Dreamseller, Page 3

  Set within the hand-carved molding of the antiques store’s door is a pane of glass, blurred with age, through which can be seen the standard orange-and-black sign that reads, in large capital letters which seem to intensify its implication: CLOSED. Closed?! Hopeful that the owner might have forgotten to flip the sign to read: OPEN, which to my knowledge he has never done, I turn the door handle. Locked. And then I see it, a note in shaky handwriting taped to the door. “Closed early due to a family emergency.”

  I collapse to the ground, laughing and crying all at once, prepared to sit and rot away in my own self-induced filth and smell, exhausted and defeated. Hopeless. And suddenly, as if God had heard a prayer and reached in to grant me the favor, the sound of a car horn captures my attention. Beep! I turn, seeing a brand-new cherry-red Cadillac Seville. A voice from within calls out, “Hey kid, what are you doing with that furniture?” In a split second, my hope is restored.

  I reply, “It’s for sale, you interested?” The man steps out of the car; I carefully analyze him from head to toe. Five-six, two hundred and forty pounds, slightly balding with hair freshly cut and parted to the side. Pressed charcoal-gray pin-striped suit. On his right pinky is a gold ring studded with diamonds, on his left hand a wedding band. Are those alligator-skin shoes?

  This guy definitely is not a cop; maybe he’s a lawyer or a character involved in some kind of shady business. Whatever the case, I am fairly certain that I can assume two things: one, this man is married, and two, he has money.

  “That furniture would go great in my summer house at the beach. What’s the price?”

  “Give me forty bucks and it’s yours,” I tell him.

  As he steps closer, I realize he is closely evaluating me just as I had evaluated him. He tells me, “I like the furniture, all right, and I have forty bucks to spend, but I really want to spend it on something else….”

  I know exactly what that “something else” is. Not far from this neighborhood, there is a strip where young boys stand on the corner and let old men pick them up for quick cash. I used to pass that strip on my way to the Dope shop, and wonder, How the hell could they let things get that bad?! But now, today, this very second, I have come to understand them. And if how I feel right now is an indication of how they usually feel, then God help them, and forgive me for judging them.

  “How about it?” the man says. The weight of the moment grows heavier. Reality sets in. I am sick, broke, and the Dope shops are rapidly closing for the night.

  It hits me. This drug is so powerful that I am going to make the decision to break the only moral code I have stood by through seven years of addiction.

  Can you even imagine being a twenty-five-year-old junkie, and, and in the blink of an eye, letting a fifty-year-old married man suck your dick while you are completely sober, with no drugs or alcohol in your system to numb the feeling? Well, I am about to tell you exactly what it is like.

  chapter three

  The Last Night of Using

  The man stares at me, still waiting for a response. “Well? You interested?”

  In a flash, I am struck with several past-tense reflections: I was once a skateboarder with a promising career; I had been engaged to the most beautiful girl; I did live in a nice home with a mother who loved me. And now, in the present tense: I am selling my body to a middle-aged married man. This is what I have become.

  These thoughts are interrupted by two words ringing clearly in my head: Scott! Rehab!

  A conviction reveals itself: Tomorrow, I will call Scott and go to rehab…. A dilemma arises: Tonight, I need a fix…

  I am brought back to reality by this disgusting man’s voice: “This is your last chance, kid.” This dirty old fuck is getting frustrated that I am stalling on letting him buy my body. And so, I make my decision: Tomorrow, I need to end this. But right now, I’m sick, I need Heroin, and I will sell myself.

  I go completely blank, cold.

  I drop the two pieces of furniture that seemed so valuable only a moment ago and walk directly to the passenger side of the car. The man opens the door for me, I sit, and he slams the door in my face, shutting me in.

  Within a minute, the car is in motion. Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” plays on the stereo. Besides this morning’s debacle in my brother’s van, it has been months since I have ridden in a car, and, with the sounds of the outside world muffled, for a few moments I actually find the experience peaceful, warm, comfortable. Suddenly I snap out of it, now fully comprehending the situation, as the time draws near that my obligation to this man must be fulfilled.

  He looks at me, sensing that something is awkward, difficult, wrong, and asks, “You all right, kid?” I just sit, numb, staring forward, about to allow this old fuck to take complete control of everything. Take control of me. I want no part of this, yet I have to go through with it. I’m no longer an individual. I am a slave to this man and my addiction.

  This old fuck is no stranger to the prostitution game. Within only a few minutes, we are parked in a shadowed, desolate lot next to the Chesapeake Bay. As I stare into the water’s rippling reflections, I consider that, under a different set of circumstances, this might be an all-time perfect make-out spot for a guy and his girlfriend. Yet, as fate would have it, I find myself here with a middle-aged, overweight, married man who is about to do with me exactly as he would desire. What did I get myself into?

  He turns the key, shutting off the engine. He presses the UNLOCK button on his seat belt. Click. His bloated body sways slightly to the left, and he reaches under himself to produce his wallet, in a motion that resembles a fat man wiping his ass. I somehow smell it.

  He flips through the bills, liberates two twenties, and slides them in my sweatshirt pocket. I stare into the river. I feel his meaty hand fall on my knee in a deliberate manner, as a man might console a female friend who is under emotional distress, with the intent of coercing her into his sexual favor. He announces, in a patronizing tone, “See, kid, I told you I wouldn’t do you wrong,” and, as sick as it sounds, the forty dollars succeeds in making what is about to happen almost bearable.

  Again, the voice in my head rings loudly. Tomorrow I’m calling Scott and going to rehab! The man’s restless hand slides down to my belt: a shoestring wrapped tightly through the loops of my jeans, which doubles in purpose as a tie for constricting the blood flow within my vein prior to shooting up.

  I twitch as his hand makes contact with my torso.

  He licks his lips and says, “Just relax, it will be done before you know it.” God, I hope he is not lying. He pulls loose the shoestring / belt / arm-tie, then undoes my button. No need to unzip my fly, it is broken.

  “It,” whatever “it” might be, is about to happen. I know it, he knows it, and I stay focused: there are forty bucks in my pocket. Dope.

  My eyes are closed and, no matter how hard I try to ignore it, I feel a warm wet mouth on the head of my dick and bristle of five-o’clock shadow around the lips of the perpetrator. The thought of Dope is now not enough to distract my consciousness. Instead, I imagine a beautiful woman performing this act. He continues to penetrate his mouth with my dick, which, to my surprise, is getting hard. I do not understand how or why, but it is.

  The man and I are of complete opposite sentiment: I detest every moment of this, every millisecond; I resent this very time and place in the universe, and he could not be happier. He is, in fact, moaning with delight, his entire body in a full continuous motion, pacified. Does my apparent discomfort excite him? And, I wonder, exactly how this man can stand the stench of me!

  The dashboard clock reads 9:37. Panic sets in! My situation has now become more desperate. You see, by 10:00 P.M., the squad cars start patrolling the streets, the reputable dealers pack up shop and go home, and the low-life druggies come out. There are a few legitimate all-night shops, but they do not serve white people. The later it gets, the harder it is to get Dope, and time is running out.

  I am calculating how long it is going take to f
inish my business with this sick fuck, and for him to drop me off exactly where I need to go. If I hurry, I can make it. I push his head off my dick and pretend to cum on the inside of my shirt. For the first time, I look at his face, which has a sick grimace of complete satisfaction. I am sure that my expression conveys disgust and demoralization as I tie my shoestring belt.

  The sick fuck asks, “Where do you want to get dropped off?”

  “Patterson Park and Fayette Street.” We drive away.

  It is now 10:05 P.M. and we are nearing my destination. With each passing block my anticipation increases, the excitement pumps my endorphins and adrenaline, and in some strange way the chemicals satisfy the sharp pain brought on by the appetite of my addiction. It’s as if my vein somehow understands that I am bringing it closer to a fix, and in appreciation, is granting me temporary alleviation.

  The sick fuck pulls the car to our destination, hits the UNLOCK button, and asks, “Can I see you again?”

  Now that I have what I need—the cash—my confidence has returned. I open the door and before I step out, I look him in the eyes and yell, “Fuck you, you sick fuck! Why don’t you go home and tell your wife what you just did?!” I slam the car door and retreat into the darkness.

  I have already decided how I am going to spend the forty dollars. In my head is inscribed a forty-dollar version of a junkie’s grocery list, which reads: three dimes of Dope, one nickel of coke, and a pack of smokes. But now I am faced with a new dilemma: I see no reputable dealers.

  The street, illuminated by flickering-yellow sparsely placed streetlights, is scattered with darkly dressed thugs. One approaches and follows close behind me, with his jaw close to my ear, loudly whispering in repetitive monotone, “Blow-blow-blow-blow-blow!”

  Meanwhile, two bearded hoods pass me on either side, each brushing against one of my arms. I know they are contemplating jumping me, but each one waits for the other to act first, and neither does, so I press on.

  I pass another man, even filthier than me, whose breath is so awful, whose armpits so pungent, I cannot describe the magnitude of their stink. “Yo, snort! Snort! Snort, man, snort! Back here, man! Git back here!” His tone is angry, intimidating. I hear him spit in my direction, but I hear nothing land on the ground. Is it on my back?

  On the next block, I see a small midnight Dope shop. They holler to me, “Boy and girl! Boy and girl!”, slang which translates, “Dope and Coke! Dope and Coke!” At this point this offer looks as good as any I might get, and afraid it might be my last, I cross the street and make a beeline toward the pushers.

  “Three boys and one girl,” I request. One guy steps up, and I give him forty; he returns ten in change and three gel caps. A second guy steps up, and I hand him the ten; he hands me one glass vial and a five in change. As I turn and walk, I review my day: I have destroyed what remained of the relationship I had with my family; I have demoralized myself and sold my body to a married man. Now that I have my drugs, however, none of that matters.

  Finally, in a run-down convenience store, while waiting in line to buy my smokes from a Korean man behind bulletproof Plexiglas, as the rush of the score subsides, I come to a realization. Wait a minute…. I didn’t know those thugs who sold me the Dope…. Maybe there’s a chance I got burned.

  While still in line, without concealing my actions, I pull the vial from my pocket, remove the red cap, touch my finger to the powder, and taste. To my immediate distress, I do not experience the numb feeling that should be induced by coke. My defenses kick in, and I convince myself that I did not have enough on my finger. I try again, this time placing a greater quantity of the powder to my tongue…fake.

  Okay, they burned me on the coke, but the Dope, I’m sure, must be real…I silently rationalize. After all, coke is like the dessert at the end of the meal. But the Dope, the main course, the sustenance, I absolutely cannot do without!

  “Next!” The Korean cashier interrupts, his voice muffled through the small holes in the half-inch bulletproof Plexiglas. I turn and march out the door, unable to spend another cent until I know for sure if this Dope is real.

  I break open a pill; the color looks off. But I rationalize that the hue of the streetlight may be playing tricks on my vision. I touch a bit of it to my tongue. It leaves no bitter taste, as does Heroin…. And as I taste and examine this powder again, and again, I am unable to deny that this substance has a flavor and texture like chalk…. It’s fucking drywall! Crumbling dust, pinched from a filthy floor of one of these decaying buildings!

  I cling to the hope that the other two pills may be real. I pull the second one out, taste it. Drywall.

  Before I taste the last pill, I pray to the Lord to grant me one request. “Please, God, hear my prayer. I have heard your call, and I am abiding by it! Tomorrow I am going to rehab, and finally I am going to sort out this mess that is my life! But tonight I need one last fix! Lord, if you exist, if you will ever answer one single prayer in my life, let it be now! I swear, I will never ask you for anything again, if you just grant me this one wish. And so I ask, “Please let this pill contain dope!”

  Obviously, drywall.

  My body goes limp as the pills fall to the ground. This is morbid. After this whole day of dreadful events, I just got ripped off.

  I make my way up the street to another group of thugs who have the reputation of selling the worst Dope in town. This Dope is absolute garbage, but at least I know it is real. Why didn’t I just buy from these guys in the first place?

  I purchase my pill and retreat to the abandoned garage I call home. After I sit on my bed of three moldy sofa cushions, I cook up my shot, tie my shoestring / belt over my arm, find a vein, and inject the needle.

  As I watch my blood squirt into the barrel of the syringe, I rest with the satisfaction that my goal has been accomplished.

  chapter four

  The Phone Call

  Morning.

  My eyes open.

  Here in the abandoned garage, several junkies are with me preparing their morning fix like so many people cook bacon and eggs.

  As I gain consciousness, I deceive myself that the prior day’s events might have been nothing more than a nightmare through which there was one glimmer of hope: Scott’s offer to be my guide to rehab.

  I stand, slip on my sweatshirt / pillow, glide my shoes over my yellowed-crusty socks, approach the garage door, then grasp the handle and lift. But I can hoist it only a few inches. It slips and slams shut, followed by hushed screams from the other junkies, paranoid that someone living upstairs might hear the disturbance and call the police.

  JUNKIE #1: Shut-da-fuck-up, man! What’s you thinkin?!

  JUNKIE #2: Keep-it-cool! Damn, you-a-stupid-muthafucka!

  JUNKIE #3: Chill-chill-chill-chill!

  I take a good, hard look at the junkies, who are like me. My eyes focus on this image of three men squatted on a floor, huddled around a spoon, arguing about which one deserves more Heroin in their needle than the rest:

  JUNKIE #1: Back off wit dat! This is my game! I got the score!

  JUNKIE #2: Naw, naw, naw, it ain’t like dat, it ain’t like dat! It came from mah boy! I was da hookup!

  JUNKIE #3: All-yall, better listen! I go first! I brought home all day yesterday! I brought home all day yesterday!

  A silent voice: “Fuck it, Brandon! On the other side of this door is a new existence, if you can make it to a pay phone! You have no strength, no muscles, and you forgot to eat yesterday, but it doesn’t matter. All you have to do is fucking grab the goddamn garage door and pull!” I turn, grit my teeth, yank with every ounce of strength, finally elevating the door just high enough to squeeze out. Then, once on the outside, I release my grip in one final gesture of defiance of a lifestyle that once was. The door, pulled by the tension from its springs, shoots downward and delivers a slam as it strikes the ground, provoking low-spoken shouts from the junkies within:

  JUNKIE #1: Chill, dumbfuck!

  JUNKIE #2: I’ll kick yo�
�� ass, white boy!

  JUNKIE #3: He does it again, I’ll slap him upside the head!

  To the door, I give “the finger.” Fuck you all!

  I advance on foot to the 7-Eleven under the eye-piercing sunshine. I stop to vomit, but there is nothing in my stomach to throw up except bile and a bit of blood. I stumble away dizzy, then stagger into what feels like several people. When the world steadies itself, I find myself face to face with a mother and her two sons staring with a look of repulsion. The mother grabs her children and swiftly crosses the street to get away from me. My initial thought is, Why are they running?! I’m not that bad! As I lift my head to wipe the vomit from my chin, in the reflection of a car window I glimpse the image of someone my approximate age. Wait, who am I seeing here? Is this me?!

  For the past half year, I have gone to great lengths to avoid my own reflection. I have turned my head when passing clean storefront windows, crossed streets to avoid reflective objects of every sort, and, when using a mirror-mounted bathroom sink, fixed my line of vision to the drain. In this way, I could escape what I had become. And so, I have avoided this very situation for six months. But now, finally, I am facing “it”—myself: matted, oily hair, chunks of dandruff on my shoulders, lines of white on my face where dripping beads of sweat have acted as a solvent to the layer of dirt revealing strips of my pale, sickly skin. Clothes: absolutely filthy.

  Now standing, I turn my attention back to the mother and children: Why wouldn’t a mother take her children across the street to get away from me?