Heroin Chronicles (12 page)

L.Z. H
ANSEN
came to New York City in the early 1980s at seventeen years old, from London, England. She lived in the Chelsea Hotel and Hell's Kitchen before eventually settling in the East Village. Hansen has worked as a hair and makeup stylist, clothing store owner, streetwalker, speedball addict, escort, massage parlor owner, writer, and madam. She has been published in various magazines and anthologies, has spoken at colleges on her life and writing, and is working on her first novel. Hansen hosts her own monthly reading series, and enjoys life in the East Village, where she resides with her family.

going down

by l.z. hansen

S
treets were hot, stinking hot. Sticky cans and discarded food collected around full garbage cans, and the flies were feasting. I felt cold. Goose bumps stood out on my arms
. I noticed blood spots on the sleeve of my white long-sleeved shirt. I rolled them up just enough to hide the blood while still covering the pit of my elbow.

Sweat trickled down my back, and made me squirm.

A banged-up undercover cop car crawled past. The windows were rolled down, and two fat cops were sucking air. I slowed down and stood under a torn awning so they wouldn't see me.

One of them was the bastard who stopped me two nights ago on Rivington. On the street they called him Flash. I didn't know if it was in reference to Flash the superhero or the Queen song. I hadn't copped yet, but Flash swore he'd seen me score. He pulled me into a stairwell to pat me down. I knew he wasn't allowed, but there was nothing I could do. I was lucky he didn't plant something, and take me in. It's best to let the cops do whatever they are going to do. He felt me up, and stuck his hands down my pants. I think he wanted me to resist. The fact that I didn't pissed him off, and he told me to fuck off.

“Mama, youse looking for the good shit?” A man with one eye and one leg steadied himself against the wall. He smiled a toothless grin.

“No. Leave me alone.” I said. The man's face stayed with me. One eye, one leg, and no teeth. I wondered what else he had lost. If I had one eye I'd wear a patch. Don't see too many girls with an eye patch.

Walk down Avenue C. It's so quiet, and still daytime. The fiends weren't fiending, yet.

Houston Street. I saw a young hip-hop kid selling Road Runner by the Parkside Lounge.

Butterflies flipped in my gut as I neared the buzzing block. The seller was wearing a lot of gold, and stood out too much. I had five hundred dollars on me, which when transferred into dope, should have been enough to get me through the weekend, but it never did. It's never enough
. Money had lost all meaning to me. It had become various amounts of heroin. My new currency. A hundred bucks meant a bundle; fifty, half a bundle; ten bucks, a bag; five bucks, a pack of smokes, not enough for a bag, and therefore meaningless. An annoying little piece of paper, unless accompanied by another five dollars, which had meaning, a whole bag of heroin.

A haggard street hooker stood in front of me in the dope line, and bought one bag. A nice-looking rock dude, the type I liked, pushed in front of me.

“Yo, da lady waz in front of youse,” the dealer said.

Rock dude looked at me with hollow eyes and stepped back. Shame, looked like a cool guy, minus the dope.

“How many, Mama?”

“Five bundles.”

“I got youse, I got youse …” He smiled flirtatiously. Then reached into his underwear and pulled out five bundles, tightly wrapped in rubber bands. I traded, money for heroin.

Beautiful. All's okay with the world. Now nothing could go wrong today. I felt my security blanket surround me.

“Thanks. Will you be here later?” Don't know why I said that, but I always did.

Walk quickly, quickly. Get off the block, off the block. Don't want to get stopped by the cops now. Hands deep in pockets, holding my life line.

It felt so good to have dope on me. It was the only time in my day that I could slow down, and view the world I had long ago stepped out of. The sky, the blue-blue cloudless sky, the people, feelings. I felt powerful and … safe at that moment. No one could touch me.

Then a large sweaty man appeared out of nowhere.

“Lady, please, you got a few dollars? I gotta get straight.”

“Err … Hell no!” I looked at him like he was insane. I got mine, fuck him. Why would I give money away? That's bullshit. I felt guilty at being so cold and mean, but everyone for themselves, right?

I looked back, and saw him watching me. He made me nervous, and broke my momentary blissful view of the real world. I was bought back into my universe.

I saw Marilyn walking with a young, thin Hispanic male I didn't recognize.

“Marilyn!” I yelled.

Thank God, perfect timing. I could go over to her pad to get straight, instead of using the filthy bathroom at Odessa Restaurant.

“Can I use your place?” She knew what I meant.

“I was going to Tito's, you can get straight there. Got a bag for me?” she said smiling, linking arms.

Tito walked ahead, not talking. He took his T-shirt off and mopped his brow with it. He had a rough jailhouse tattoo of Jesus crying on the cross in the middle of his back.

I trusted Marilyn. She had been out on these streets her entire life, and knew everyone. Every dealer, hustler, whore, and thief. In this life of disease, Marilyn was a beam of sunshine. She was always smiling. Even though she had little to smile about. She whored on Allen Street for ten bucks a pop and told me horrific tales of her life of abuse. Her ability to forgive and forget was astounding, and unusual. She had asked me why I spoke with an accent. I told her I was from London, England. She asked where that was, and if they spoke a different language there.

We headed to 3rd Street between Avenues C and D. The south side of the street was an open lot, where a building used to be. It burned down. Now, children played on strewn rubble and junkies turned tricks on discarded mattresses.

Tito pushed open the front door to the building. The lock was broken, and the hall stunk of piss and garbage. He angrily kicked an empty can of beer down the hall. It rattled into a corner and made me jump. Did he really have to do that? Asshole.

It was dark, the lightbulb was blown. We followed him to the second floor, to the back apartment.

Graffiti, newspapers, scattered bits of broken everything were everywhere. A young man was standing in a corner stooped over, on the nod, with an unlit cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. He looked frozen.

“Wake up!” Tito bellowed in the man's face. The guy opened one eye, smiled a crooked grin, and went back to his dreams.

Tito banged loudly, and put his ear against the door.

It clicked open and we all filed in past Tito's mother. She said she was going out to the liquor store.

How did people live in these filthy cramped places?

A sink was overfilled with plates and flies. Two shirtless men, one younger than the other, smoked crack at the kitchen table, filling the air with a sickly sweet smell. I held my breath.

“Yo, my man, Jojo? You gotta leave, dude. My mama needs you outta here,” Tito said.

“She cool, I gave her money to go get two forties. I ain't leaving right now anyways. I gotta get me some more rock,” Jojo replied.

“Yo, you can't sit here all motherfuckin' day … You been here two days, motherfucker, give me some more money then … nigga.”

“I already give you fifty yesterday, fifty last night, motherfucker … Fuck you, T.”

I followed Marilyn to the bathroom, passing Jojo, who eyed me up and down, licking his shiny lips. He was dripping in sweat, and his eyes were black and crazed. He made me nervous. I had to get straight, then get out of there fast.

“Where you find the white girl? Damn, I need me some white bitch … She got money, T?”

“Shut the fuck up … hell if I know …”

I heard them talk back and forth about me as though I wasn't there. I locked us in the small bathroom. I'd be quick. Gotta get straight.

I took the toilet seat. Marilyn took the edge of the bathtub. We quickly set up. I could do this blindfolded.

I wondered how many times I had stuck a needle in my arm … in my whole life? I shoulda kept a record.

I handed Marilyn a bag. She smiled and thanked me.

“What if the world runs out of water …?” Marilyn asked.

“Huh?” Marilyn often came up with these bizarre paranoid thoughts.

“What if there's no more water on the earth, then what?” she asked, drawing up from a leaking bathtub tap.

“Don't worry about it,” I said, annoyed, tying my arm with a shoelace.

“I mean, if there's no water, how are we gonna get high?”

“What?” I'd gone through this with her last week. “Babe, ain't never gonna happen … Look at the ocean, for God's sake, there's enough water for the whole world of heroin addicts to shoot up with.”

“You sure 'bout that.”

“Swear.”

“Ain't it salty?”

Motherfuck!

“Think of all the rivers then … Babe, of all the things to worry about, that isn't something you should think about … really!”

Thankfully, she shut up for a minute.

Marilyn skin-popped because she'd long ago lost every vein in her body. She had large gouged-out craters all over her limbs, where she'd stuck herself a billion times. Once I'd watched her try to fix in the artery in the middle of her forehead.

The dope had already hit her, and she was feeling good, and beginning to ramble. Nothing worse than a fucking dope fiend feeling good when you're still trying to find a vein.

“Motherfuck. I fucking hate this fuck shit, fuck. My life is HELL!” I spat out furiously, as I tied up my other arm.

Sweat poured off my face. I was soaking wet. So was Marilyn. Still she smiled.

I couldn't get a hit. It was hotter than the devil's bedroom, and I couldn't breath. Sweat trickled into my eyes. I wanted to cry, but was too angry.

Blood dripped onto the floor. I marveled at how perfectly round and dark the drops were.

I heard Tito arguing outside the door.

I was so frustrated at repeatedly sticking myself; my works were filled with blood, and I didn't want them to clog. I finally asked Marilyn to hit me.

She grabbed my left arm, twisted it around, and squeezed. A decent vein I'd never seen appeared. She jabbed the needle in with one hand, while holding my arm tight with the other.

“You should have been a nurse,” I said, as dark blood registered.

“Shoulda coulda …” She smiled.

I tasted the heroin. Warmth. Comfort. Relief.

At that moment, I loved Marilyn. Love. All's okay.
I really must control my anger
.

“There ya go.” She pulled the spike out, and pressed her thumb to the spot that dripped blood. Her nails were dirty.

Nice. Not bad shit for Road Runner.
Don't know why I get so pissed anyway.

We heard a loud crash and a scuffle. Jojo was threatening to burn the place up and kill me and Marilyn. Tito was yelling to get the fuck out, but Jojo said he needed money. Something smashed against a wall.

Marilyn and I locked eyes. She motioned to get into the bathtub. We did, and closed the shower curtains, quietly. Not that this was doing any good. We couldn't disappear and they knew we were in there. I thought Marilyn believed if she closed her eyes, no one else could see her.

Adrenaline and fear ruined my high.

We waited for something.

I was wondering how I got into these situations. I began making a deal with God that if I got out of this jam, I'd think about making some changes. Stupid negotiations I'd made with my God many times before … but somehow He'd always listened, long after I'd given up on myself. I seemed to live in someone else's life—how did my world become so … abstract?

“It's Jojo. He crazy, that crack shit turns him into el diablo, he with the Kings, he OG.” Marilyn put her finger to her mouth listening. “Oh shit, he wants Tito to give him more money.”

“Why? Tito has money?” I asked.

“No, he ain't got shit.”

I prayed that the door to the bathroom wouldn't fly open.

“What does he want?” I whispered. My mouth was dry, I needed water, badly.

“Dope, money, what else is there?” Yeah, what else is there?

I looked at the peeling ceiling … and the tap that was leaking down Marilyn's back … Who cleans this place? Soap scum ringed the tub … my arm still hurt.

I needed a cigarette … always needed something.

The door to the bathroom suddenly blew open. I was terrified. The shower curtain was torn down. Jojo's face was deranged, a vein in his forehead looked swollen and about to burst.

“Get out. Get the fuck outta the fucking room NOW!” he yelled.

“Oh no, Jojo, don't do this,” Marilyn begged.

“Where the dope?” he demanded, staring at me. “I know you got it.”

He grabbed me by my hair, twisted it around his hand, and stuck a kitchen carving knife under my chin. The point pressed into my jaw bone, forcing my head upward. Jojo whispered between clenched teeth. His breath stunk like monkey balls, and he spit saliva onto my cheek with each word. I squinted my eyes, breathing through my mouth. His eyes were black and manic. His lower jaw jutted from side to side in spasms. His face and shoulders were twitching and jumping. He'd obviously been up for days smoking crack.

Jojo yanked me out of the tub and pulled me into the kitchen, ordering Marilyn to walk in front of us. He referred to the younger guy as D, who was holding a gun to Tito's head.

D then put the gun in the middle of Tito's back and walked him into the back room.

Tito yelled: “Jojo, I can't believe you, man, how long I know you, motherfucker, how long I known you? Damn, nigga …”

“It ain't personal … Shut the fuck up anyways!” Jojo screeched.