| The Rubbish Heap |
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“He looks determined without being ruthless. Something heroic in his
manner. There’s a courage about him, he doesn’t look like a killer. He comes
across so calm. Acts like he has a dream. Full of passion. You don’t trust me?
Well, you know why. I know, we’re not supposed to trust anyone in our profession
anyway.” -----A Kung Fu Movie
I got drunk. I got on drugs. I got a long criminal record. I was ordered by the
courts to attend a 6-month course with a certified narcotics counselor. It’s always
the same bland story when you talk about dope. Every worthless junkie has got
their tall tales about overdose hallucinations and rock bottom moments. So
what? So they want you to share those precious feelings. It will make you well
again. Besides they wanted to hear all of that American music for their studies
and reports. A friend of mine, a methadone addict, Jeffery, told me about a
counselor with a sympathetic set of ears and an affordable price. So I was sitting
in a waiting room. Waiting for something, anything worth happening, to happen.
There was a receptionist. She was young, clean, an aspiring actress type.
And here I was. She may as well have been wearing a radioactive suit. When I
tried to throw some small talk her way, the bitch nearly puked into her red
wastebasket. There were all these pictures on the wall, saying things no one
wanted to hear. A bottle with explosives packed inside of it, blood red lettering
that informs ALCOHOL IS DYNAMITE. A disfigured woman with no teeth and the
caption “I used to be normal too”. Bollocks you did.
A skinny white kid came in. He gave his name and sat down a few seats
over. The air exchange rattled in the false ceiling. There was a stain in the thin
blue carpet. Blood? Wine? Tomato sauce? The short little doctor, lawyer,
bastard, whatever he was, came out and smiled at us. Aspiring Actress batted
her eyes at him, doing a shit job of icing over what went on when all the paying
customers left. Don’t quit your day job.
She called out in a snooty, gum-smacking way, “John, Mr. Hernandez will see
you now.”
I stood up and shuffled into his office. There were more motivational
posters. They reinforced my goal of doing all the dope that I could. He had hair
like bozo, same texture, not bald. Hernandez wore a brown suit. He observed
me, but didn’t say anything.
“Court ordered,” I offered.
“I’m Michael, don’t call me Mr. Hernandez. I’m just Michael. I want to be your
friend.”
“Yeah, alright.”
“What did you do John?”
“You know, nothing really. Did some Vicodin and robbed some summer
homes.”
Hernandez flipped through my rap sheets, info provided by courts. “I see
you've been convicted before for driving while intoxicated and for possession of
narcotics.”
“Yeah, it’s history. I made some bad choices, I’m cleaned up now.”
“You know that this isn’t right, don’t you? Addiction is a very deadly game.”
“I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Well don’t say that just yet. What we offer here is a few tools to help you
defend yourself from the pitfalls of drugs. We teach you what really happens to
drug users. It’s all about sobriety and self-respect man.”
“Sobriety and self-respect. That’s what I want.” I said it in my way, the good-
natured boy runs amuck but shapes up after realizing his errors in judgment way,
but Hernandez had these demon dog eyes. They were flaming red, satanic coals
in sockets, and they ripped right through the façade.
“It’s chilly in here, let me grab my sport coat.” Hernandez got up and went
into his closet. The knob was loose and he had a hard time getting the door
open. There was a picture on the desk of him and his wife with a tot lying on their
lap. The baby was so fat and pink it should have been pitched in a dumpster or
flushed down the toilet. The wife had these moles. They made you want to
connect the dots all over her fucking face. The radio was buzzing out Simon and
Garfunkel. Half of the time we’re gone but we don’t know where, and we don’t
know where. Fitting.
“I can, uh fix that door if you’d like.” I wasn’t TRYING to kiss up to my new
master, but it did seem that way. “If you’ve got a screwdriver.”
“Really?” He put his flabby arms into the sports coat and studied me. “Do
you have experience as a handy man or something?”
“Yeah, you know, I’ve had a lot of jobs. Done a lot in my short time.”
“Well unfortunately, I don’t have a screwdriver. I’m a klutz when it comes to
repair work.”
“No problem, I’ll bring one next time around.”
Hernandez fixed his attention on me for a moment before deciding, “You
know John, I don’t think you really have a problem. I think you’re a victim of bad
luck.”
“Yeah,” I affirmed.
“Yeah, so do you have the money. It’s 1980 for the whole six month
session?”
“I do. I’ve been saving up for rainy days.”
“Well I do have a plan,” Hernandez sat down behind his desk again.
“Oh Yeah? What’s that?”
“Yeah, you won’t have to come. Just pay me the money. Come back, fix the
closet, give me a check, once it clears, you’re free to go. I don’t think our
program can help you. You’re fine. What do you think about that?”
“I think you’re right.”
“Why don’t you come back next week then, with the money. How’s that work
for you?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
“Six months from now, I’ll give you a written document that says you passed
the course.”
“Alright, see you next week?”
“Yeah.”
“Take care Hernandez.”
“Michael.”
“Yeah.”
I got on my feet and scooted out of the room. What a pro. Less than thirty
minutes and he had touched me for two thousand. I needed to make an
appointment for next week on my way out. Aspiring Actress was spraying a
faltering tropical plant with some kind of miracle nutritional supplement. The
skinny kid was standing next to her.
“Isn’t that stuff you’re spraying, isn’t it, isn’t it, a drug? Like, like, like for
plants. Steroids. Isn’t it like a drug or something? You know, I mean isn’t it bad
for it or something.” His words were tripping out of his mouth. They came
foaming out of him half-unintelligible, like he was trying to win a race for fastest
speaker, an earful of auditory vomit. He was tuned onto meth or speed or coke
or some shit.
“Actually this stuff is good for them. It’s not a drug.”
“Yeah, yeah, but I mean, isn’t it a drug. I mean isn’t it bad for them. Don’t
you think that maybe they’re becoming addicts. Addiction is a horrible thing.
Terrible. They might like the nutrients now. They might need them, but you
know, they’re just plants. Like me and you. Well, like me and you, only not like
me and you. You know?”
“They ARE FINE. Excuse me now, I have to help this gentleman.”
I gave her an earnest stare. “I need to make an appointment so I can come
back and pay the man.”
“Mr. Hernandez.”
“Yeah, right.”
She gave me the appointment. When I got in the elevator, it went down, but I
was going up. I had some morphine in my pocket and I shoved it down my throat.
Outside of the rehab center, I pulled a smoke from my pack. No lighter. Fitting.
There was a guy handing out leaflets. He had red bushy hair and wore a blue
turtleneck that strangled his neck.
“You got a light boss?”
“Yeah, here, take one of these.” He passed me a leaflet. It said: BE A
HERCULES IN BED. ADD THREE INCHES WITHOUT SURGERY. DIAL XXX-
XXXX. “You coming from that rehab center huh?”
“That’s right, there on official drug addict business.”
“How’s it feel? I’ve always wondered. I mean how’s it feel to be dead. No
offense intended, I mean how does it feel to not be alive, where the rest of us are
living. How is it to be gone? Outside. Empty.” He lit my cigarette.
“It’s all you ever wanted and more. How does it feel to be alive?”
“Even better.”
That’s when something profound was supposed to happen, something life
changing, but luckily for me, instead the drugs kicked in.
contact the eds at:
editors@thetruthmagazine.com
editors@thetruthmagazine.com