Generally being hopped up on meth by the time I get home from work, I rarely go straight to bed unlike normal people that work a graveyard shift. Today was no exception.
I got undressed and lay on my bed completely naked - staring at the orange stains on the ceiling paint from a leaky roof. I grabbed the meth that I had received from Carl earlier that morning.
“Dis is some special shit. Don’t do it all.” He warned. Heh.
I grabbed my glass pipe from the end table - such a small thing capable of giving vast incalculable ambivalence and indulgence. The pipe was nearly charred black from so much use - black and silver.
I pinched a rock from the little baggie and went to work. For hours I lay on my bed propped up against the cold dingy wall smoking smoking smoking until it was all gone. After the pipe cooled - I smoked the residue left on the inside shaft and bulb. Shaking, sweating, twittering, I tear open the little bag like a skilled surgeon and extract the dusty remnants of white and pink flecks nestled in the creases and folds of the plastic and greedily I smoke them, too.
I was a tweeking shivering tongue clicking jaw grinding mess. I tried to get up from the bed - my head swirled and the room spun into a vortex. Plop! I fell onto the musty carpet. Tried to prop myself up onto one elbow - couldn’t get up. I lay on my side elbow digging into the red carpet time spun by like a sped up film.
I realized that I had to work that evening - couldn’t be late - that thought pounded in my fried brain. I kept track of time from the television programs fading in and out from the living room from the set I forgot to turn off.
“Today on Oprah Winfrey!” It’s 3pm - no worries - I don’t hafta be at work until eleven. I look out the unbearably bright window - the tree morphs into obscene Disney characters. I look on transfixed in terrified paranoiac fascination.
“Live from San Diego - It’s Chanel 5 news at five!” Okay, it’s 5pm. Eyes darting uncontrollably around the room - shortness of breath - still unable to move.
The Star Trek theme starts - it’s six. I feel as if I am about to pass out - twitch and shudder in an attempt to at least sit up from this fixed position.
The boinging tune of The Simpson’s pops on - it’s seven. I really need to get up and get ready for work. As The Simpson’s back to back comedy hour draws to a close - I thrust my torso upward. Standing fully erect - naked, wind rushing in my ears, blood pounding in my head - I swirl and crash onto my bed falling straight and solid as a board. I lay akimbo for a moment and burst into laughter.
If only this was filmed, I thought.
As the Law and Order theme drums on I realize it is 9 o’clock and I gotta get my ass in gear. Popping up once again - body tingling and head swirling - I walk to the small bathroom and take a quick shower. Not in there long - that water hurt.
Dressing, I dart out of my apartment into the cool night and hail a cab at the corner. Reaching downtown Tijuana, I walk to the border. As I power march through the masses, I feel fantastic - everything is in sharp focus, sounds crisp and clear. Rapidly crossing the bridge that spans that sewage crusted Tijuana river, I look up and smile as the dark clouds are outlined in bright neon purple with flashes of blue.
I pass two Mexican tweekers - dirty and furtive - on the bridge rushing the opposite direction at supersonic speeds.
“Wooh! White boy’s tweeeeeekin’!” One smiles.
I smile, exhale, and continue my power walk up to customs. Pass through customs without a hitch and jump the trolley to downtown San Diego. I glance at my watch - 9:45pm. Enough time for a quick beer before work.
Trash lined streets with old liquor stores and porno shops and cut rate hotels. The throng of deviants that prowled the night were out in full force. Junkies squealed and meth addicts howled at the yella moon as prostitutes of both sexes did their stylized ballet back in forth of the Foxxy Theater. Florescent shadows played along cracked walls. "Hey, man - ya lookin'?" White boy hip hop asks through bent teeth. Dark street packed with hobos lying in piss and hip blacks on the hustle crack rocks in quivering cold hands - liquor stores and blue red purple neon of porno shops show it real nasty all night - and all kinda sick junkies screaming in the alley.
I hit the cracked pavement and find a bar full of hip kids and fags - sit there savoring my beer when black man rail thin barges in and sizes me up as an easy mark, I reckon.
“Now what you need is a safistamacated woman.” He breathes liquor and halitosis into my face.
I smile and say what.
“A safistamacated woman, boy. One’ll fuck ya all night.” When he says ‘all’ his yellow eyes roll around his lined scarred head.
I tell ‘em scattah and he stares me down but jets, anyhow - leaving me to my beer. Finished up, paid the man, and headed to work.