Saturday, August 7, 2010


I can't sleep, my head hurts. I'm remembering odd, disjointed things, sitting here in semi darkness. Past scenes dancing in my mind, my brain aches from it. Maybe I have an aneurysm?
 Mike Harvey died when his brain exploded. Devoted heroin addict, dead from a rupture, ironic. He had white blonde hair, his mother's name was Georgia, why do I remember that? He was older than me by 6 or 7 years, he taught me where to fence boosted movies and weird shit like batteries and aspirin. The Arabs in the ghetto stores give 25%.
Driving up and down East California Ave and East Truxtun selling stolen tools to the crap auto yards that were most likely fronts for drug operations anyway. We got paid in the front and bought our dope in the back.
The alley off Brown St where every morning cars would line up for drive thru service, money through a hole in the fence, H over the top with a free dime of coke as an incentive to keep coming back. Fixing while he drove us home. He stole brake pads and put them on my old Regency so we could keep the money my mom gave me to take it in. He drove a red Volkswagen Beetle.
I told my grandmother he was my boyfriend so he could sleep at the house. I was fucking someone else. I sold my horses and we went to Vegas, the Heroin was gone before we crossed the city limits.
Sick in Vegas, tossing, turning, first real bout of sickness. Miserable. My mother wires me enough money for gas to get home and a little extra. We score crap dope cut with lactose and it gets us well enough. Fill up the car with a stolen gas card and drive from Nevada straight to the connect in Bako, finally real relief.
Back to the grind, drive, hustle, score, shoot, nod, rinse, repeat. I miss Mike. I miss my mint condition blue 77 Regency. The police called it the junky jalopy.
Got stolen and stripped when I was living with Casey off Union and Hwy 58. Cops found it a week later, the car was naked. No more junky jalopy.
Middle of summer, on foot, walking miles up Brundage to beg a front. Get well, hustle, hustle, hustle. Make $50, owe $20, what a bitch.
Dr. Swanson pill detox, $150 got you valium, clonodine pills and dermal patches, compazine, chloralhydrate syrup, soma, melatonin. I took some of everything and fixed on top, woke up with Casey, Joe and Will in a cold shower, they had to search and peel all the patches off me.
It's a blur, it's a blur, it's a blur and I miss it. I miss my supposedly wretched junky life. I miss being 16 and thinking that I'd be dead and buried in 3 years and not giving a fuck about it anyway. I miss doing speedballs in the hot summer heat and then sitting on the back steps, letting the waterhose run all over me, clothes and all. It felt like jello and my ears would ring and ring.
I need to lie down, give my head a nice, soft pillow to explode on.