(Dean & Casey are in the bathroom of a bar getting ready to shoot-up after finding a dead addict in one of the stalls. They took his hypodermic.)
There was a glass on the sink and Dean filled it with water and they each stuck the nozzles of their gimmicks into the glass and sucked up the liquid. Dean sprayed the water onto the powder in the spoon and a couple of flecks of tobacco rose to the top of the water. He found an old Q-Tip in his shirt pocket and pulled a small piece of cotton off the top. He rolled it around in his finger to ball it up.
He dropped the cotton into the liquid, pulled out a pack of matches, struck three at once and held them under the spoon. The liquid began to bubble and he lay down the spoon on the edge of the sink and shook the matches out as they began to burn his finger tips.
“Hey, watch my cooker,” he yelled as Casey put his down on the sink.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” said Casey.
“Yeah, easy for you to say,” muttered Dean through gritted teeth as he bit down on the belt that he had tied around his arm. The dropper was full of junk. Dean probed the old hole in his vein and pushed the needle into the familiar place. He felt it pull a little.
“Shit,” he thought, “a fucking burr on the point.” He knew he would have to sharpen it on a matchbook but hoped he could get the hit. It was a lot easier to work after the dope made him well again.
Casey sagged to the floor. He looked up at Dean with eyes like slits and pupils like pin-points.
“Not too bad,” he said. “But I shoulda done three, ya know. I remember when the quality was much better than this.”
Dean moved his head slightly to agree but he was totally focused on the sprig of blood that shot up the dropper’s neck as he made the hit. He squeezed the pacifier. The contents of the dropper had almost disappeared into his arm when he paused and let up on the pressure. The blood and water booted back into the glass tube and then he squeezed again as the rush hit him and he sent it home.
His nose stopped running, his eyes dried up, the warm feeling hit his crotch, all the muscles in the back of his neck relaxed, and the tightness in his stomach just unwrapped like magic. He stood still, eyes half closed and his knees bent slightly. His fingers loosened on the bulb of the pacifier and the dropper began to fill slowly with blood.
Dean heard a voice coming from far away. It took him five minutes to respond.
“Clog. You are going to clog your rig.”
“Oh.” Dean pulled the needle out of his arm and pressed down on the bulb to spray the old blood into the sink. There was a brief hesitation and then the grimy porcelain sink was covered in red. He ran water through the point, then put the needle into the water again, began to draw the water up but his eyes closed, his head drooped down, and he stood like a statue.
Casey touched his arm and he opened his eyes.
“How long have we been in the bathroom?”, asked Dean.
“Too long. Let’s clean up and get back out there,” said Casey.
“What about him?” Dean pointed to the guy laying on the floor of the stall.
“Wow! I forgot about him.”
Casey walked over to the guy and began to go through his pockets.
“Hey, you got to split anything you find with me,” said Dean.
Casey looked up at Dean and smiled. He held up a bundle of bags and a few dollars.
(To Be Continued)