clear out at the farm right now, but Roxy was arrested last night… DUI on her way to the farm, but she was carrying dope and a pipe.  Oh, and he’s sleeping and says to keep you busy for the rest of the day and to come back tonight.”
“Fuckin’ Roxy…” I mumbled.  I was actually feeling a little bit jilted, and not just a little hurt that Bull hadn't thought to send word of the situation.  It was funny to me how my thoughts turned like this, when the man had sent me away with nearly ten grams of dope to basically do with as I please.  I put it out of my mind, and began to drift off... thinking of my next blast of dope Crystin would be firing into my veins.
“Sounds to me like they’re watching you guys,” Rhonda replied.  “Two people popped in the vicinity of Bull’s farm with ties to him… that’s never good, and Roxy to boot.  That whore can’t keep her mouth shut to save her kids.  God knows what she’s saying right now to them cops.”  Rhonda put the phone on the table.  “How much of that shit have you got left in that bolt?”
“I don’t know, probably about six or seven grams.  You gave me three boxes and seventy-six bucks earlier.  So we’re square on this bag, okay?”  I was taking into account the dope I had smoked and shot throughout the past day.
“Yeah, sure…” Rhonda pulled her checkbook from her purse and perused her ledger.  I assumed she was looking for a balance.
“I’ve got about five hundred that I can get in cash for the rest, and I’ll just have to owe Bull for whatever that leaves us.  Does that put you a little more at ease, bud?”  Rhonda got up from her couch, and walked over to me and grabbed the rum bottle, and drank deeply.  She handed the bottle back and wheezed loudly as the rum burned her throat.
“Yeah… sure.  If he’s pissed, you handle it.  He told me to trust you, so I’m trusting you to know what’s what.”  I reached for my bolt, and Rhonda beat me to it.
“What’s this thing worth to you, pal?”  Rhonda held up the bolt looking at it closely and unscrewing the nut.
“I dunno, maybe a gram or so?” I replied.  I knew damn well I could just head back into the garage on the farm and make a new one, so it was really no loss to me.
“Done.”  Rhonda dropped the bolt in my lap.  “I trust you, youngster… get your gram out of it, and give that thing to Crystin for safe keeping.  I gotta make a couple of phone calls.”
“Cool.  When are we heading back out there?” I asked, unscrewing the nut and retrieving one of the heavier gram bags from inside of it.
“Well, shit… let me make a couple of calls first.  Drink your rum and get high with Crystin.”  Rhonda disappeared into her room and shut the door.
I closed up the bolt, and handed it and the rest of the dope to Crystin’s waiting hand.
I was ready to get back out to the farm, whether Bull was sleeping or not.  I handed the baggie I had taken for myself and my syringe to Crystin, who started preparing another shot of dope for my arm.  I drank from the rum bottle, and chased it with cold, delicious beer.  I was surprisingly sober, but I had shot nearly three-quarters of a gram of dope so far.  It was going to be a long, long day.

This work is the intellectual property of Jerome J. Panozzo

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