essays

The Rocking Chair

Posted by Klaus


She was leaning over the railing at the luggage conveyor. That was the first time I had seen my mother in over two years. I had my luggage in my hand and came around her from behind. Surprised that she hadn’t seen me yet. Wondering why she hadn’t seen me waiting for the luggage by the belt.

I came up and tapped her on the shoulder.

“Oh. I didn’t see you,” she says. “Did you already get your luggage?”

I hugged her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Mom. It’s so good to see you.”

“Did you get your luggage already,” she asked. “Dad is waiting outside.”

I carried my bag and walked next to her. The terminal doors swished open. The humidity stained the air. My father was waving to us. He was smiling but he looked sad to me. Something was different about my mother too.

Maybe it was just me. This was the first time I had seen them since I had kicked my heroin habit. After thirty-two years of shooting dope some things were bound to be changed.

Walked up to my father. Hugged him. He hugged me back. Everything felt strange. Maybe it was me.

“When is Stella and Irv coming in from the cruise?”, my mother asked.

“Tomorrow night,” my father said.

It was a brand new Buick. My father always did like Buicks. It seemed like a long ride to the condo from the airport. Everything different than I remembered it.

We made small talk as we rode. The kind of talking that you don’t remember later. I felt like smoking a cigarette. I needed a meeting. I watched the Florida landscape slip by. A man with shabby clothing held a sign as he stood at the exit of the interstate.

The sign said, “Will work for food. Please help.”

I looked at all the cars around me, passing the man standing by the highway. The air-conditioning blew cool air on my face as we passed the man with the sign. The sweat was beaded on his face.

“When is Stella and Irv coming in from the cruise?” my mother asked.

“Tomorrow night,” my father said.

They took me over to lunch at a kosher deli. More small talk. About different relatives. Who was sick. Who wasn’t sick. How hardly anyone went to the pool anymore. How everyone at the condo was getting older. Or dying.

I had a corned beef sandwich with pickles. My mother had a salad. My father had liver and onions. He only ate a little bit of it. I remembered he never really liked liver and onions that much.

When we got back to the condo I called the NA helpline. I needed a meeting. I felt numb and couldn’t process anything.

My father and I went out to the pool. We were the only ones there for a while. He had an old white sailor’s cap on. It was pulled down and it made him look like a boy with grey hair and wrinkles. He smiled with sad eyes as we talked.

One other person came out to the pool and talked with us for a while as we floated in the water. He had been a stockbroker. He still played with stocks and my father talked with him about the market.

I looked around the pool. There were six metal tables, about fifteen straight back chairs, and about 25 chaise lounges on the patio by the pool. There were close to eighty condos in this section of the complex. It was 92 degrees. There were three of us at the pool. Fifteen years ago, when my parents had first retired here the pool was always full.

A few days ago I heard there were some teenagers swimming at the pool. Someone called the police. They came and the teenagers left. On most days the water is still.

My father and I went back to change. Mom was sitting on the back porch in a rocking chair. She called out to us.

“When is Stella and Irv coming in from the cruise?”

My father glanced at me.

“Tomorrow night,” he answered.

“Oh,” was what she said. And kept rocking.

I changed into dry clothes. My father went to lay down and take a nap in the living room. Other than when company came over that was the only time anyone ever used the living room.

I looked around the den. I had moved in there when I had first gotten out of prison. My parents had gone to the show the first night that I was there. My dad had an old prescription bottle filled with narcotics in the fridge and I ate them all. I passed out with a cigarette in my hand. Left a two inch burn in the den rug.

It was a new rug. It was ten years later.

That night, after supper, I went out to a meeting. No one showed up except for me. I read recovery literature and walked back to the condo. It was just me and my mind. The company couldn’t have been worse.

My parents were already in bed by the time I got home. I turned the light out and listened to the fan on the ceiling spin. It was right over the bed. I imagined what would happen if it were to fall on me while I slept, still spinning as it dropped. The imagination is limited when it comes to the real. Things get left out.

The morning light crept under the shade. I got up and went to the bathroom. Then I prayed and meditated. There was a meeting near the apartment today that I knew would happen but I was afraid anyway. For me, the alternative to meetings was unacceptable.

My mother was sitting on the back porch rocking in the chair. They had closed in the golf course out back with new condominiums. I missed the vegetation that had surrounded the course.

My father walked into the room.

“She rocks all the time since the sickness. She asks the same questions over and over. I don’t know what to do so I just let her rock.”

There were tears in his eyes.

I walked out to the porch and asked her if she wanted to come in for breakfast.

“In a little while,” she said.

There were tears in her eyes.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m all right,” she said.

She didn’t look directly at me. She stared out at the golf course. There were so many tears in her eyes that I didn’t know what was keeping them from spilling down her cheeks.

I put my hand on her shoulder.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Let me rock,” was what my mother said.

I walked back into the den. My father was sitting there. There were tears behind my sunglasses that he couldn’t see. I felt an impulse to keep them from running down my cheek. My father was crying.

“Let her rock,” was all he said.

So we did.

Femme Fatale

Posted by Klaus


She walked through the door with one of my regular customers and all eyes locked on to her. She knew it too. As she moved I watched her walk, tall, beautiful, swaying slowly. Her eyes dropped into mine. Little did I know Heather was going to play a major part in my life, and then take me down.

Before she came along, I really thought I was doing well. Not like light cream but close to half and half. Supporting my two kids after Debbie, their mother, took off with the drummer of the band that had played at my summer party. I should have known she was going his way when he ate the light bulb on stage.

Really. A fucking light bulb. Little streams of blood ran down his chin; some of my guests just stood and stared. Their eyes were glued to him. I asked him later how he did that. He said, “You just have to chew real good. Glass is just sand anyway.” But Debbie left with him and told me to “keep the fuckin’ kids. I never wanted them anyway.”

Dealing pot was a great way to support the family. I got to stay home with the kids most of the time except when I had to make a pick-up. On the weekends, when it got really busy, I’d hire a baby-sitter. I’d still be home but there’d be a line of people waiting. If I didn’t live in the country, I never could have pulled it off.

People thought I had it made. There were stone walls all over the area and I would stash bundles of bills in different areas. I kept the weed in a special compartment in my pigpen. Who would think that the stash was in the pigpen? They ate anything. I also fed them meat from local restaurants. I drove up in my pick-up truck and loaded the barrels of food they scraped off peoples plates. The pigs went wild.

It took me about five minutes just to get into the pen. I had to pet the biggest pig, scratch it’s back until it rolled over and then rub its belly before I dared climb in. Pigs aren’t as friendly as one might think. Only then could I go through the latches on the double doors on the floor of the pen to get to the weed.

My assistant would entertain the guests, passing a joint around the waiting room until I returned with the amount of reefer necessary.

I kept the small stuff right in the house but, when other dealers came, I had to go to the stash. They thought my stash was deep in the woods because it took about 10 to 15 minutes to get it but it was just behind the barn.

The mother of my children (Debbie) wasn’t my Femme Fatale. She was the woman who walked in the door with my customer. Heather. My customer made the first mistake. He sent the Femme Fatale down to my weight room where I prepared the amount to be sold. He was too interested in the joint going around the room.

While I weighed everything up, I asked her if she was dating my customer. She said she was, but would I like her to get rid of him and come back. I should have known the penalty flags were down but I told her she would be welcome.

The next day she came back. We got high, we made love, she moved in. The first penalty flag was when I laid out lines of cocaine. Heather looked at me and said, “I hope you don’t mind,” as she took a hypodermic out of her pocketbook. I smiled at her and went into my bedroom and got mine.

How it begins, so it ends. After two years of running wild with Heather and a major bust in Worcester with 15 pounds of weed, we fled to Oregon and took up dealing there, both of us living as fugitives. But when you are in the life, the life has a way of coming back at you. Both of us were dropped by the police in McMinnville, Oregon.

I took the weight of the charges because I was so in love. Heather was so in love that, as soon as she got out, she moved in with one of my friends who had a thing for armed robbery. Heather always had a yen for guns, both the hypodermic type and the snub-nose 38’s.

My first residence in Massachusetts was the Worcester County House of Correction, which I always thought was a misnomer. I came out worse than I went in. While I was there, Heather and her new beau took a heavy rap and she called me and asked whether she should throw the weight on him. Because I had no love for him, and no more for her either, I just told her to do what her conscience told her to do.

That was a joke because her conscience didn’t exist. Heather had him set up going to his stash of guns. He was out on parole looking at another 15 years for violation. My time was almost up when Heather got out so I stayed away from her. Her new beau went down for the fifteen years.

From that point on I realized the only woman I could trust was named junk, a.k.a. heroin. I went on a long slide into the streets and found myself holding a cup in Porter Square, Cambridge. I saw someone selling Spare Change News, asked them about the paper and then went and signed up as a vendor.

It was March of 1993 when I started working my first honest job in over a decade. It’s 2013 now and I’m drug-free and a member of the Board of the paper with a regular column. Happily married too! If someone had told me about the journey I was going to make, I would not have believed them. It’s been a long road and I left out quite a bit of the story.

One day I’ll tell it and change the names to protect the innocent. But first, I’d have to figure out who they would be.

The Detox Blues: A Memoir: (Conclusion)

Posted by Klaus


(My wife and I were high after busting her out of detox and, after getting drugs from a couple of doctors, I was in a dream.)

The priest looked at me and said “let us pray” in a sing-song voice and he got down on his knees. I heard him moan and I ran out of the church. As I ran I heard a woman singing.

There was a phone booth in front of the church and I had to call my wife to make sure she was all right. There was a man using the phone. He turned and smiled at me as I walked up. He was missing some teeth and his eyes were shining blue light and spittle was flying out of his mouth as he talked into the phone.

I heard him say that I was dead and wouldn’t be coming back to the treatment center and a panic hit me like I knew the night would never end and I ran. He ran after me with one pants leg flapping loose and I only had one shoe on and the gravel burned my foot and I looked back and he was laughing from his eyes and I knew he would catch me. I tripped and was still falling when I could smell his breath hot and rotten and I felt myself slipping away.

I woke up screaming.

My wife and the guy had rented a small place in Ludlow and after eight days the police came and picked him up for violation of parole because he was court committed to the treatment center as a condition of release. They lugged him back to prison.

Sascha started coming around to the treatment center and asked me if I would go back with her. The counselor there said he thought I should go into a halfway house and keep away from my wife for a while. Right before the interview for the halfway house I left treatment and moved back in with my wife but things didn’t seem like they used to be.

Three days later I cashed a refill for some Klonopin and then went to a doctor for some cough syrup. We didn’t have enough money to fill the script so we pawned the TV. On the way back I was too messed up to drive and sideswiped a chain link fence. A section of it came down and my wife took over the wheel and we sped away before anyone came.

Two days later when my retroactive disability check came to our post office box I went to another doctor to get a script and he said that the pharmacy had called him and that I had been going to doctors all over the state to get narcotics and everyone had my name. He told me if I ever came back again he was going to call the police and I was through around here. He was still yelling at me and I gave him the finger as I left the office.

Sascha and I went to a bar and had a few drinks so we could think straight and we decided to move to South Carolina with the money so we could start fresh and make a new life for ourselves. That night we loaded the truck wit the stuff that we wanted and left for South Carolina before the sun came up. I was starting to get dope-sick so we stopped in the Great Brook Valley projects in Worcester to buy some heroin so we could make it to New York City. We figured we could get enough in New York to hold us for the entire trip.

The stuff we got in New York was so good that we stopped in a motel just past Washington and didn’t leave the motel till it was all gone. We started stopping at doctors in the small towns on the way down and once Sascha fell asleep at the wheel and we scraped a cement bridge and the truck spun around on the highway but nobody else hit us. I took over the driving.

When we got to South Carolina we found a place to rent really fast and it was a lot cheaper than up north. We were really excited as we moved into the new place and I went to a small medical center and got a script for cough syrup and pills and we celebrated that night.

I fell asleep with a cigarette and when I woke up the couch was smoking and I could hardly see. I opened the windows and the door and poured water on the couch. I fell asleep next to Sascha on the bed with my clothes on and that night I had a dream about a church again but this time the church was empty and I got down on my knees and cried.

(Obviously there is more to the story. Another chapter has been written and it is called Getting Fixed In South Carolina and it is on a spoken word CD performed by the Jeff Robinson Trio.)

The Detox Blues: A Memoir (Part Four)

Posted by Klaus


(Wife out of detox and we’re both high; just cut someone off on the road accidently but he’s after us now.)

The cat was on us again like maggots on garbage. Coming real close and looking real grim when I peeped at him in the rear view mirror. We were just getting into town and the lights on the highway were green. I saw that the light by the Mobil gas station just changed to orange and I had to stop. When I stopped I left some space between me and the car in front of me.

I looked into the rear view mirror and I saw him ripping out of his car with a crow bar in his hand and he looked like this giant Paul Bunyan woodsman over six feet tall and I knew that I was screwed.

I figured I’d have as much chance as a pigeon in a wolf pack if I went physical with him and I was so frightened that my bowels felt like they’d turned to oil. I hit the gas and yanked the steering wheel to the right and flew through that Mobil gas station like it was an interstate. My wife yelled at me as we pulled out into the adjacent roadway as an oncoming car swung wildly around us blaring on the horn and I told her to “just shut up” and she did. The guy chasing us jumped back into his car and was on us again.

He had anger fueling his jets but I was running for my life so I had some edge on the creep. The light turned red ahead and I flew through it like it was bumper-car city and pulled a sharp right with my wheels screaming for mercy. Looked back. Heart pounding. Sascha yelling at me. The cat was still coming but he’d lost a little ground. The thought of the gun back at the house ripped through my head and I knew why I never carried it with me anymore.

Red light ahead. Cars stopped in my lane. Sascha screamed as I crossed the line into the oncoming lane and took a left through the traffic. Horns were blowing and the screech of brakes all around, but I didn’t look back and hit the gas and the stores and people were flying by the truck in what was once the quiet streets of Rutland. I looked back to see if the guy was still coming.

When I looked back to see if the guy was still after us, I saw that he was nowhere in sight. I kept going, not to take any chances, and made rights and lefts as I flew through the streets of Rutland. Finally I was in the residential section of town.

I slowed the car down and my head and heart was still racing. I knew it was time to head home. I felt like my head from the drugs was almost gone but I figured that if I ate some more pills that it would creep back. So I did.

The next thing I remember was we were back at the house and the rabbit was in the wood stove. I had a glass of wine in front of me and Sascha was rolling a joint and talking about calling the detox tomorrow to see if she could get back in. We fell asleep and the rabbit burned all on the outside and we picked away the burnt flesh in the morning and cut up that meat that wasn’t burnt and ate it for breakfast. It was a good rabbit.

Sascha called the detox and they said the only way she could come back was if I didn’t come there to visit or call her. She decided to go and I dropped her back at Canterbury Farm.

The next day, sick and shaking, I checked into Serenity House and that put about 40 miles between Sascha and I. They had to medicate me heavily for about five days so I wouldn’t have a seizure.

I was still being withdrawn slowly from the Klonopin and I had been there seventeen days when they called me into the office. My counselor was there and they told me that they had something important to tell me and they sat me down. Right away I got frightened. I knew it was about my wife.

I was right. They said they had to tell me that my wife had left treatment this morning. She left with someone else. Another guy. I felt like my whole world spun into black holes and I got dizzy and didn’t know what to do. I wanted to run. I wanted to get high. The counselors talked to me for a while and I don’t remember much of what was said but my throat hurt all the time they were talking.

They kept talking and then gave me an extra dose of medication and they said that I could stay an extra 21 days because they thought I needed it. I said I would stay.

That night I had a dream. I was walking into a church and a man with blond hair and a black robe was standing there. He asked me if I had come to pray and I said that I wasn’t sure why I was there. I looked around and it appeared to be a Catholic church but something was different and I couldn’t tell what it was. I walked up the aisle between the benches and he walked with me. I looked up at the crucifix and she was up there all white and with her head tipped to the side and the nails were driven through her palms and feet and she hung there with marble tears on her cheeks. (To Be Concluded)

The Detox Blues: A Memoir (Part Two)

Posted by Klaus


(I was dope-sick, trying to cop from a doctor; my wife was in detox.)

I really wanted to smoke a cigarette to calm down but I didn’t want to walk in there stinking of tobacco so I just took some deep breaths and listened to the phlegm in my chest rattle. It sounded great. When she put the stethoscope to my chest she was going to hear all the right noises.

I walked into the office. There was an old woman sitting there. Doctors that treat old people sometimes are easier to make than others. I nodded to the old lady when she looked up at me and then sat down and picked up a magazine. I flipped through the pages and saw a couple of articles that looked interesting but I couldn’t keep my mind on them because I was always thinking of what to say to the doctor to get the drugs. My stomach was all nervous and I could feel it gnawing at itself. I had to urinate and I looked around for a bathroom. I didn’t see one and I hoped it wouldn’t be too long before I could go in.

The door opened and the doctor came out. She looked to be in her late thirties and wore brown glasses. Her hair was brown and hung loosely onto her shoulders with a little wisp over her glasses. The thought crossed my mind that I was glad that her hair wasn’t tied up in a bun. An old gent followed her out of the office and the old woman sitting near me smiled at him and stood up as he walked over to her. My heart leaped in my chest. They were together and I was next. The old woman was just waiting for her husband to come out of the office. I saw the scripts in his hand and I wondered what the doctor had given him.

They all talked for a few minutes and then the doctor motioned me in. Good. No nurse. I chatted with her as she took my weight, my blood pressure, and my respiration and pulse. I looked as she charted my blood pressure and I was happy to see that it was elevated. That always helped me get the pills.

She got up and left the room for a minute and I looked around to see if there was anything worth taking. Then she quickly returned. I told her how my chest was all congested and I had trouble sleeping at night with all the coughing.

“This happens to me every winter. Maybe I should move south. I don’t know. I just like the change of seasons.”

“Maybe you should quit smoking,” she said.

“Well, I’ve cut down a lot. I only smoke a few cigarettes a day.”

“You should quit altogether.”

“I’m planning on it soon. I haven’t smoked yet today.”

“I smell cigarettes on your clothes.”

“Oh, yeah. My wife is a heavy smoker. It would be easier for me to quit if she didn’t smoke so much.”

“I see. Well—-“ she paused.

I held my breath. My props were in front of her. My heart felt like it would pound out of my chest and it felt like ice cold water in my stomach.

She pulled the prescription pad out and I watched the pen move. Yes. Yes. Yes. She wrote for the Tussionex. Only four ounces but I didn’t have to share it with my wife because she was in treatment so it would be enough. She wrote for an inhaler. Fuck the inhaler. I would trash that script. And she wrote for the Klonopin. The benzo’s are great opiate boosters and my heart was dancing and leaping around in my chest. She pushed the papers to me and I folded them up and put them away quickly. I was afraid the doctor would change her mind at the last minute.

She made out the bill and I paid part of it and told her that I would mail the rest of it in. She took down my address. I always paid part of the bill if I had the money because it was better in case I went back there again. I could pay it off then and owe a whole bill next time. If a doctor kept writing I would keep paying. If they didn’t write I wouldn’t pay at all.

I left the office and drove over to the pharmacy. I hated this part. Some pharmacists were real assholes and would do their judgment thing and say they didn’t have the drug in stock just because they didn’t want to give it. I pulled into the parking lot, turned off the truck and got out. Took a deep breath and walked into the store.

The pharmacist had grey hair and his glasses rested down on a bump on the middle of his nose. The counter girl came over and I handed her the scripts. She asked me my address and wrote it on the scripts. I hated when they did that if they didn’t cash them because then you had to take it to another pharmacy and the evidence was there that a previous pharmacy had already turned you down.

The counter woman walked the scripts back to the pharmacist and he looked at them for what seemed like an eternity and then he started to type. He walked to the back and I saw the yellow thick liquid in the Tussionex bottle. He shook the bottle. I think I would have said something if he didn’t shake the bottle because it says that the active ingredients settle to the bottom and to shake it before you take it on the instructions. He poured and it came out slow and I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. I heard him shake the pills into the dispenser and then he finished typing and he handed the two packages to the girl.

She called my name. (To Be Continued…Part III click here please…)

The Detox Blues: A Memoir (Part Three)

Posted by Klaus


(My wife is in Detox. I can’t get into one for two days so I’m in the process of cashing a prescription because I’m dope-sick.)

I can’t describe the feeling when you walk out of the drug store with the stuff in your hand. It is like the whole world is yours and you got over on the best of them. I wanted to dance out of the store but I just walked. I strolled over to the coffee shop next door and took that piss that I had been holding since the doctor’s office and then ordered a coffee to down with the pills and the medicine. The hot coffee pumps the drugs into your system and there’s nothing so good as the cigarette with your coffee after the medicine slides down your throat. Then the high comes on.

I looked around the parking lot to see if anyone was watching. No one seemed close. I threw three 2 milligram Klonopin into my mouth and lifted the Tussy jug to my lips. I held it up until the last of it spilled into my mouth. Put the cap back on it and stood it upside down on the seat for the residue to drain into the cap so I could suck it out later. Lit a smoke and sipped my coffee as I decided what to do next.

I figured I would visit my wife. That was my first mistake.

Right away Sascha could tell that I was high and was pissed off that I didn’t save her any. I told her that I still had Klonopin to give her but that wasn’t good enough for her. She started yelling at me and the people at the treatment center told me that I had to leave and she said that she was coming with me and that I better have another croaker lined up for a script so she could get high too. I just wanted to enjoy my high and all hell was breaking loose. I knew that it was going to be a big hassle to cop for her and she would bitch the whole way there until we got it. I wished she would stay at the treatment center and I wished I hadn’t gone to see her there but it was too late now.

I don’t know how I always keep making these mistakes over and over again.

The staff told her that if she left with me that she couldn’t come back and that if she stayed they didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to come any more. I knew that if she stayed they would try to turn her against me and tell her that she should find another mate, so even though I wanted her to stay, I told her to come with me.

I was high and so I knew I would be at my best now for making another doctor.

Sascha threw her clothes in her bag and we blew out the door of the treatment center. She ate two Klonopins as soon as she got into the truck and made me buy her a beer to wash it down. We stopped at a phone booth and looked in the book for another doctor. There was a doctor in Brandon and I called him and he said that he had one appointment left if I could get there by 4:30. I said yes and let her drive so I could dig my head.

She bitched at me the entire ride. I chain-smoked and nodded while she talked. Finally we pulled into the parking lot. The office was in an old colonial house and I went in. The waiting room was empty. The doctor came out and beckoned me in and I laid my rap on him. He took my vital signs and listened to my chest. He thought it sounded terrible and wrote me a script for four more ounces of the Tussionex and gave me one of those garbage inhalers and some antibiotics.

We raced to the drug store because sometimes in these little hick towns in Vermont they close really early. I filled the antibiotics with the cough syrup but I threw away the script for the inhaler. I had learned that those inhalers cost a lot of money from past experience.

I got back out to the truck and I told her that I was going to do one ounce of the syrup because I went in to make the croaker and did all the work. She complained but there was nothing she could do about it. I ate two more pills and did a heavy ounce and then let her do her three and she drained the bottle and took a few more pills.

I took over the wheel after we had coffee. We were turning onto Route 7 heading into Rutland and I heard a screech of brakes and this guy almost hit us as we came into the main highway. Then the asshole starts riding my tail. I just hadn’t seen him and it wasn’t my fault. The guy was beginning to piss me off so I turned around and flipped him the bird. He had an older woman in the front seat and someone was sitting in the back seat too.

My wife said to let it slide but the dude was riding our ass real close so I slammed on the brakes just for a second and he came up on me and freaked because he thought he was going to hit us and he locked up his brakes and his car spun sideways as I hit the gas and pulled away laughing like a loon. (To Be Continued…Part IV click here please… )

The Detox Blues: A Memoir (Part One)

Posted by Klaus


I kept drinking the wine so the withdrawal from the Klonopin wouldn’t hit me. I didn’t want to have a seizure out here in the country. My wife, Sascha, had already gone into detox at a place called Canterbury Farm. Serenity House said that they had an opening for me but it would not be until Monday. It was Saturday morning and they might as well said eternity.

I thought it would be a good idea to see if I could make a doctor. I pulled out the phone book and flipped to the yellow pages. There’s not a hell of a lot of doctors close by in the hills of Vermont. It felt chilly and I threw a couple of logs into the wood stove. Back to the phone book. Dropped my finger on a doctor that was in the town of Ludlow. A woman doctor.

Sometimes that’s a good thing and sometimes not. Usually a woman doctor can be conned the first time, but every now and then you can run into a real bitch. I crossed my fingers and then dialed the number.

Two rings. Click. It was her nurse or secretary and she said she had an open time at 1:30pm. I looked at the clock on the wall. Almost 11:00 o’clock. Fuck! Two and one-half hours and not even a sure thing. But I had to stop drinking the wine ‘cause she’d never come off with the script if I smelled like a boozer. I thought that I’d try for both cough syrup and the pills. That should hold me until Monday.

I smoked a joint of the homegrown and walked outside. The rabbit cages were covered with snow again and I brushed them off and put fresh food inside the little bowls. I brought their water bowls into the cabin, popped the ice out of it, filled it with warm water, and brought the bowls back out. I looked in and realized that there was only one rabbit left in one cage. I decided to eat it. I pulled out the black and white bunny by the ears and put it down on the ground under my foot. Held it tight while I pulled out the .38 and pumped one bullet into it’s head. It jerked for a moment and then lay still. Slit it and cleaned it and pulled its skin off like taking a foot out of a wet sock.

Then I brought it back inside and made some sauce for it to soak in. Usually I like to let it soak for a few days to improve the taste but I was out of food and didn’t want to waste money on food that I might need to cash the scripts. I’d cook it tonight if I was loaded. If I couldn’t get any drugs I wouldn’t be hungry anyway.

I looked at the clock. Almost half-past twelve. I figured I’d pull out and go to the doc a little early. Maybe her first appointment wouldn’t show. Maybe I could just catch her going in and she would take me first. Maybe maybe maybe. Three miles of dirt road in the snow and seven of country highway. Good to get a start on things anyhow.

I grabbed my props: an old bottle of Tussionex from a previous script and a vial of pills with just the right run-out date on it. I always could come up with them because I had a satchel of them saved just for this purpose. A lot of doctors would come right off with the drugs if they saw that another doctor where I used to live gave them to me also. Chronic medical conditions. Bronchitus. Anxiety because of the respiratory ailments. I’d chain smoke non-filters all day before the appointment and my lungs would sound like I was really sick.

I loved it when I came down with a real bad chest cold because then I would travel all over the countryside making doctor after doctor. I could even get people to bankroll me on the scripts because they knew I was almost a sure thing. It always seemed funny to me how, when I was high, the doctors would come right off for me but if I was dope-sick, that’s when I would have the most trouble.

I was dope-sick and I was nervous. I tore apart the dresser drawers just hoping to come up with a pill or something. I went through the satchel with all the Tussionex and Hycodan bottles to see if maybe I had left the wash in one of them. No luck. I guess I had gone through them and already done that. The thought crossed my mind that this seemed all too familiar.

I put the rabbit in the pan up on top of the fridge, got my hat and coat and boots on and grabbed the keys to the truck and crunched down the drive to the pickup. It cranked slow because of the cold but it kicked over and I rolled down the incline into the dirt road. I had snow tires on all four wheels and the back of the truck was loaded with sandbags so the going wasn’t so bad. I smoked the rest of the joint and then ate a lifesaver to kill the smell. I don’t know why I smoked the joint because all it did was make me more paranoid. By the time I got to the doctor’s office I felt like my head was going to explode. (To be continued… Part II click here please…)

(Part Five-Conclusion) A Controlled Dangerous Substance Act

Posted by Klaus


(Everything is about to go crazy. The cops screwed up on the charges and Dean’s play for the cops with Frost Pharmacy is no good and they want him to do it again. The four are all drunk and the run into Mickey, who originally set them up.)

Mickey knew that Dean was no threat to him. The bearded man was all head and no heart and Mickey had never heard him talk about fighting. But Billie! Billie was a brawler who had been 86’d from many bars and there were already legends about him. Mickey had heard people say that Billie was not allowed in any bar that had windows because the “Painter”, as Billie was known because of his trade, took special delight in shattering bar windows by throwing his opponents right through the glass.

Billie staggered along the edge of the six foot stone wall that bordered the apartment lawn and at times he came perilously close to lurching over the side but he never did. Dean followed closely behind him and Billie came up to Mickey, face to face, inches away from each other and Billie bellowing beer breath into Mickey’s face and Mickey backing away slightly and swinging tight from the side.

The crack of the blow echoed into the night air and Chrissie almost dropped the bottle, but not quite, as Billie crashed down onto the sidewalk with a dull thwack as the back of his head thumped the cement. He shook his head and struggled to his feet, smiling, and leaned toward Mickey with his whole body, breath coming hard.

Mickey threw another shot to the head and blood sprayed from Billie’s mouth. Billie took a punch to the gut and, in what appeared to be slow motion, spilled his large frame over the wall and whumped into the hard frozen grassy ground below.

Dean stared at the scene and his mouth hung open. Mickey glared at him and stood there, with the Irish Setter aimlessly circling around him, daring Dean to come ahead and attack him.

There was a groan and all eyes focused over the wall as Billie wobbled his head, spit his false teeth onto the grass with a splattering of blood-filled saliva and slowly pulled himself up the wall. Mickey’s eyes grew very large.

Billie stood in front of Mickey and there was the sound of heavy breathing. Mickey was like a statue and Billie rocked slightly.

“Had enough?” Mickey talking strange pitch to his voice.

Billie, smiling again, foot coming up quick from nowhere and crashing, smashing into Mickey’s chest. There was a cracking sound and the smaller man lifted into the air and slammed down onto the pavement on his back. Mickey gasping for lost breath, moaned and tried to rise, fell back, sobbing weakly.

“Now I’ve had enough,” Billie said as he jarred Mickey with a sharp-toed cowboy boot to the ribs. Another crack. Billie went back to the car and took the bottle from Chrissie, drained it and then tossed it onto the asphalt before he climbed down the wall, picked up his false teeth, and then turned to Dean. “Let’s get out of here.” Said Billie.

Dean didn’t argue with that. He hopped into the car and drove away as he shot a glance into the rear view mirror. The Irish Setter stood over Mickey and seemed to be licking his face but it was too far away to be sure. Dean pressed down on the gas pedal and the tires cried out into the night as the car strained to hold all four wheels on the road as they took a sharp corner. He thought about the police.

The next morning the Judas car pulled up as Dean and Brenda went out. Irish and D’azeo, wearing black leather jackets over t-shirts, came up and got right in Dean’s face so close he could smell stale liquor and old garlic as they growl-whispered at him.

“You think you’re smart.” Said Irish.

“We know about Mickey. Busted him up but he won’t say who or press charges.” D’azeo.

“We’re going to drop you. You’ll have stuff on yo whether you’re holding or not.”

“Go ahead punk. Tell someone. Ask for help. No one will believe you or your fucking whore-bitch dope-fiend wife.”

“Maybe when we get you, you’ll try to run.”

D’azeo pulled his gun partially from his holster.

“Dead. You’re dead mother-fucker.”

Dean cowered with fright and Brenda stepped back as the detectives sprayed them with threats and saliva. Dean felt his chest tighten up and there was an emptiness spooling down below his belly and he thought of rabbits with headlights bearing down on them, frozen to the death-spot on the road.

Suddenly the dicks were heading back to the black car, a screech of tires, and they were gone. The smell of burning rubber was in the air and it was like the winter quiet of a graveyard on the narrow urban street.

The night before court Dean and Brenda shot Dilaudid. Brenda also at some red bullet Seconals. She did not dream at all. Dean was plagued by a recurring nightmare all night long.

In the dream he and Brenda were at a wedding. The wedding party gathered in a giant boat at the top of a multi-tiered waterfall. Each person at the party flowed down the waterfall and the main gathering drank and made merry on the boat as it descended.

Suddenly it happened. Someone had forgotten to remove a partial glass barrier on one of the tiers and one of the bridesmaids got caught and started spinning around at the tier as the boat bore down on her.

A few people ahead looked back to see what the commotion was and saw the boat bouncing down tier after tier with the trapped woman screaming as the boat spilled down the beautiful wood-tiered flow-way towards her.

There were screams, the shattering of glass, another color danced in the water as the sound of something soft being squelched was heard. And then the boat, the giant wooden wedding boat, crashed over and splintered with a roar as it tumbled down the watersteps to hell, crushing everything in its path.

Dean and Brenda leaped from stone to stone, board to board, to flee the nightmare as it hurtled toward them. Suddenly Brenda fell backwards into the path of the massive ship. Dean saw someone in front of them with a look of sheer terror contorting their face. A hideous shriek filled the air.

Dean looked back to see the boat falling onto his wife as she screamed. And woke up covered with sweat. He looked at Brenda. She lay next to him on the bed. A cigarette had burned deeply into her fingers before it went out. She did not wake up.

Court was simple. Everyone got a fine and dirty looks from the detectives.

Chrissie broke up with Billie and moved. Some say she moved down south.

Billie had to do time in Seaside Heights. After he got out of jail he moved to Dover, New Jersey and no one ever heard of him again.

Dean and Brenda were divorced. Brenda moved to Florida with her mother. Dean moved to New Hampshire. There were rumors that he had ripped off a major drug dealer and there was a contract on him.

Someone said he moved to Portland, Oregon with the proceeds of his take and became a pot dealer there to support his habit on black tar heroin. They said he caught that flesh-eating bacteria from the black tar and died. Who knows? In that world, nothing seems to end well.

I knew all of them and decided to write this story. Me, I live on the internet. You can’t find me anywhere.

(Part Four) A Controlled Dangerous Substance Act

Posted by Klaus


(A lot has happened. Everyone has been arrested on a set-up. Dean set up his pharmacist for the police and now they let him go. He went back to the pharmacy, bought 100 morphine shakers and just finished shooting up.)

The wind came up quickly and fingers of ink cast their prints across the sky. The roar was of water out of control and, without looking, Dean knew that the river was rising. How long had it been raining? There was no recent memory of life without the small droplets wetting everything and the mold was green and seemed to move in the cracks of the shingles.

Dean felt for the familiar packet inside his raincoat and shuddered with fear for a moment. He prayed the packet would stay dry. In the door. Tin foil wallpaper dripping with a seaweed-like substance and their was a blind man sitting in the chair by the fireplace. The blind man was drawing with crayon on the plywood covering the fire place. Flames. He drew flames and a hand was burning in the fire.

Dean moved through the room and the air was so thick it slowed him down and the sound of breath filled the room. His stomach twisted with the sickness and he hoped there was no one using the kitchen. He was twisting his eye dropper and needle out of the encrusted handkerchief as he pushed open the door.

His heartbeat made his chest shake as he saw the children in the kitchen. There were three of them. Spoons filled with white powder littered the table and the boy of about twelve had a rusty spike in his arm and was pushing on the bulb of the dropper. The liquid shimmered in the light and the wind picked up as the blond-haired boy threw his head back with a look of pain that twisted his face and he sighed and his voice sounded like the wind outside.

A young girl was standing with a belt tied around her arm.

“I’m Susie. Please help me. I’ve lost my hit.”

The blood rose into the syringe and flowed out the top and spilled off the tips of her fingers. Dark tears spun webs down her cheeks. The other child stood silently in the corner of the room. His eyes were dark wounds that hypnotized Dean.

“Sleep. I haven’t slept for days. Do you have anything to help me sleep? My dreams have been taken.”

Dean fell to his knees and shook with sobs as he heard the river spray the windows of the house. A small hand gripped his shoulder and a small voice kept saying, “Don’t sleep. Don’t leave me alone without a dream. Wake up. Wake up . . . “

The voice was familiar and Dean screamed and woke with a start. Brenda was shaking him.

“Wake up. Wake up. The police. The police are on the phone and they want to talk to you.”

“Brenda. They want me to do it again.”

“Do it again? What do you mean?”

“Go back to the pharmacy. Get more pills. A different kind this time.”

“Oh.”

“I told them I would let them know tomorrow. They were pissed. But I want to talk to our lawyer and see what to do. That’s all.”

“I don’t know,” Brenda said.

“You don’t have to know.”

Dean called the lawyer.

“You see,” the lawyer said, “there was an error made on the charges. Quaaludes were not declared a ‘controlled dangerous substance’ until 5 days after the arrests took place. You were charged under the “Controlled Dangerous Substance Act.” The arrest is non-valid and can only be pressed as a disorderly persons charge. They want you to go back in so they can have a case.

“Right now, because of their error, they have a minor charge against the four of you. Actually, they can’t do anything to the pharmacist because of what he did, in a very technical sense, was not against the law. The way things stand now, we will just do a walk-on in court and the judge will slap you in the face. They have no case at all against the pharmacist.”

Dean could not believe his ears. He whooped into the phone.

“Hold on, hold on,” the lawyer said. “There is another aspect of this that I would like you to pay attention to. I’m going off the record now. I never said what I am about to tell you.”

“Huh,” said Dean. “What?”

“My advice is to leave this area after the proceedings of this case. The Orange Police Department has, uh, what you might call a reputation for not being, ahem, above board.”

Dean was silent, listening to more than just the voice coming over the phone.

“Remember the incident that night as you related it to me, with the planting of the marijuana to get the go-ahead for the search? Their Vice Squad is literally riddled with vice and corruption and I know, through some sources, that some of them actually use drugs themselves. To say that they will be angry at this point would be an understatement. There is no telling what they will do. I want to say that they are capable of anything.”

Dean listened, hardly believing what he was hearing.

“What? What do you think they will do to us?” Dean asked.

The lawyer replied, “I really can’t say. But I will tell you that if I were you, I would leave the area and I would not feel safe until I did so.”

Dean hung up. Then he and Brenda talked for a long time.

The four of them, Dean, Brenda, Billie & Chrissie had been drinking all evening and they drove out past the apartments where Mickey and Viola lived. Mickey was out walking his Irish Setter and they stopped. As Billie and Dean staggered out of the vehicle Mickey smiled. Then his smile went south. Chrissie and Brenda stayed in the car. Mickey watched them for a moment as Brenda lifted a bottle over the back of the seat and handed it to Chrissie. She put it to her mouth and tipped it up.

“You’re a fucking rat-mother-fucker,” Billie slurred and Mickey snapped to attention. Hands dangling loosely at his side, Mickey watched Billie carefully, his golden-gloves history dancing in his head. Mickey’s eyes moved like they were attached to Billie as the tall muscular man weaved towards him. (To Be Concluded)