Nostradamus
Veteran X
Heroin and Jesus
We were the drug: the corruption of children, the mutilation of young men, the prostitution of women, the humiliation of the old, the division of the family, the division of the country - it had all been done in our name.
-James Fenton
“Did Jesus call? Are we good to go?”
Those were the first words out of my mouth as I walked in the door. Everything was dark in John’s house, except a dim lamp on the desk. His face was pressed against the telephone. He was sweaty and bug-eyed, pacing frantically and yet speaking with authority to the dealer. There was no acknowledgement of my presence until he clicked the portable.
“Everything is set up. Let’s roll NOW.”
“Goddamn man, you look terrible,” I said as we walked to my danger, green Ford Ranger.
“Jason, you should look in the mirror.”
We were both jonesing terribly. The shakes, the sweats, the insomnia; It was another 2 am, high speed run into the ‘Burgh. One hundred beautiful, blue bags of smack for 700 greens. It was going to be a difficult hour in the truck, but it would be worth the effort. We would each take away 25 for nothing, and could sell the rest for triple the cost.
Jesus, our intermediary, had set us up with a serious connect. We just knew his description and where to meet. He was black, fat, and carried a handgun at his waist. We were also advised to “not fuck with him”.
After a 45-minute rush down the dead highway I pulled on the off ramp We wound our way through traffic-lights and meandering vehicles. Speed limits mean nothing while in the pits of heroin withdrawal. John was shaking violently, rocking back and forth, and chain-smoking a pack of Marlboro’s. He kept missing the window and ashing all over the floor.
“Will you fucking stop that?” I asked as politely as I could manage.
“I can’t fucking help it. Will you stop driving like a fucking old lady?” He snapped, as I stopped for a red light.
We were heading for the projects. John knew the way. Suddenly, as I rounded the corner of an alley, there were 20 black teenagers standing in the middle of the street. They all stopped and stared right into our headlights. All looked like thugs. No one moved an inch.
Through clenched teeth, John mumbled, “Whatever you do, do NOT stop.”
I inched forward at no more than three miles an hour, and the crowd slowly parted. John rolled down his window and gave the most hardcore scowl he could muster. Around the next bend our man was waiting.
It was trying to snow. There were no stars in the sky, only a dim reflection of city lights on the clouds. He was wearing a heavy coat, and gray sweatpants. We came to a stop beside him and I rolled down the window.
“You have the 700?”
“Yep,” I responded, and handed him the wad of bills.
We waited silently as he counted it out. He then dropped a plastic bag on the sidewalk and walked away, without another word. I opened the door and picked it up.
“Holy shit man! Look at all this smack! Let’s light it up!” John said, with eyes full of lust. I agreed with him and passed 3 bags to him.
Here we go. Spoons out. Orange-tipped syringes from the glove box. Cotton balls. Rip the plastic open with the teeth. Unwrap the blue, wax paper. Dope up the spoon. Mix it up. Light it up. Suck it up. A belt is taught on both of our arms, pumping the veins. It is important to focus. Stop the shaking. Don’t blow it. Hit the line. Push the plunger. Let off the belt. Feel the rush. It is like a hundred orgasms at once. All is peace once again, for a few hours at least.
We were the drug: the corruption of children, the mutilation of young men, the prostitution of women, the humiliation of the old, the division of the family, the division of the country - it had all been done in our name.
-James Fenton
“Did Jesus call? Are we good to go?”
Those were the first words out of my mouth as I walked in the door. Everything was dark in John’s house, except a dim lamp on the desk. His face was pressed against the telephone. He was sweaty and bug-eyed, pacing frantically and yet speaking with authority to the dealer. There was no acknowledgement of my presence until he clicked the portable.
“Everything is set up. Let’s roll NOW.”
“Goddamn man, you look terrible,” I said as we walked to my danger, green Ford Ranger.
“Jason, you should look in the mirror.”
We were both jonesing terribly. The shakes, the sweats, the insomnia; It was another 2 am, high speed run into the ‘Burgh. One hundred beautiful, blue bags of smack for 700 greens. It was going to be a difficult hour in the truck, but it would be worth the effort. We would each take away 25 for nothing, and could sell the rest for triple the cost.
Jesus, our intermediary, had set us up with a serious connect. We just knew his description and where to meet. He was black, fat, and carried a handgun at his waist. We were also advised to “not fuck with him”.
After a 45-minute rush down the dead highway I pulled on the off ramp We wound our way through traffic-lights and meandering vehicles. Speed limits mean nothing while in the pits of heroin withdrawal. John was shaking violently, rocking back and forth, and chain-smoking a pack of Marlboro’s. He kept missing the window and ashing all over the floor.
“Will you fucking stop that?” I asked as politely as I could manage.
“I can’t fucking help it. Will you stop driving like a fucking old lady?” He snapped, as I stopped for a red light.
We were heading for the projects. John knew the way. Suddenly, as I rounded the corner of an alley, there were 20 black teenagers standing in the middle of the street. They all stopped and stared right into our headlights. All looked like thugs. No one moved an inch.
Through clenched teeth, John mumbled, “Whatever you do, do NOT stop.”
I inched forward at no more than three miles an hour, and the crowd slowly parted. John rolled down his window and gave the most hardcore scowl he could muster. Around the next bend our man was waiting.
It was trying to snow. There were no stars in the sky, only a dim reflection of city lights on the clouds. He was wearing a heavy coat, and gray sweatpants. We came to a stop beside him and I rolled down the window.
“You have the 700?”
“Yep,” I responded, and handed him the wad of bills.
We waited silently as he counted it out. He then dropped a plastic bag on the sidewalk and walked away, without another word. I opened the door and picked it up.
“Holy shit man! Look at all this smack! Let’s light it up!” John said, with eyes full of lust. I agreed with him and passed 3 bags to him.
Here we go. Spoons out. Orange-tipped syringes from the glove box. Cotton balls. Rip the plastic open with the teeth. Unwrap the blue, wax paper. Dope up the spoon. Mix it up. Light it up. Suck it up. A belt is taught on both of our arms, pumping the veins. It is important to focus. Stop the shaking. Don’t blow it. Hit the line. Push the plunger. Let off the belt. Feel the rush. It is like a hundred orgasms at once. All is peace once again, for a few hours at least.
