Heroin Chronicles Read online

  EDITED BY JERRY STAHL

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction

  PART I: REALITY BLURS

  Fragments of Joe

  TONY O’NEILL

  Hot for the Shot

  SOPHIA LANGDON

  Dos Mac + The Jones

  NATHAN LARSON

  Possible Side Effects

  JERRY STAHL

  PART II: SURRENDER TO THE VOID

  Going Down

  L.Z. HANSEN

  Baby, I Need to See a Man about a Duck

  MICHAEL ALBO

  Godhead

  ERIC BOGOSIAN

  Gift Horse

  JERVEY TERVALON

  PART III: GETTING A GRIP

  Ghost Town

  LYDIA LUNCH

  The Monster

  JOHN ALBERT

  Black Caesar’s Gold

  GARY PHILLIPS

  Sunshine for Adrienne

  ANTONIA CRANE

  Poppy Love

  AVA STANDER

  introduction modes of desperation

  by jerry stahl

  It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  Somewhere, a long time ago, I wrote: All my heroes were junkies. (Hey, you pick your cliché and you run with it. That’s half of life. ) So let’s march ’em out. The Junkie All-Stars: Miles Davis, Lenny Bruce, Keith Richards, Billie Holliday, William S. Burroughs, even Dylan, there for a while. (Not to mention Cliff Edwards, otherwise known as Ukulele Ike, the voice of Jiminy Cricket and a lifelong addict. Junkies have all the best stories. But we’ll get to that.)

  Of course, Rush Limbaugh seems to have also colonized his hefty keister onto the Heavyweight Fiend list, but that’s these days. (And we’re not going to hoist up Herman Goering, another fat-ass fascist, and drag him around the track.) Oxycontin, known to newshounds, aficionados, and Justified fans as Hillbilly Heroin, is so much easier to acquire and imbibe than the old-fashioned nonprescription variety.

  But don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging Rush. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. And there is no finer cure to self-hate than determined, euphoria-inducing opiate use.

  Culturally speaking—shout out to Rush again!—opiate consumption now packs all the glamour of the buttock boil that kept the right-wing rant-meister out of Vietnam. For which, perhaps, Drug Czar R. Gil Kerlikowske could issue a gold medal for yeoman service in the name of addiction prevention. And I say this with respect. Growing up, if some right-wing pork roast had morphed into our national dope fiend, I would have found another line of work and become an alcoholic. Everybody knows the difference between them: An alcoholic will steal your wallet in a blackout and apologize when he finds out. A junkie will steal it and help you look for it. Call it a matter of style, or a mode of desperation. Nothing wrong with Lost Weekend or Arthur or Days of Wine and Roses, but give me Panic in Needle Park, Man with the Golden Arm, and Requiem for a Dream any day.

  Ply Mother Theresa with appletinis for three days straight and she’ll crawl out the other end with dry mouth and a hangover. Shoot her up for three days and by Day Four the saint of Calcutta will be strung out like a lab monkey, ready to blow the mailman for dime-bag money. Being a junkie is not a lifestyle choice—it’s an imperative of molecular chemistry.

  Still, Keith, Miles, and Lenny made it look pretty cool. (Even if, one learns the hard way, Lou Reed and Bird aren’t on hand to tamp your forehead with a wet towel when you’re kicking. By which point it’s pretty clear that heroin, at the proverbial end of the day, is about as glam as puking on your oatmeal.)

  It may have been some twenty years since I’ve stuck a needle in my neck, but it’s not like everything above it has healed up nicely. Shooting dope isn’t what made me a crazy, pissed-off, outsider sleazeball and one-man crippling fear machine. Heroin just gave me an excuse. But that’s me. If the short stories you are about to read in this collection are about nothing else, they’re about actions—occasionally hell-driven, occasionally hilarious, uniformly desperation-and-delusion-fueled actions—the kind made by those in the grip of constant gnawing need. The entire anthology, on some level, can be viewed as an eclectic and festive encyclopedia of bad behavior.

  But it’s the need that makes the junkie a junkie. Even when it’s not mentioned in any given story, it’s there, like the weather, and it’s always about to storm. Once the craving goes, the habit dissipates, but the dynamic—the Algebra of Need, as William S. Burroughs put it—remains in place. Junkies are like veterans, or bikers, or cancer survivors, or ex-cons. (Speaking just as a member of Team Dope Fiend, I don’t trust anybody who hasn’t been to hell. I may like you, I may even respect you, but, when the balls hit the griddle, I’d prefer somebody get my back who’s had experience in my little neck of it. See, I know a guy, did a dime in Quentin. Been out twenty-three years. But even now—even now—according to his wife, he still wears prison sandals in the shower. Can’t get wet barefoot. Once they’ve walked the yard, some men look over their shoulders their whole lives. Dope fiends, metaphorically or physically, live with their own brand of residual psychic baggage.)

  When you’re a junkie, you need junk to live. Everything’s all on the line, all the time. Here’s the thing: people know they’re going to die—but junkies know what it feels like. They’ve kicked. Which hurts worse than death. But they know they’re going to run out. It’s a mind-set. No matter how big the pile on the table—junkies already see it gone. Junkies live under the Syringe of Damocles. Junkies exist as the anti-Nietzsches. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you need more dope.

  Which doesn’t make fiends unique—it makes them human. Just more so. Junkies feel too much. And need a lot to make them not feel.

  Every writer you’re about to read has been to places the “normal” human may not have been. And lived to talk about it. They haven’t died for your sins. But they’ve felt like shit, in a variety of fascinating ways. And by the time you finish this fiction anthology, you will understand, from their pain, from their degradation, from their death-adjacent joy and skin-clawing, delirious three-a.m.-in-the-middle-of-the-day lows, the wisdom that comes from the nonstop drama and scarring comedy of living every second of your life in a race against the ticking clock of your own cells, a clock whose alarm is the sweaty, skin-scorching revelation that if you don’t get what you need in three minutes your skin is going to burn and your bowels loosen, and whatever claim you had on dignity, self-respect, or power is going to drip down your leg and into your sock like the shaming wet shit of green-as-boiled-frog cold-turkey diarrhea.

  Unlike serial killers or traditional torturers, junkies spend most of their time savaging themselves. That everyone they know and love in the world is often destroyed in the process is just a side issue. C.A.D. Collateral Addict Damage. And yet.

  From this festive and inelegant hell, these junkie writers—some ex, some not-so-ex, but a good editor never tells—have returned with a kind of sclerosed wisdom. Their burning lives may lie scattered behind them like the remains of a plane crash in an open field, but the flames will, I guarantee, illuminate the lives of any and all who read it, whether addicted to dope, Jim Beam, gun shows, bus station sex, Mars bars, Texas Hold’em, telenovellas, fame or—thank you, Jesus, Lord of Weird Redemption—great fucking writing.

  Jerry Stahl

  Los Angeles, CA

  September 2012

  PaRT I

  ReaLITy BLuRS

  TONY O’NEILL is the author of the novels Sick City, Down and Out on Murder Mile, and Digging the Vein, as we
ll as several books of poetry and nonfiction. He does not blog or have a Facebook page. He misses the days when drug dealers had pagers. For more information, visit www.tonyoneill.net.

  fragments of joe

  by tony o’neill

  My name is Joe, and I am an addict.”

  “Hi, Joe.”

  They were in a small church basement in East Hollywood. The Wednesday-morning “Happy Hour” AA meeting was in full swing. Joe sat among a small group of ex-junkies, drunks, speed freaks, and crackheads, yet still looked like the sickest person in the room. A defeated-looking junkie in his late forties, Joe’s face was patterned with deep creases and fresh sores. His eyes trembled in their sockets like two furtive crackheads hiding in a by-the-hour motel room.

  At the back of the room was a woman called Tania, anxiously chewing a hangnail, watching the man who addressed the group. This was the second time she had noticed Joe at one of her regular meetings. Last week he was standing by the coffee urn at the Narcotics Anonymous near Hollywood and Highland, stuffing his pockets with stale cookies. And here he was today, addressing the group in a barely audible monotone, looking even worse than he had then.

  Tania glanced around the room. She guessed she was the only person under thirty here, although sometimes with dope fiends you couldn’t tell. This meeting attracted the old-timers, old fucks with years of sobriety under their belts who circled the newcomers like sharks around chum. She wasn’t really sure why she had come here. She had already decided that this meeting would be her last. One last hour of her life just to be sure that this sobriety thing wasn’t for her, and then she could return to the dealers at Bonnie Brae and 6th with a clean conscience and forty bucks in her pocket.

  “Ahem,” Joe said, “I don’t feel good today. I relapsed again … a little while ago, you know? And it really took it out of me. I mean physically, it just took it out of me. Thing is, I’m finding it hard to even get the … focus, you know, the focus to begin the whole process again … to begin working on my recovery. I … I’m a heroin addict, as I’m sure some of you know.” He gave a forced, self-effacing smile that didn’t suit his face. “I had six months clean under my belt, but … right now I know I’m gonna struggle to even make it to the end of the day without using. I wasn’t even planning on going to this meeting. I came here in a kind of trance, really. I dunno what else to do.”

  Tania wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Fuck, shit, piss. The meeting was a mistake. It’s not as if her disillusionment with sobriety was a recent development. She’d been clean—and miserable as hell about it—for a good seven months now. The miracle they promised her never arrived. After the painful detox, expensive inpatient treatment, and her stint in that crummy sober living house, nothing was better. Everything was still shit. Every time she dragged her reluctant ass to a meeting, the stories of drug-induced degradation she heard just served to remind her of what she had given up. When someone like Joe came in, fresh from a relapse, she didn’t feel bad for them. She secretly wished she had been getting high with them. Their sorry-ass apologies to the group just made the urge stronger.

  Sober living had been a joke. Twenty-nine years old and forced to share a room with some dumb teenage methhead moron from Orange County, with perky tits and bad teeth. The bitch talked so much that Tania could only wonder what the hell she must have been like when she was doing crank. No, she’d decided as she’d hurriedly packed her bags last Sunday, I’m too old for this shit. Too smart. Something will come along.

  “… But I’m thankful to be here,” Joe was saying. “And I’m going to keep trying … Thanks.”

  “Thanks, Joe.”

  Later they all stood, held hands, and said the serenity prayer. Years after her first meeting, Tania still felt the same indignation about the religious trappings of the program that she’d felt then. She didn’t believe in God any more than she believed in redemption. They were stupid concepts, the kind of ideas that don’t stand up to rational scrutiny. Plenty of people had told her to fake it till you make it. It was another of those irritating mantras that AA’s true believers traded like baseball cards. But faking was never Tania’s style.

  Afterward, everybody broke into little groups to drink coffee, talk, and bullshit. Everyone except Joe. He headed straight for the door before anyone could try to intercept him. He was halfway down the block before Tania managed to catch up with him.

  “Joe? Hey, Joe!”

  He had the furtive gait of a shoplifter trying to walk away from the store as quickly—but nonchalantly—as possible. She thought for a moment that he was going to ignore her and simply keep walking. She called his name even louder this time. He paused.

  “It’s just like the song,” she said, catching up to him.

  Joe looked confused. “Song?”

  “Hey Joe.” Tania extended her hand. “I’m Tania.”

  “Oh, right. That song.” After an awkward pause he finally took her hand and gave it a limp shake. “I’m …”

  “You’re Joe. I know.” Tania removed her sunglasses. “D’you wanna go somewhere? I mean, with me?”

  “Ah. Erm … well, I don’t have time for coffee right now. Thing is, I’m on my way to see someone, you know?”

  Coffee. Another in a long fucking line of AA clichés. When someone seems like they’re in trouble, on the verge of a relapse or a crisis of faith, someone else always drags them out for coffee and a pep talk. Tania had been through that routine more times than she could count.

  “I don’t want a coffee. Just wanna kill some time. Who you meeting?”

  Despite her taste for narcotics and the lifestyle it had often forced her into, Tania still had a face. Six months away from the needle had given her a veneer of health. There was color in her cheeks, her breasts were filling out again as she put on a little sobriety weight. She wore a long-sleeved T-shirt despite the heat, with a picture of Marc Bolan emblazoned across it. Her hair was dyed black, with some blond poking through at the roots. Joe had not talked to a woman in what seemed like a lifetime. He felt like a tongue-tied teenage boy.

  “I’m just meeting … he’s just a friend of mine. No one special.”

  “Can he get something for me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Well … yeah.”

  “Then I wanna see your friend too. You wanna kill some time together, or what?”

  “Uh-hum.”

  “Is that all right?”

  “Look, Tania, I’m broke. I mean, I’ve only got enough bread to get straight with, you know.”

  “I’m not asking for a freebie. Just some company, that’s all. Is that okay?”

  Joe shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

  * * *

  They drove downtown together in Joe’s battered Honda. His connection operated out of a loft space near Pershing Square. They found an empty meter, and he brought her to a steel door sandwiched between a grimy-looking fried chicken joint and a store that sold Santería artifacts. Joe rang the buzzer and a voice crackled, “Yeah?”

  “It’s Joe, lemme in.”

  “Who’ssat with jou?”

  “Friend of mine. She’s cool.”

  The door buzzed open.

  The damp concrete stairwell reeked of piss and bleach. When they almost reached the top they saw people lined up in front of them. They took their place behind two young punk girls in leather jackets and Dr. Martens, sniffling dejectedly. After a minute or two a sallow man wearing a Nike T-shirt and baseball cap clumped up the stairs and joined the line. They stood there, silently waiting for the line to move, with the cool detached manner of people waiting for a bathroom stall to open up. The guy behind them, who had a thick Russian accent, gave Joe a nudge and tried to make conversation.

  “Fuck, man. I’m sick, yeah?”

  Joe ignored him. Tania glanced over her shoulder and made eye contact. The guy pressed on.

  “I get twenty-dollar balloon this morning. Won’t ev
en get me straight. I think his stuff getting worse, no?” The Russian wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand.

  “Then why d’you come back here?” Tania asked.

  “He … this man … is the only dealer I have!”

  Tania glanced at Joe, who rolled his eyes and rested his head against the cool plaster.

  They’d pooled their money. Eighty bucks. Two balloons of dope, and the rest for rock. Enough to take the edge off the day. The door at the top of the stairs opened and a small, skinny Latino kid—no more than twelve or thirteen years old—emerged with a nervous-looking man in a business suit, who hurried down the stairs. The kid peered down the line, then took the punk girls’ money. They followed him up the stairs and through the door. Joe and Tania took a few steps forward; she felt her guts churning in anticipation. It was really going to happen. Standing in the pissy stairwell, Joe seemed more solid, healthier, somehow more real than before. Now that he was in his natural element, it seemed to Tania that he had taken on an extra dimension. That craggy face could almost be taken for handsome, in a damaged kind of way. The minutes dragged by. The door opened, and the punks scurried down the stairs, chipmunk-faced, the drugs stashed in their cheeks. The kid now approached Joe, who handed him the bills and they followed him up.

  “Whatchoo need?”

  “Cuarenta negro, cuarenta blanco.”

  “Sí.”

  “It’s good stuff?”

  “What good? Is always good, jou know that.”

  “The same stuff as yesterday?”

  “Yeah, man.” They were at the door now. “Why jou askit this?”

  Joe nodded faintly in the Russian’s direction. “Guy down there said the chiva was malo. Said he didn’t even get high from the stuff you sold him this morning.”