“It’s so hard to describe what has happened to me. You’ll understand it better if I start at the beginning, Mintu.”

“Yes, I want to hear it all,” she said.

December 1, 1969. Nine months earlier . . .

I woke from a deep nod in a small pool of blood dripping from the needle in my arm. And that other world, the world I wanted to escape, was back to haunt me. Oh my God—this can’t be real. Why am I still alive? Why is it so hard to die? Who wants to live in this kind of a world anyhow? Why can’t I even kill myself right?

I heard someone coming up the stairs, so I pulled my covers over me, faking sleep.

“Eric, Eric, are you in there?”  

“Yeah, man, I’m here,” I said, as Mario barged in.

“Wake up! I just scored the best smack you’ve ever tasted.”

I ached, cold and sweating. My body was telling me to shoot up. It begged for relief—trembling, crawling with pain, pleading for help, and I only knew one kind: the “White Stallion,” that precious powder, instant heaven, the king of all who use it. Somewhere inside I knew I couldn’t keep going on like this. Every day was hell and it kept getting worse. The only answer was death—escape!

I pulled the covers off. Mario noticed the blood but never looked twice. I yanked the spike out of my arm while he got the water we needed to cook up our next hit. I tore open six of the small, thin, glassine bags he had brought and dumped their contents into a threaded bottle cap. Maybe this time it would be strong enough to finish the job.

Mario added some water, lit a match, and held it under the cap until the water boiled and the powder melted. I drew the hot liquid into my works—a kind of syringe made by attaching a needle to an eye dropper.

With a belt looped tightly around my arm, I clenched my fist, smacked my vein a few times, then tapped the needle home. Blood filtered in as it rested lightly in my vein. I squeezed the dropper slowly. My heart started to pound as the drug hit home. My face flushed, my body tingled—I felt whole. I booted it again and again. My mind cleared and I knew everything would be all right. Mario was right, this was great stuff.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Mario said impatiently, “I bring you life and you take all day. Pass that set of works over here. I haven’t hit up in over four hours.”

Within a few minutes we were both nodding out, feeling right, alive again. The hours passed as we dreamed dreams, more vivid than reality. Our bodies were at peace for as long as the chemical lasted.

A few hours later the cold, clammy, familiar hell—the jones—set in once again. The effects of the drug wore off and the tranquil calm of riding the white horse was over. Pain overtook the serenity that had embraced all my senses. The empty feeling inside gripped my stomach like a vise. Aloneness and fear conquered my pleasant dreams, to haunt me until the next fix.

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Through the intense, cold pain in my body, I heard a noise downstairs. The front door was opening. Shit! It must be my mom getting home from work. “Eric,” she called out. I could barely move but I had to get downstairs before she came up to my room. It was a mess and so was I. Mario was crashed out. I threw some cold water on my face and went down.

“Hi, Ma, how’s it goin’?” I glanced away so she couldn’t see my bloodshot eyes.

“OK. I’m pretty tired, though. They’ve been making us work a lot of overtime these days. I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.”

“Well, I’m gonna be leavin’ in a few minutes, Ma. See ya later.”

“Eric, are you feeling better these days? You still don’t look too good.”

“No, Mom, I’m doin’ great. Feelin’ stronger all the time.”

She came over and hugged me, then looked into my eyes. “Son, you look kind of sick. Maybe we should take you back to the hospital.” I turned and walked away without answering, as if I’d never heard what she said. My mind flashed back to three weeks ago.

Mom had received a phone call from the local hospital asking her to come down immediately. They told her I was in intensive care. She asked if I’d been in an accident.

“No, it’s a drug overdose,” said the voice on the other end.

My father was home at the time but Mom never said a word to him. She got in the car and drove to the hospital alone. When she arrived they told her that a woman had found me lying in the woods. The woman thought I was dead.

Mom asked the doctor if she could see me, and they allowed her in the room for a short while. She sat by my bedside and held my hand. I must have felt her presence. I opened my eyes. She was crying softly when I began to realize where I was. There were tubes going everywhere and a small pump was pushing my blood through some type of filter. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen heroin being filtered from my blood, but for her it was a shock. I loved her and didn’t want to hurt her. It was touch and go with Mom. Just about anything could set her off, and then she’d be back in a mental institution where she’d spent a good part of my life. Nervous breakdowns, they called it. All I knew was she’d lose it every once in awhile and then me and my brother were stuck all alone with my dad.

Mario came crashing down the stairs and jarred me back to reality. I turned to her and said, “Don’t worry, Ma, things are gonna work out OK.” I knew neither one of us believed it.

“Let’s go,” Mario said with his usual impatience. “The bus leaves in thirty minutes, man.”

“Where are you going?” Mom asked.

“Oh, into the city to see about some jobs.”

“At ten o’clock at night?”

“Well, we’re gonna stay at a friend’s house in Manhattan so we can get an early start in the mornin’. So long, Ma.”

I grabbed my black leather jacket from the closet, patted my dog on the head, and left. At least once a week we would jump on the bus and head into the city to score. You could get anything you wanted in the Big Apple—especially drugs—any time, day or night. If you had the cash you were home free.

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We stood at the bus stop waiting. Soon we’d be out of the cold and on our way. We lived about forty minutes south of the city, in Jersey. As we climbed aboard I noticed there was only one other person besides the driver—a young woman sitting in the fourth or fifth seat back. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was ragged and unkempt. She looked lonely, forgotten. She reminded me of myself. It seemed like I’d felt that way all my life.

Mario and I walked down the aisle to the very last seat. He pulled out our stash. We always shot our last few bags on our way to the city. I never knew why. Maybe it was some sort of tradition, or just another way to make sure we did whatever we had to do once we arrived—knowing there was nothing left to fall back on, we had to score!

I glanced over at him, his chin resting on his chest, deep into a nod. He looked like the devil with that black goatee and mustache of his, but maybe that was just because I knew him so well.

Mario and I never talked much, even less when we were heading into the city. You never really knew if you’d make it back in one piece. To die at the end of a needle is almost respected in our profession. To get knifed or shot by a fellow junkie is a whole different story.

About thirty minutes down the road I broke the silence. “Mario, we’re almost there.”

“Bug off, asshole! Can’tcha see I’m noddin’ out? Let me know when we get there,” he said, copping an attitude.

“Mario, I gotta talk to you about somethin’, man.”

“What?”

“Ya know, I’ve been thinkin’ maybe we need to get outta here. Take a trip or somethin’.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I’m sick of this town and all the people in it.”

“Ha,” he laughed sarcastically, “and you think it’ll be different somewhere else?”

“Yeah! Why not?”

Mario jolted back to life. He sat up, leaned into my face, and looked me square in the eye. “You’re crazy! You can’t run from a jones. You’re hooked, asshole. There’s nowhere to go! You’ve either gotta kick it or keep goin’ till you OD. How many times have you tried to kick it before? You know where that’s at! So just keep on goin’. Maybe you’ll get lucky one of these times and never wake up.”

Mario was right, you either kick or keep shooting. He was smarter than me, more straight up with himself. I would always hide out, unable to look at the truth. The choices were clear. There was only one way to end the misery, this sickness, this disease that stalked us every moment we weren’t high. Horse, scag, junk, smack—heroin! It had as many names as there were ways to use it. It was expensive and sometimes hard to get. But to us it was a savior, a temporary pardon from life’s judgment.

The bus pulled into the Port Authority, downtown Manhattan. Ms. Lonely got off and we followed close behind. I wondered why she looked so sad. Did she have a mother who’d go nuts and get put away for six months at a time? Would her dad scream and beat her if the towel wasn’t hung up right? What was her life like? Maybe she, too, had a habit.

The subway to the Bronx was just below the station. We hopped on the green line, the last leg of the journey. Soon we’d hit the streets—go to work. Most of our kind came here with enough money to pay for their goods. But all me and Mario had was our few measly dollars, just enough to suck a local dealer into taking a chance. We used our street savvy, skills we’d developed out of necessity.

I sat thinking about my life and how fucked up it was. The aloneness felt like it was eating its way out, devouring more of me every day. I was a hollow shell, in need of drugs to hide the anguish that gnawed away at my stomach.

We were close to our destination when I checked my watch, it was almost midnight. Most people wouldn’t be caught dead in this section of the Bronx in daylight, never mind the middle of the night. Even the cops stayed away. But for us it was the perfect time. Anyone foolish enough to be out now was part of the game. The rules—survival. Mario and I were good at it. We’d made mistakes, but after years of working the streets we’d honed our skills.

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We moved around a lot, hunting our prey—junkies and dealers. Some were smart but we were smarter, or maybe more desperate. Always one step ahead of them. They were easy to find.

Sometimes we went to Harlem to score. If we had some serious cash, we’d head to the Village. The Village was always less hassle and most of the time had better dope. Tonight it was the Bronx. As the train passed Prospect Avenue I could feel the tension building inside me. Not because of what we would have to do but how long it might take before we could shoot up again. I could feel my stomach getting tighter by the minute.

“Simpson Street” flashed by on the wall of the station as the train slowed down. The metal wheels grabbed the rails and screeched to a halt as the doors slammed open, and we quickly made our way out and then up the closest stairs to the streets above. This area of the Bronx was one of the dankest, poorest sections of the city where hard drugs are just a way of life. And now it was time, time to find tonight’s prey.

There were certain spots where the dealers hung out, hawking their goods. We’d find an alley across the street until we had one picked out. The dealers were jumpy, nervous, constantly scoping out the scene in case there was a narc close by. We’d watch him as he sold his dope to see how much smack he was moving. Thirty minutes later we had our mark. Mario handed me his gun and then wandered over to the dealer, pulled out some cash and showed him his set of works.

The dealer took him to an alleyway to taste the stuff. I tagged along in the dark close enough to spot any trouble. I saw a match light. Good, they were cooking up. Mario would only shoot a small taste to see if the dope was good enough to play the game. If he shot too much, he’d be too wasted to play his role in the scam. A few minutes later they came out of the alley. Mario faced me and unzipped his jacket halfway. That was the cue. We had a ripe one ready to be picked.

Mario and the dealer walked down the street two blocks to a four-story walk-up and went inside. I made my way across the street as quickly as possible. I carefully checked out the first floor of the hallway and listened to footsteps. They were heading upstairs.

I slowly approached the stairs and tiptoed to the third floor. They were just down the hall when I heard the dealer say in his Spanish accent, “I need to check you for weapons before I let you in.” Mario agreed.

After a brief search they went into an apartment. I crept closer to the door and quietly waited outside for the right moment. Sweat poured off my face, time dragged. Anything could be happening in there. Mario could be dead by now or pulling off “Act Two” in his own brilliant way. Finally the door opened and he stepped out. As soon as the door closed he signaled me by holding up two fingers and then a goose egg. There were two of them in there and no sign of any guns. I quickly handed him his pistol. He waited a few more seconds and then knocked.

“Who is it?” the dealer called through the door.

“Hey, it’s me. I think I forgot my glasses on the table,” said Mario. Our guns were cocked and ready.

As soon as the knob turned, I kicked the door as hard as I could, knocking down the guy behind it.

“Stay down!” I yelled, my gun in his face. Mario held a bead on the other guy sitting on a couch as he walked over to get his glasses off the table where he had conveniently left them. “Get on the couch, now!” I commanded the guy on the floor. He scurried through the trash on the rug and onto the couch.

“The dope’s in here!” Mario said as he went into the other room. I held a gun on the two dealers while he searched for it. I could hear him cursing and crashing through drawers. A few minutes later he came back out with a smile, holding a bag of white powder. He walked up to the two guys on the couch.

“Where’s the money?” he demanded.

Silence was the wrong answer for Mario. He placed the barrel of his gun to the temple of the one he had met on the street. “Where’s the fuckin’ money?” he said again.

The dealer pointed to a coffee can on the kitchen counter. Mario went over and took off the plastic lid, reached in, and pulled out a thick wad of bills along with a few dozen small glassine bags of junk that had already been cut.

Bam! Bam! Bam! I turned toward the door. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the flash of a blade coming at my face.

Pow! Thud. Mario dropped him cold. The other guy ran toward the window and dove right through it. Pow! Pow! I fired two shots. There was blood on the metal grid outside the window, but he was half way down the fire escape by the time I got there.

“Check it out, man,” I told Mario as I ducked behind the couch, my gun trained on the closed door. Mario got behind it, hesitated, then yanked it open. No one. He looked down the hall. They were gone. Whoever had knocked didn’t stick around.

“Gimme a coupla those small bags. I gotta get off, man,” I said to him.

“You crazy? We gotta get outta here.”

“Who ya think’s gonna come, the cops? No fuckin’ way they’re gonna come into this neighborhood at this time of night. Now gimme those bags and that set of works and let’s cook some of that shit up.”

“Not the cops—the dude who got away. He’ll be back with some of his buddies to slice our asses up if we don’t get outta here now.”

“He ain’t comin’ back. Spics hate guns. They’re knife fighters, man. And if they do, we just waste a few more of ’em. So what? Just gimme the fuckin’ dope and shut up. We’ll be gone in a few minutes and ya won’t have me ridin’ your ass all night.”

Pow! I fired another shot into the ceiling, just in case someone was thinking about checking in on us.

We sat down on the couch, while Mario searched his pockets for the works. I stared at the body on the floor. He was no different than me except for the color of his skin. Just another junkie trying to make it in a fucked-up world. Maybe we did him a favor. Maybe he was looking for a way out. Maybe that’ll be me lying there tomorrow or next week. Don’t blame us, asshole, we woulda letcha slide if you hadn’t pulled the blade. All we wanted was the dope and the cash. You fucked up—not us! Hey, at least you don’t have to worry about where your next fix is gonna come from anymore. Be cool, man.

“C’mon, c’mon—what the hell ya waitin’ on? I ain’t got all day,” said Mario.

He handed me the needle with five small bags and I dumped them into the cooker. I pulled off my belt, made a noose, and slipped my leg through it. With the end of the belt in my teeth, I pulled it tight. My veins swelled. Mario lit a match and heated the dope to a boil. I drew the bubbling liquid into the syringe, and then plunged it into the narrow red bulge in my leg. I squeezed the dropper slowly and within seconds my body was tingling. It thanked me for the soft warm feeling, which overwhelmed the nasty coldness that had been seeping into every cell since my last fix started wearing off.

“All right, gimme a hit,” said Mario in a nasty tone.

“Whatta ya mean ’gimme a hit’? I thought you said we gotta get outta here, jerk off!”

“Well, I changed my fuckin’ mind, ya got a problem with that?” he said. I laughed and handed him the works.

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Mario got off, and then, just as we were about to head out the door, I noticed a small duffle bag off to the side of a chair. Something drew me to it. “Far out, man. Check out this stash!” There must have been close to five hundred Quaaludes, a hefty bag of black beauties, and a few jars full of oddball-looking pills. Now we’d have to find someone to experiment on to find out what they were. I grabbed the bag, tossed it over my shoulder, and we headed up to the roof. We found another fire escape on the back of the apartment that led to the roof of the next building. We took the stairs from there and went out the back way. I spotted a subway entrance about a block away.

“Let’s head to the Village,” I suggested.

“Sounds good,” said Mario. “We can sell most of the nickel bags and a bunch of these ’ludes down there.” We hopped on the train and headed downtown. Mario and I got along good when we were high.

“That was a righteous score, bro,” I said to him.

“Yeah, it’ll keep us high for a few days and bring in some serious bucks. Now we can just hang out. Relax a bit.”

As I drifted into a nod the spic’s blade flashed before my eyes. It brought me back to when I was six: my dad pulled a knife from the kitchen drawer and chased my brother through the house. My mom got in the middle that day and her arm got slashed. Blood spattered my face. Six years later some punk stuck me in the leg with a stiletto in a bar in Staten Island. I hated knives.

Every now and then the train jostled me out of my nod just long enough to notice the street numbers on the walls of the tunnels getting lower. We were at 42nd Street and would arrive at our destination in a few more minutes. The Village was a good place to sell the extra bags of dope and pills. People were starting to want smack. A lot of acid-heads were finally realizing how mellow they could get with a couple of bags of dope—how cool it was to listen to some good blues or some oldies in a deep nod.

The train screeched into Astor Place. A few minutes later we stepped into one of the local coffee shops in the Village and ordered a couple of teas. Tea helps you stay high when you’re copping a downer. There was a small table out of the way in the back corner. A good place to hang out and deal. We sipped our tea and then I went out on the streets to hustle the new stash. The duffle bag was a bonus.

Quaaludes sold fast at a buck apiece and were handy if you ran out of the real thing. There were hardly any hard-core smack-heads like us in this part of town—mostly hippies, freaks and lots of upper-middle-class weekend junkies. They’d always pay our price and never give us any hassles. Some of them wanted a few bags of junk around just in case they had a bad acid trip. It was a quick way to bring someone down off a bummer.

Every time I ran out of dope I’d go back inside and get a dozen more bags and another pocketful of ’ludes from Mario. If I got popped by the “man,” I wouldn’t be holding too much at one time. Sales were brisk. On a good night we could sell a hundred nickel bags or more—an easy five hundred bucks. Occasionally I wondered if there was someone in an alley checking us out—setting us up? But hey, that’s life in the drug lane.

It was nice, hanging out with a good head, sipping tea, listening to some mellow jams and picking up some cash the easy way. There was a three-piece blues band playing and the music was righteous. It got right down in your soul.

By four in the morning, we’d sold a shitload of dope and it was time to find a place to crash for the night. We hadn’t eaten all day, so we looked for a burger joint or a hot dog stand, but everything was shut down. We headed to the Lower East Side to a sleazebag hotel where we could get off one more time and then sack out. Once we shot up it didn’t matter if we were at the Ritz or the dives we frequented where the prostitutes and winos did their thing. Getting high was all that mattered.

A hooker was hanging out by the door of the hotel. She sauntered over to us in a sexy way and said, “You guys wanna warm body to keep ya company tonight?”

“With you? Ya gotta be kiddin’,” Mario answered.

Mario was hard-core. All he ever wanted was to get high. But I figured she might be good for one final deal before we crashed out.

“Hey, Baby, ya wanna meet God?” I asked her.

She looked at me with a funny smile and said, “Sure, honey. You gonna introduce me?”

“Heaven’s waitin’ right upstairs . . . just follow me.” I could smell the cheap liquor on her breath. Her skirt was stained from the tricks she’d turned earlier that night.

We tossed the clerk some jack and went straight to the room. She still had this oddball look on her face. “Well, where is He?” she asked.

“First ya gotta meet the angel, honey,” I said.

“Yeah, right, and who’s that—you?”

“Get the bitch outta here, man. I need some sleep,” said Mario, lying in the corner on a sheetless mattress.

“Take a fuckin’ hike! I like her! C’mere, sweetheart,” I said, pulling the set of works out of my pocket. She sat in a chair with its guts hanging out, right next to mine, as I took out the last few nickel bags we had left and tore them open. “Just hang in there, baby. Heaven’s right around the corner.”

The look on her face became even more curious when I dumped the white powder into the cooker, holding it with a pair of tweezers so I didn’t burn my fingers. The liquid began to boil and I drew it up through the spike. “Ya see, honey, the Bible says that God comes to us in strange ways—or some shit like that. Anyway, the angel right here in my hand is gonna deliver the Almighty to ya right now.”

“What a jive motherfucker you are,” she said with a laugh.

“No way. This is truth speakin’! Now just stick your arm through the loop in this belt and then God is gonna setcha free—no lie.”

“Hey, I’m gonna shoot that hooker if ya don’t get her outta here!”

“Shut up, we’re havin’ a good time, asshole!”

I pulled the belt tight with my teeth, slapped her vein a few times, and guided the angel to its destination. The look in her eyes assured me that God was slowly releasing her from her pain as the blood carried the divine liquid straight to her heart. Her pupils shrank to the size of a pinhead. Her eyelids closed. I booted it twice and her head fell forward.

“That’s right, feel it baby, it ain’t gonna hurtcha. Ya see, honey, the only lie is pain. It ain’t real now, is it? It’s only real when God ain’t around . . . ain’t that right?” She tried to talk but the words tripped over themselves. All she could do was nod slightly. That first hit was always the best.

“God just setcha free, sweetheart. And, you can thank a coupla religious dudes up in the Bronx for turnin’ all of us on to Him tonight.”

I took the uncut bag of white powder, dipped a finger into it, and placed it on my tongue to see how strong it really was. The bitter taste told me all I needed to know. A small hit would be just right for a nightcap. I plunged the needle into my arm, loosened the belt, and melted back into the seat. My mind felt at one with everything, floating in an ocean of bliss. Colorful images danced, guided by melodies from some other world. “See, sweetheart, God really does exist, ya just gotta know where to find Him.” I staggered to the other bed, if you could call it that, and fell out before my head hit the pillow.

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The next morning, we had to cut some of the fresh powder if we were going to make more sales. We had a good supply of the small glassine bags but nothing to cut the pure stuff with. I ran downstairs to a store that sold milk sugar and bought a box. When I got back, Mario was getting ready to shoot some of our newfound treasure. It was already in the cooker and all it needed was a match. I pulled out my lighter, heated that baby up, and we got off. Cutting dope was an art in itself. Cut it too much and no one buys from you again. Don’t cut it enough, people start dropping like flies—OD big time. You had to get it just right: five to ten percent smack, ninety to ninety-five percent milk sugar—perfect for the weekend junkies.

The chick finally woke up and asked us for another hit. “Get to work and bring back some cash and you can have all you want,” Mario told her.

“How ’bout I pay you guys with somethin’ better than money?” We laughed. Money buys dope. Pussy buys nothing.

We hustled on the streets all day and made a few more sales, but tonight would be the big one. There were some hot gigs going down at Cafe Bizarre and the Purple Onion, and BB King was playing at the Fillmore over on Second Avenue. We’d sell a shitload to the concertgoers. The next day we headed back to Jersey with enough dope to last a few days and a pocketful of cash.

I’d only go home when my parents were at work, and I made sure I was either asleep or away when they were around. Occasionally I’d bump into my mom, bum some cash off her, and say as little as possible. I avoided my dad. Arguing was all we knew how to do. I would have dropped dead on the spot if the man had ever uttered a positive word to me. I snuck a tab of LSD into a half-drunk cup of coffee one morning, hoping he’d drive off the George Washington Bridge on his way to work, but he was running late that day and didn’t finish it.

Late that night I slipped into the house when my folks were asleep, plugged in my headphones and put a album on the hi-fi. I sunk into a nod on the couch as Janis Joplin belted out some blues in her gutsy style. My black lab jumped on the couch and put her head in my lap. I stroked her head and scratched her under the chin.

She was getting old, and even though her hind legs were on the way out, she’d still struggle her way up onto the couch to hang out with me in the early morning hours. My dog was the only one who didn’t hassle me, who never fucked with my head. She even protected me from my dad a few times when he reared back to smack me a shot—bit his arm a couple of times. She was a good pooch, and the only one in my life I could really count on.

Weeks passed and Mario and I did our thing. Life went on—same shit every day. One night he called me, said he’d scored some really good stuff, and told me to meet him the next day at his place.

That morning it took about thirty minutes to hitch a ride over to his house two miles away. I knocked on his door. No response. I banged harder. “Hey, Mario!”

Where the hell is he? I got the key from under the rock where he stashed it and opened the door to his crib.

It was a basement pad under his parents’ house, kind of dark and cold. I walked down the stairs. “Hey, Mario, where you at, man?” And then I saw him on the couch, motionless, his set of works lying next to him on the floor. I walked over slowly. “Mario? Come on, man, stop fuckin’ around and get up.” I touched his arm, the one the needle had fallen out of. It was cold, stiff and stained with dried blood. I put my hand on his chest and there was no heartbeat.

I sat on the couch next to him. All I could do was stare at his lifeless body. ‘Lucky bastard,’ I thought. He wanted out of this mess as bad as I did and now he got it. Every day all we thought about was where can we get money? Where can we score? How can we get high?

“Your problems are over, Mario,” I said to him, looking at the spike lying on the floor, his blood floating inside the eye dropper—Mario’s last fix. Ten open glassine bags lay close by. He went out the only respectable way a junkie should go. But he’s gone. What am I gonna do now?

I picked up his works, squirted out the remaining liquid, and searched for the rest of his dope. He had about twenty more bags on the dresser. It had to be some pretty strong shit if ten bags could finish Mario off. Now it was time for me to fish or cut bait. Shoot it all and they can come and get both of us, or . . . or? What choice do I have? I know this is the only real way out.

I dumped all twenty bags into the cooker and heated it up. I drew the warm liquid into the needle. I pulled off my belt, tied up, found the best vein and pierced my skin. My blood filled the glass tube, blending with the heroin. I began to squeeze the dropper, injecting the drug into my arm for the last time.

Bam, bam, bam! “Mario! Mario!”

Oh shit—his old lady! I dove behind the couch and hid. His mom opened the door, came down the stairs, saw him lying there.

“AHH! Oh, my God! Mario!” She ran up the stairs screaming her head off. I gotta get the fuck outta here, now! I dashed toward the stairs and then stopped. I quickly went back to look for his wallet and gun, and to find the rest of his dope if he had any. I grabbed what I could, threw his needle on the floor next to him, and climbed out the bedroom window.

Two neighbors came running over from next door, so I lay low in the bushes until they joined his mom and dad and went back downstairs. I bolted across the street, ran between two houses, through some yards, and then walked calmly down the sidewalk. An ambulance drove right by with a cop car close behind. Fools! Mario’s doing just fine. He’ll never have to take any more shit from his drunken dad. No more withdrawals, no more hustling the streets. You finally beat the jones. You can relax now, man. Take it easy, brother.

I stood at the bus stop, popped a few ’ludes to calm my nerves, and then jumped on the next bus. Still on edge when I got home, I shot the few extra bags I had found at Mario’s and nodded out for awhile.

Thoughts of our adventures came floating through my mind. The wheeling and dealing, the first time we shared the same needle, the action on the streets. But I know I’m next. Death—it’s right around the corner! And then I heard a small, weak voice hidden somewhere deep within me that said, ‘You can make it.’

‘What, what the hell are you talking about?’ I asked myself. ‘I can make it! What the fuck is that supposed to mean? How the hell am I gonna make it? I’m a good-for-nothing, son-of-a-bitch dope fiend. My dad lets me know it every time I see him. I can’t do nothin’ right but get high. My life’s fucked and there’s no way out of this except to join Mario. He ain’t gotta think about this shit no more—he’s home free.’ I drifted back into my nod, pissed at the voice for blowing my head.

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When I finally got up I noticed a letter on my dresser. I paused for a moment and then tore it open.

Dear Mr. Karlson:

Your number was chosen in the nationwide lottery and you have been drafted into the United States Army. You will report for your physical exam in Perth Amboy, New Jersey on December 9, 1969.

  “Yeah, right. Take a fucking hike!” I mumbled, as I crumpled it up and threw it to the floor.

I popped another ’lude, drank a bottle of codeine cough syrup I kept in my drawer for emergencies, and went back into my dream world until sleep got hold of me.

The next morning my body was shaking. A knot bigger than my fist gripped my stomach. I needed dope. I looked around for some bags left over from a score a few days ago. It wasn’t the best stuff, but with a few ’ludes it would at least keep me mellow until I could find something decent.

There were a couple of local dealers around the neighborhood who I sold to, traded with or bought from in a pinch. I did a quick hit and made a few calls. Then I sat thinking about my shitty life. If Mario’s mom hadn’t come in when she did, I’d be with him right now. We’d be hanging out together in junkie heaven. Gotta be better than this shit.

I turned on the tube and watched an old movie. About halfway through, a commercial came on. There were scenes of guys in the army, flying to countries like Thailand and Hawaii, hanging out on the beaches making it with some hot-looking Oriental chicks, flying jets and shit. I bet I could fly one of those suckers. Maybe they could make a man out of me like they said in the commercial.

One more time I picked up the letter from the army and read it. Could I really kick this stuff? Me? Mario always said I couldn’t do it. He was probably right. But if I didn’t, I’ll end up just like him. What if I tried? More than a few hours without dope and my body began to ache. If it didn’t work, I could always OD to a far better life.

There was a local number to call on the letter. I grabbed the phone and dialed. “Hello, this is Sergeant Murphy. How can I help you?” a deep voice answered on the other end.

“Huh . . . well . . . hey, I got this letter about being drafted and all, and they said to call this number if I had any questions.”

“That’s right. What kind of questions do you have?” he asked.

“Well, I ain’t sure. . . .”

“What’s your name?”

“Umm . . . Eric.”

“Well, Eric, there are alternatives to being drafted, you know.”

“Zat right?” I mumbled.

“That’s correct. You can always ‘enlist’ in the armed forces. That way you can pick the career of your choice, a career that you can use to make a good living when you get out of the service. And then you’ll be entitled to the full benefits of the GI bill. You can go to the college of your choice and we’ll pick up the tab. Or, if you want to buy a home, we’ll guarantee the loan for you. The army can provide you with the American dream—a home, education, and the heroic status of having served your country in the most honorable way possible, just like some of the world’s greatest men. George Washington, former President Eisenhower, John Kennedy—even Elvis served his country in a time of need. How does that sound to you, Eric?” he asked.

“ . . . I saw somethin’ on TV one night about some war goin’ on somewhere. China maybe, or some place like that. What’s that all about?”

“Welllll, there’s a very small conflict happening in Southeast Asia, but you shouldn’t concern yourself with that. The enemy is on the run and we’re expecting them to surrender any day now. Plus, the chances of your being sent to Vietnam are extremely slim, one in a hundred, if that. But that’s actually another good reason to enlist. The draftees are the first ones sent over there, and I can help you get into a career that will keep you safe and sound no matter what happens. That sounds fair, doesn’t it, Eric?”

“Well, uh . . . yeah, I guess so.”

“Good, then let’s set up a time to meet and I can answer any additional questions that you may have. You’ve made a fine decision, Eric. Probably for the first time in your life the American dream is right at your fingertips.” We scheduled a time to meet the next day and I hung up the phone.

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A house of my own. That sounds pretty good. Maybe they could teach me how to be a carpenter. Shop class was the only thing I remembered passing in school before quiting the day I turned sixteen. I liked working with wood. I finished watching my movie and thought more about my appointment with this army guy tomorrow. This could be a break for me. Maybe they could really help me. I don’t know where else to go. It’s this or die, I can feel it. I shot a few more bags of dope and my mind finally settled down and gave me some peace.

The next morning I woke up nervous as hell about seeing this sergeant guy. This is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done. I got high and then headed for the bus stop. In ten minutes I’d be there. I was scared—couldn’t stop shaking. What if he says yes, they’ll take me? What am I gonna do then? That means I gotta kick my habit. ‘How the hell am I gonna do that?’ I asked myself.

“You can do it,” said the same small voice inside. Great, I’m hearing voices inside my head. I must be going fucking nuts! Who the hell is saying this shit to me? Just then the bus pulled into Perth Amboy. I knew the place pretty well—sold a lot of dope there a year or so ago. I made my way to the recruiter’s office, stood outside for a few minutes, dropped another ’lude and finished my cigarette.

Finally, I got up the balls to knock on his door. The door swung open and standing there in a uniform was a tall, burly man with a crewcut and a thick mustache. He stuck his hand out to greet me and then . . . his mouth dropped open. “Uh, you, ahh, you’re . . . Eric Karlson?” he asked with a strong Irish accent and a disappointed look.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I said, looking down at the ground.

“Well, umm, come in, Eric. Have a seat over here,” he said as he sat down in a big plush chair behind his desk. He stared at me for almost a minute. It was like he couldn’t take his eyes off me for some reason.

“Yeah, well, ah, we need to think about this a bit, son. You’re looking pretty thin and not too healthy . . . are you aware of that?”

“Yeah, sure, I had a bad cold there for a coupla months and, uh, didn’t eat much, ya know. I probably smoke too many cigarettes—three or four packs a day.”

“I’d like to help you, son, but I’m not sure I can. And I don’t think you have to worry too much about being drafted.”

“Look, Sergeant Murphy, this may be my only chance at stayin’ alive. You get what I’m sayin’? I got some problems but I can pull this off if you help me out. I just need a chance. Nobody’s ever given me a chance yet,” I told him, feeling desperate. He sat there staring at me like I had some sort of disease or something.

“Well . . . , I’ll see what I can do. Dr. Powell owes me. Maybe I can have a talk with him. Call me tomorrow and I’ll let you know what I found out.”

I hopped a bus to the city, hung out around 42nd Street for a few hours, grabbed a hot dog with all the trimmings, and caught a flick. I loved walking the streets of New York. The smells, the sounds, the people. This was my real home, not like that shithole my parents moved me to in New Jersey eight years ago. The city was alive—any time, day or night. It was a happening place. I took a train to the Lower East Side, scored some dope, and hung out for the night.

The next day I called the recruiter. “Hey, Sergeant Murphy, what’s the deal?”

“The doctor’s willing to see you, but he’s not giving any guarantees. Can you drop by my office this afternoon?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

I arrived at his office about an hour later. He rushed me in and said, “Are you sure you want to go through with this? Boot camp is no picnic. They’re going to put you through hell,” he said firmly, staring me in the eyes.

“Hell? No. You don’t even have a clue what hell is like!” He sat back for a minute, and then nodded gently like he finally caught my drift.

“You’ll report for your physical exam next Tuesday at 0700 hours at this address,” he said, handing me a piece of paper with some instructions on it. “It is very important that when you get there you request to see Dr. Powell. Tell them it’s due to a special condition you have and that he is the only doctor who can approve your medical status. He’ll take care of you. And, by the way, it wouldn’t hurt to eat something between now and then, either. Put on a few pounds if you can,” he said with a wink. “I also need you to spend a few minutes with me right now and take this written exam to determine what your MOS will be.”

“My what?”

“Your MOS, what we call your Military Occupational Specialty. This exam will enable us to determine what you’re best suited to do in the military. We’ll discuss it after you’ve passed your physical.”

“You really think I can pass it?”

“That’s up to Dr. Powell. Just make sure you ask for him.”

I took the written test—dumbest thing I ever had to do. Measure my aptitude, whatever the hell that is. I hit the road, caught a bus home, and on the way started thinking about what I had just done. Who am I kidding? I must be nuts or something. Me, in the army? Me, kick drugs? Me, have the American dream? I had to be out of my mind. I’m a smack-head—good for absolutely nothing except getting high. This is my life. Who am I fooling? Mario’s probably laughing his ass off right now watching this whole scene.

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As soon as I got home I shot up. I hated myself for sticking that spike in my arm—always did. But what else could I do? It was the only way to find relief from the gaping hole that lived in my gut. ‘My God, what’s it gonna be like without dope? Can I make it? I’ve got to! This is my last chance. If this doesn’t work, I’m outta here. Move over, Mario, I’ll be with you soon, bro. Fuck the dope, my .38 will do the job for sure.’

Monday night I tossed and turned—worst dreams ever—and woke in a fitful sweat, my stomach gnawing at me all night long. Shit, I gotta go. I popped three ’ludes to calm me down for the physical. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Maybe I should just hop a bus to the city and get out of here now, take off to some other town, hide out somewhere for awhile. Oh fuck! I don’t know what to do.

I got on the bus and headed to Perth Amboy. I was scared shitless not because I might fail the test but because I might pass it. At the same time, I knew it was my only chance. If they didn’t take me, there was nowhere left to turn. My time was up. I found the building, walked up the stairs and stepped into the office. It reminded me of my old school just a few miles away. There was a room full of guys standing in line, so I stood at the end. It felt like I’d been waiting hours, but when I glanced at the clock only ten minutes had passed. The line moved up, and there I was at the front, waiting at the edge of the doorway.

“Let’s go, troop,” a nurse called out.

“Where’s Dr. Powell? I need to see Dr. Powell!”

“Dr. Powell is busy. Just strip down and get in the line with the rest of the new recruits!” she said.

“Hey! Don’t fuck with me, lady! Where’s Dr. Powell?”

“Stay . . . stay right here,” she said nervously. A minute later a fat little man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth came over and asked me to step into his private office. He looked over at me pathetically.

“Strip down, son,” he said firmly. As my clothes hit the floor he let out a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I ain’t no muscle man.” He looked at the needle marks on my arms and shook his head.

“Do you realize what you’re getting yourself into? This is not a game. The army is a very serious organization.”

“C’mon, Doc. I’ve seen them commercials. You guys can make a man outta me, can’tcha?” I said with a tear running down my cheek.

“I know I’m going to regret this,” he said.

“No, you won’t, Doc, you’re gonna save my stupid ass. This is my only chance.”

“Stand up on that scale,” he said as he pulled a steel rod up from the back of it and checked my height. “Caucasian, eighteen years old, five foot, nine-and-a-half inches tall, and 115 pounds. Skinniest recruit I’ve ever seen! Your drill sergeant is going to have a field day with you,” he added, and then looked down my throat, took my pulse, and told me to bend over and spread ’em.

“Hey, what the hell ya doin’ back there?”

“Get used to it. If you want to be in the army, they’re going to do a lot worse things than this—you better believe it!”

Shit, I don’t think I’m gonna like this!

As soon as we were done I got the hell out of there, found an alleyway, and hit up. Man, did I need it. I sat on a stoop next to some trash cans and just hung out for a bit trying to keep it together. Next stop was Sergeant Murphy’s, so I headed over there as soon as I could stand up and walk straight. I knocked a few times and he opened the door.

“Private Karlson. Good news. I just spoke with Dr. Powell, and he informed me that as long as I don’t intend to put you on the front lines as an infantryman he’ll OK your physical exam. Now all I need you to do is autograph this one sheet of paper right here and we’re on a roll.” I picked up the pen and signed it where he pointed. “Excellent. Now let’s talk about your MOS.”

“Oh yeah, sure, you mean the job thing, right?” I said, sitting down in the chair across the desk from him.

“Well, based on the results of your aptitude test you have two excellent careers to choose from in the army. You can either be a photographer or a cook,” he said, with a huge grin. I just sat there looking out the window. Didn’t he tell me I could pick what I wanted to do if I joined?

“Well, ya know, Sarge, I really wanted to be a carpenter. I’m pretty good at workin’ with my hands.”

“I’m sure you are, Private Karlson, but the test showed these two fields are the ones you’re best suited for. And the U.S. Army always likes to put a man in the most appropriate place. Besides, a carpenter has to go out in the field and construct new buildings where the enemy can take pot shots at him all day long. A cook on the other hand gets to stay in the main base area where he watches movies, plays music, eats all the delicious food that the army offers its men, while relaxing in safety.”

“Whatcha talkin’ ’bout—gettin’ shot at? I thought we’d won that war by now?”

“Well, we’ve almost won. Word from the front is that it’s almost over. By the time you get out of basic training that little skirmish will be history.”

“I dunno nothin’ about cameras or takin’ pictures or anything like that.”

“You know, Private Karlson, you look like you’d make an excellent cook and you could certainly use the good nutrition the army provides. Why, who knows? You might even become a great chef some day, work your way up to cook for a general or, maybe, even the President of the United States. Or, if you choose to do something else when you end your military career, you will always have the GI Bill which guarantees you an education. You’ll be able to change careers if you’re not happy for any reason,” he stated convincingly.

“Well, . . . you sound like you know what the best thing is, and if I can’t be a carpenter, then that’s as good as anything, I guess.”

“You’ve made an excellent choice for yourself and your country, Private Karlson. You’ll receive a notice in the mail of where and when to report to boot camp.”

“I’ve heard about this boot camp shit. Don’t sound like much fun.”

“Boot camp is where they get you in good physical shape. It’s hard work, but they’ll make a man out of you. They’ll turn that pathetic body of yours into a lean, mean, fighting machine.”

Hmm, I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.

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I left the recruiter’s office, dropped a couple more ’ludes, chugged a bottle of codeine cough syrup, and hopped on a bus headed for home. This is some scary shit. Boot camp. What the hell is that place gonna be like? And me, a cook? I haven’t cooked anything in years. And what about my jones? How the hell am I gonna get clean before boot camp?

By the time I got home I needed a fix. I was almost out of dope and had to find a place to score. I still had some cash, so I called a dealer friend in the next town to buy some horse. He said he could sell me enough to last a few days, at wholesale, like I’d done for him a few times in the past. We connected, got off together, and did the deal.

Four days went by and I’d totally forgotten about the army when a letter arrived: “You will report to Ft. Dix army base on December 26, 1969.”

Holy shit! I’m in the fucking army. Jesus Christ, how the hell am I gonna pull this off? I couldn’t believe I’d actually joined the army. I must have been nuts—what the hell was I thinking? That’s just two days from now. What am I gonna do?

I got wasted and stayed that way until I had to catch the bus to Ft. Dix. Even though it seemed crazier than all the other weird shit I’d done in my life, somehow I knew I had to go through with it. I packed some clothes, shot some dope, and got on the bus, nodding off most of the way. We finally reached a small-town station, and another bus came by and took about ten of us onto the base.

“OK, ladies, get off that fucking bus right now and get your sorry asses into that building over there!” shouted some guy in a uniform. I stood in a line, finally entered the building, and gave another army guy the letter that had come in the mail.

“Head right over there, soldier,” he said.

There was a short line with three men and three barber chairs. One of them pushed me into a chair, took electric clippers, and started lopping off all my hair. I watched as the hair fell onto my clothes and down to the floor. About thirty seconds later I was bald.

They marched a bunch of us over to another line where we stood for almost an hour out in the snow. Then we were given army duds—a uniform, boots, a cap, and a jacket. It all looked the same—dark green. I followed the line out the back door and saw a group of guys who, like me, had just gotten their heads shaved and were standing in rows. Some black dude with a mountie hat was yelling at everyone.

“Let’s go, swinging dicks. You are now in the United States Army. For the next two months, I own you. While ‘Jody’ is home in your bed fucking your old lady you are going to be right here freezing your ass off, doing push-ups in the snow. I’m going to work your lazy butts so hard you’ll wish you never had one.

“You are going to become men. Real men! The kind who will go into battle and fight to win or proudly die for your country,” said the sergeant who was meaner looking than any of the whackos I grew up with.

“Now head into those barracks over there. You will be assigned a bunk and a locker by Corporal Johnson. DO IT NOW! RUN!” he shouted at us. Guys were dropping their new duds all over the place. The sarge even kicked one guy in the ass. I walked as fast as I could and still hold onto my stuff.

“This is your rack and you can put your gear in there,” said the corporal, pointing to a stand-up locker. I threw my shit on the bunk. There was a footlocker at the end of the bed. I unloaded most of my stuff into it, buried my dope at the bottom under all my clothes, and lay down on the bed. I was beat, and by this time my high was wearing off. I took a few ’ludes to hold me over.

“Get those new uniforms on and then move it out. It’s chow time. The mess hall is just south of this building. Let’s go now, troops!” The corporal was like a mellower version of the sergeant. He had the same bullshit attitude, but not quite as tough even though he tried to act like it.

The army clothes hung off me like a potato sack. The huge green jacket was warm and bulky. The boots fit pretty good and I liked the feel of them on my feet. I got to the mess hall and stood in another line. Jesus Christ, everywhere you go there are lines. I finally got a tray and they served up some food. Pot roast, mashed potatoes, corn—not too bad. I sat with all the other new bald recruits, everyone looking away from everyone else.

As soon as I finished eating I headed back to the barracks. Two other guys had been assigned to my room. They looked pretty dorky—not cool at all. The corporal came back, made sure we had our “shit together,” and then told us to meet him outside on the lot. There were about sixty of us out there on a cold gray New Jersey day with about a foot of snow on the ground. The same loudmouthed sergeant who hassled us earlier was there to greet us.

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“All right! You are now trainees in the United States Army and your sweet little asses are mine for the next two months. You will do EVERYTHING I tell you to do. And I mean EVERYTHING! If I tell you to pick up every cigarette butt in this parking lot with your asshole, YOU WILL DO IT. If I tell you to wash the latrine with a toothbrush, or even your tongue, YOU WILL DO IT. If I tell you to come up here in front of all these men and kiss my black butt, you will obey my orders. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?”

“Yes,” the weary crowd of bald men mumbled.

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“Yes, sir,” the group shouted back halfheartedly.

“I am not a SIR! Officers are sirs, I am a DRILL SERGEANT! You will say, YES, DRILL SERGEANT! Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant!” the men shouted.

“I CAAAAAN’T HEEEEEAR YOOOOOU!” he yelled back at us.

“Yes, Drill Sergeant!” we responded loudly. ‘What is this guy’s problem?’ I thought.

“I STILL CAN’T HEAR YOU!” he screamed.

“Yes, Drill Sergeant!” we screamed back.

“Get down and give me twenty push-ups, you sorry pieces of shit,” he commanded. Push-ups? In the snow? This guy’s crazy! I tried but could barely do one. Thank God I was in the back row where he couldn’t see me very well. He stood up front screaming at us for another ten minutes. This is gonna be a nightmare with this dude. Then he began to teach us how to march. My body was starting to cry out for a fix, and there I was, marching around this parking lot in the snow, no hair, freezing my ass off, my body needing dope, and this asshole is screaming at us like we’re kids. I don’t think this is gonna work out. This is fucking lunacy. What am I gonna do?

After two hours of screaming at us and forcing us to march around in the pitch dark like a bunch of jerks, he finally let us go back to our barracks. I thought I would pass out from total exhaustion. As soon as the other guys weren’t looking I got my stash out, found a storage room, and shot up. God, it was good. My jones was hitting me hard. That was one of the longest times I’d gone without dope in years. The ’ludes would tide me over for a bit, but they could never take the place of the real stuff—smack. I had enough left for maybe two more decent hits.

The lights went out at nine o’clock whether we liked it or not. I was beat and it felt good to hit the sack. I drifted off into a deep sleep.

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“All right, you sorry motherfuckers. Get out of those bunks and give me ten push-ups!” The light blinded me as I tried to open my eyes. ‘Huh, what?’ I thought I was having a bad dream or something.

“Hey, what the hell’s goin’ on? The sun ain’t even up yet,” I mumbled. Someone grabbed me by my feet and yanked me right off my bunk. My body slammed to the floor. I looked up and there he was, scowling at me.

“What did you say to me, you whiney little turd?” he asked with the coldness of an ice cube.

“Naaa, I didn’t say nothin’, Drill Sergeant.”

“Turn over and give me twenty, you skinny little prick. NOW!” I rolled over on my stomach and tried to do the push-ups. I forced myself to do maybe three. That was it. My body couldn’t do even one more.

“Three half-ass push-ups. Is that all you can do, three lousy push-ups?” He put his boot in the middle of my back and leaned into it. “Now, do just one more, Private,” he demanded. I couldn’t budge.

‘You scumbag,’ I thought. All I could think about was going home, getting my .38, and blowing his fucking head off.

“We’re going to have lots of fun together, you and me,” he said seductively. He lifted his foot off my back and left the room without another word. I quickly got some ’ludes and popped three of them, pissed off. I just might have to kill that black bastard.

A corporal stormed into the barracks and said we had ten minutes to be outside on the lot. We rushed to put our new gear on and ran outside. There he was, standing there with that tough-ass look on his face. Drill Sergeant Daniels was his name. The number of trainees had swelled overnight. There must have been a hundred of us on the lot that morning.

“Ladies, the fun and games are over. Now we’re going to get downright serious. You are going to learn how to fight. You will march, run, shoot weapons, and hustle your ass off. And, you will do EVERYTHING I tell you to do. DO YOU HEAR ME?” he cried out.

“Yes, Drill Sergeant!” we yelled.

“I said, DO YOU HEAR ME?”

“YES, DRILL SERGEANT!” we shouted back.

“Good, because from now on you WILL do EVERYTHING I say and you will do it EXACTLY as I instruct you.” And then we began to march again.

“Left, right, left, right. Come on, troops, sing along! Left, right, left, right, keep it going. Rock steady, Charley company, rock steady,” he sang out as we marched.

We were banging into each other, tripping on each other’s feet, falling in the dark. I asked a guy with a watch what time it was, “Four o’clock,” he told me. Jesus Christ! Four in the morning and we’re out here marching around in the snow like some high school band. This is ridiculous. My body was crying out for dope.

The sun finally broke the horizon and we were allowed to go back to our barracks, shower up, and get some grub. As soon as my two barracks mates left the room I shot up a few bags just to take the edge off. I couldn’t do too much or I wouldn’t be able to function. I had enough dope for about one more hit, two if I really stretched it. What was I gonna do after that? The time was getting closer.

The rest of the day was the same bullshit—marching, push-ups, jogging, being shouted at and put down by that asshole of a sergeant. Twice I was kicked for “falling out” when I stumbled in the snow or slipped on some ice. I popped a few ’ludes throughout the day just to keep me going but saved the rest of my dope for later. I was never so tired in my life. I can’t do this shit. I should just tell them it was a mistake. I’m a junkie, let ’em kick me out now.

Right after lunch we were taken to a small building in the woods. They picked out five men and I was one of them. We were given gas masks and instructed how to put them on. The sergeant and his men also had gas masks on. Then we were led into the building, which had a funny mist floating around inside it.

One of the sergeant’s assistants pulled me aside and asked me to say my name, rank, and social security number. I never could remember that number, especially when I was being put on the spot. As soon as he asked me the question he yanked the gas mask off my head. “Eric Karlson, Private, 156 . . . auggh, uh, uh, 4, cough, cough.” My eyes began to tear and burn. I gagged. The fumes were choking the shit out of me. I ran outside coughing my brains out and spitting for about ten minutes. My skin and my eyes felt like they had been scorched.

The other men came bursting through the door just as violently out into the fresh air. I popped a few more ’ludes when no one was looking and sat cursing those assholes for putting me through this bullshit. They gave us the rest of the day off. Maybe they felt guilty, but I doubted it.

I held off until late afternoon, as long as I could before shooting my last few bags of dope. Just before bed I took a couple more ’ludes in hopes that I could make it until morning. I was out of dope and my mind churned all night, knowing the pills I had left just wouldn’t cut it anymore. It was payback time. Cold turkey was right around the corner. I’d never gone more than one day over the past six years without getting high on something. Could I do it?

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