Acrobaddict (33 page)

One day I left for school during one of the city’s rare snowstorms when the snow actually stuck to the ground. It was difficult to walk on the slushy sidewalks, and my socks were drenched from the numbingly cold, melted ice. Every pay phone I passed screamed at
me: “CALL KIMI . . . and end this dreadful day with warm, beautiful light!” I tried to avoid them, tried to get to my classes clean and unharmed, but there were too many pay phones. Before I reached my building I was dialing her number in desperation: the storm had won. Kimi answered the phone and told me I needed to rush back to her apartment because the guy who drops off the bags was going home early due to the storm. Apparently even drug dealers have snow days. I fled to her apartment as if my life depended on it.

Kimi opened the door, telling me to come in. The room was ice-cold and it didn’t smell as bad as it had before; winter’s air had frozen the stench of body odor and trash. Her closet door was still ajar, and I saw that box of syringes sticking out like a song whose tune I knew, but not its title. When she came back with my stuff, I said cautiously, “Sniffing isn’t really working for me anymore . . . is there something I can do to make it better?”

I heard a sound in the distance, beyond us. I continued, “It’s not making me as high as it used to and I still feel pain in my body.” Kimi knew I was fishing for an intravenous fix, pushing her to introduce the title of that song I could not recall. I heard that sound again, as if something otherworldly were pushing its way through a vortex. I said, before she could say anything, “I want to shoot it.” Again, that damn sound.
What was it? Why couldn’t she hear it? Is the sound coming from me?

She said, alarmingly, “Oh, Chico . . . really? No, you don’t want to do that . . . do you?” She was warning me, but also tempting me. I could hear her despair pleading against her own voice, even though her words were the opposite of what she was thinking and wanted. She needed me to fall victim to that mess for her own selfish reasons. If I fell, then she would appear to be taller and it would justify her own madness and place in her chaotic life. It would be financially beneficial for Kimi to have me strung out, because she would make money off every order I placed.

I was in pain and ready to go deeper into the high, and confidently said, “I’m ready! Snorting hasn’t been doing what it used to do for
me, and I’ve always wanted to see what slamming dope was all about.” She said, “Okay, but I’m going to skin pop it for you,” trying to conceal a smile.

“What’s skin popping?” I asked.

“It’s when you inject it into a part of fat on your body, like the back of your arm, or even your ass. Oh . . . Chico, you have such nice arms; you don’t want to mark them!”

But I did. I wanted to dig holes into them like a prisoner gone mad in his cell, trying to crawl his way out through the ground, to show the world my scars, evidence of my battles lost. I wanted to defile the flesh that once covered my thick, muscular arms from all those years of gymnastics.

She said, grinning, with a warning in her thick Spanglish accent, “Chico, promise me something, okay? . . . Never mainline this . . . never stick it directly into your veins.”

“Okay, I promise,” I said, happy that I was about to walk through another dimension.

She grabbed the box down from the closet and took out a few syringes. She continued with my lesson. “These are all new needles. I use this gauge; it’s bigger, but you could probably use this size, that’s what Eva uses.” She held up the syringe with a bright orange cap and base. I couldn’t tell what gauge she was using, but I would find all that out in time.

“So first we fill it with water, up to the 20 cc or 30 cc mark; it doesn’t really matter. Then we carefully push out the water onto the spoon, and open the bag and drop the powder onto it. You can do it the other way around, but sometimes you spray the powder off from the force of the water. Then you gently shake it around in a circle while lighting the bottom.”

In that moment I saw her for what she was. She was an ancient sorceress with the power to travel between worlds, and heroin was her potion. By the lit flame under the spoon, her eyes focused down on the brown liquid that gently smoked, and a scent arose from the
fluid in the spoon. Her eyes never left the concoction, for she knew if she spilled even a drop, all hope would be lost.

“Then you drop the cotton into it to suck up all the impurities. If you don’t have a cotton swab you can take the inside of a cigarette filter and tear a piece off . . . that works too.” The small, white cotton hung from her sweaty fingers, and she carefully placed it into the murky brown substance. “Then tip this down into the center of the cotton.” She purposely avoided the word
syringe
, as if saying the word out loud would disgrace the woman she believed she was.

“Now, Chico, slowly pull the liquid up the tube. It should be nice and brown like this. Then flick it to make sure the bubbles are out. You’ll never get it perfect, but don’t worry, those tiny bubbles won’t kill you. Okay, Papi, straighten your arm.”

Then she grabbed my arm underneath my triceps where there is a little fat deposit, and said, “Breathe out,” and pushed the needle into my skin. It didn’t hurt as she pushed the fluid into my body.

Like a professional nurse, she said, “It will take a few minutes to hit when you skin pop it, but if you mainline it, it takes six to eight seconds.” As she was talking, I watched the snow fall from her fire escape. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen, if she had even done it right, if I would feel anything, but I kept watching the snow and thought of my mother. My hands were still cold from outdoors and my socks were wet from the weather. Suddenly there was a loud sound—again, she didn’t seem to hear it—like hooves on her kitchen floor, as if a giant animal had stepped into our space. I turned my head quickly, but saw nothing. I could smell the deep scent of cinnamon and ash.

Then I felt it, immediately spreading through my body like perfect heat entering my bloodstream. That feeling was a thousand times stronger than when I sniffed heroin. I was so hot, and there was a fire burning in my veins. The euphoria boiled up to a point in the middle of my head and escalated to dimensions I had never believed possible. It got stronger, and I became the fire, eternal and powerful, burning bright with absolute bliss. My eyelids became heavy with weights pulling them down into the underworld. I comfortably fell
back onto Kimi’s burnt futon, a surface I would have never lain on before. My eyes closed tightly, and then I felt it from within: the most magnificent hands touching my flesh, solid and powerful. Each touch sent shivers up my spine, wrapping me in a timeless moment, back to a fetal state, protected in the womb. Nothing would ever be this perfect, and I didn’t dare open my eyes for fear that my sight would destroy the intensity.

Again, the hands covered my body, knowing each part of my physique. Yes, it was God, and the hands were lapping around my flesh and my soul. God was cradling me, touching the heart of my being and plucking my spirit from my body as we swayed back and forth together. Our energies intertwined through soft circuits of light. I was making love with God, and we blissfully walked through each other’s beings. I saw everything, felt everything, and our small, ethereal mass flew up to the sky, spreading itself across the stars, absorbing the energy and power of the universe. The warm currents from the eyes of the Earth shot through me like rivers of orgasmic emotions quivering through my body. All my chakras opened and everything expanded. An intense itch covered my face, but I couldn’t move my arms, because moving them would change this mosaic pattern. The hands continued to hold me, and I heard a voice that was more like a symphony. It said, “Look at me, Joe!”

“No, I can’t. I’m afraid I will lose this feeling.”

“Don’t be afraid. I’ll never let you go. I want you. I’ve always wanted you; you were one of my favorites. I remember when you were made flesh, and now we will always be together.” Its voice was the quiver of a bow striking a violin, beautifully sweeping down and across the strings.

I said again, “Don’t let go of me; I’m afraid of the pain. It never stops. It’s always there. It’s killing me.”

“I love you, Joe, and I’ll hold you forever. I’ve touched your soul. I’ve been waiting for you to call upon me, to open this door, and finally . . . I have you in my arms, and I will never let you go. I have your soul.”

The pronunciation of the word “soul” came from an angry instrument and sent drumbeats of fear rippling through my body. That couldn’t be God. I wanted to open my eyes and see who was holding me, and finally gained the courage to look. I wanted to see the face of God while it spoke in its mystical voice, and then I opened my eyes and saw the being that held me. It was the Devil.

“You’re not God,” I said in desperate confusion.

“No, I’m not,” it agreed, holding me tighter in its grasp, wrapping its arms around my body as its hands changed into inescapable claws. I was powerless in its arms, and I heard a macabre laughter altering that beautiful, orchestrated voice. It was no longer angelic, but a terrible halting noise, mimicking the sound of a train wreck, or a horrible car accident that claimed the lives of humans. Its breath was like raw earth. It was beautiful, more beautiful than I imagined the Devil to be, almost perfect, except for its terrifying voice. I struggled and said, “Let me go; please!”

“Never! I’ve been waiting for you for many years. I thought I’d lost you a few years back, but you found the keys to my kingdom in that syringe. I will carry you away from all that pains you. I am the solution, the answer to all your prayers. Don’t be afraid of me, I’m not evil. I just want you to stay with me forever.”

“What do you want from me? Please let me go!”

“Nothing. I just don’t ever want you to leave me. Stay with me forever, and I promise to make you feel good for the rest of your life. I love you, Joe. I’m the only one who truly loves you.”

It leaned forward and kissed me tenderly on the forehead. I tried to yell and fight back, but my eyes opened and I saw myself staring at Kimi’s ceiling.
It was just a dream
, I thought, and wiped a layer of sweat off my forehead. It almost seemed for a moment that I had stopped breathing. Kimi saw me stirring by the window adjacent to the fire escape with the fallen snow and said, “Chico! How do you feel?” Her eyes glimmered with a dark-red hue, as if she were perfectly pleased: another soul claimed for the Devil’s embrace. Was she able to stay out of hell by escorting others across the threshold?

She asked again, “Do you feel good?”

I looked her dead in her eyes and said, “Yes. I don’t ever want this feeling to end and I want to live in this memory forever.”

30

PLATELETS

T
HE BLOOD CLOT IS ONLY A TEMPORARY SOLUTION TO STOP BLEEDING; VESSEL REPAIR IS THEREFORE NEEDED
. T
HE AGGREGATED PLATELETS HELP THIS PROCESS BY SECRETING CHEMICALS THAT PROMOTE THE INVASION OF FIBROBLASTS FROM SURROUNDING CONNECTIVE TISSUE INTO THE WOUNDED AREA TO FORM A SCAR
.

I lay on my loft bed, high as a cloud, staring out my window that faced a brick wall. My room resembled an Egyptian tomb, and my love was the curse over Nick. He managed to get a couple of days off from work and came to visit me. I was so happy to see him after feeling so alone, his schedule keeping us apart. My love returned to me even after I had begun to put tiny needle marks on my body. He noticed small, circular bruises coloring the skin under my arm and asked me what happened. Obviously it was from my new adventures with Kimi, but he hadn’t noticed it before. I told him I must have fallen into something, and this seemed to quiet his curiosity. I quickly changed the subject to something we both wanted to do: heroin.

We got our bags from Kimi, but instead of running to the bathroom with my straw, I went with my syringe, my sharpened sword, ready for battle. I was going to inject it in the fat in my butt because it was less noticeable than the arm. Nick asked me what took me so long in the bathroom; it took me longer to cook and shoot it than to sniff it. I told him I got sick and that my stomach was upset. He seemed suspicious, but after his own high had hit, he completely forgot about what he had asked me.

Nick was the sloppiest heroin user I had ever met. I’m not sure if it is because of all the training I had as a gymnast, or if it was the strong tolerance I had for the drug, but I managed to have more control over the effects than Nick did. We would take the subway back to my apartment on the Upper East Side, holding the metal poles while standing. Nick would be falling asleep on two feet, in midconversation, drooling on himself. I was constantly yelling at him, telling him that he couldn’t do that in public, but every five minutes it would happen again. I’m sure I brought more attention to the situation than his calm, drowsy stance did, but he would do it everywhere; sometimes at dinner in a restaurant, while he was ordering his entrée, his eyes would roll back in his head and then his body would slump forward, as if he had narcolepsy. I would finish his order, and the puzzled waiter would shake his head. Nick and I were dreadful together. The two of us were a horrible pair.