Digging the Vein (29 page)

I finally found an old looking crack head skulking around the darker recesses of a basketball court on Rose Avenue. He watched me approach with a smirk. There weren’t too many white kids walking around this area after dark. He knew I was looking for drugs straight away.

“
Hey.”

He sauntered over, one shoulder up, the other down. The carefully presented stroll of hip.

“’
Sup, youngblood?”

His voice was so deep it was almost subliminal. “You looking for someone?”

“
Yeah. I’m looking for chiva. You know where I can get some?”

“
Chiva?” The old guy shook his head. “Then you in the wrong place. All rocks around here, son. I got a friend can hook you good if you want some rocks …”

“
I’m a junky.” I said. “Man, I’m
sick
. All I’m looking for is dope.”

“
Well…” the old guy looked thoughtful for a moment, “I guess you gonna be a looking motherfucker then, ‘cos there ain’t no chiva ‘round here. People want that shit they go downtown, an’ be messin’ with those spics.”

I thanked him and walked back to the guesthouse. It was eleven pm and I had no car. I was screwed. I went lay down on the foldout bed, popped five Valium and tried to sleep.

The night seemed endless. My entire body would suddenly feel as though I had been doused in ice water. I shivered and pulled the blankets up over me. After lying like that for a few moments I’d suddenly realize that I was now burning up: sweat dripped from every part of me and I’d throw the blanket aside, gasping for breath. It went on like that, from hot to cold, cold to hot and then back again, on and on for the whole night. After a while I started to cry from a mixture of exhaustion, self-pity and pain. Even the fucking
tears
hurt.

Eventually the sleeping pills took hold, and I managed to fall into a drugged half-sleep for a couple of hours. At 2:30 am I jerked awake with as gasp. I was wide-awake again, soaked with junk sweat, and doubled up with stomach cramps. I made it to the bathroom and shat violently, filling up the bowl with rancid smelling goo. It seemed to go on for hours. By the time I crawled back to the bed again my teeth were chattering. I felt that the night must surely be coming to an end by now, but the clock by the bed read 2:41.

A great chasm of despair yawned open inside of me – every mistake, every rejection, every insult, every moment of embarrassment and humiliation were re-played over and over again by a brain seemingly tuned in to a broadcast from Hell itself. Time seemed to stand still. I took to closing my eyes and refusing to allow myself to move in an attempt to fool my brain into thinking I was asleep. It didn’t work. After an hour of this my stomach lurched, and the vomiting began. I puked continuously into the trashcan by my bed. The violent, painful retching continued even when my stomach was empty. I lay with my head hanging off the bed, groaning in despair, a long trail of burning yellow stomach acid connecting my bottom lip to the trashcan.

I called Raphael as soon as the clock hit eight. Amazingly he answered first time around. He seemed surprised to hear from me, and even more surprised when I told him where I was staying. He told me that he’d figured I’d gotten busted or OD’d when he stopped hearing from me. I told him I wanted to buy a twenty-dollar bag of smack and he reluctantly agreed to drive it out to me. He always bitched when I wanted less than half a gram delivered, but I was insistent. Anyway, he surely didn’t want one of his regular customers to get clean did he? I gave him detailed directions and he told me he’d be here at 9:30. I agreed to meet him at a spot few blocks away and I settled down to wait.

This was the beginning of my third day without dope. Stomach cramps were increasing in their ferocity and all of my demons where coming to the surface, lurking under the bed and in the closet … again I became totally aware of my situation, of the utter hopelessness of where I was and what I was about to do. I get 20 dollars worth of smack and then what? When it runs out, I am back to where I started … less money, starting my kick all over again. I was doomed. A month in detox and rehab and here I was four months later, strung out worse than ever, out of money, sleeping in the guesthouse of some people I barely know. None of my friends from before I got a habit wanted to know me. So much time had passed since my last success with a band that I had faded totally from the collective consciousness. Everyone who worked for The Catsuits at Warner Brothers had moved on, no one remembered. Back in Britain I’d hear snippets about what the others where doing—Laura was a TV presenter now, John had a new single reviewed in the NME, Martine and Ella had formed a band and were touring the country. And here I was, stuck in this shithole area of Venice, dope sick and suicidal, ready to extend my misery for one more hour of tranquility. I was adrift; stuck on the other side of the world, cut off from my old friends, my old life.

I was miserable. I wanted this to stop; I really wanted it to stop. I didn’t just want a break from the drugs; I wanted to go back to a time before I stuck a needle in my arm, before I knew how fucking amazing that feeling is, before I blew it for myself by getting a taste of what heaven feels like. Mortals were not meant to know this; these kicks were strictly for the Gods. How could I go back to blissful ignorance now? Despite the dire situation I was now in and how unhappy it made me, I knew that the sad truth was that being straight, getting out of bed and starting the day without a shot of dope, the life I’d had mapped out for me before it all went wrong just wasn’t a possible reality for me anymore. How could I live with the horrors and the boredom of being alive without something to make me feel that it was worthwhile, without something to keep me insulated from the world around me? I’d changed. I’d altered my brain chemistry, my reward system, my entire outlook on life, and as far as I could see the change was irreversible. I had no more control over what happened next than I had over the wind or the rain. I was at my habit’s mercy.

It was late morning when my phone finally went off. I had lain there, squirming and cursing, puking and spitting, staring at the impertinent mute thing, willing it to buzz into life, to no avail. I had actually started to sleep when the phone did go off, but I snatched it up before the first ring had ended. Raphael’s voice was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard at that moment and I gasped, “On my way,” before hanging up.

I got up wearing only jeans and a T-shirt, no shoes, no socks. I had a sense of purpose now, like a long distance runner beginning his journey. I was focused totally on the transaction, on getting to Raphael as soon as possible, and then getting back so I could obliterate my feelings for another few hours. All those hours in rehab, sitting cross legged in a circle, concentrating on breathing and trying, unsuccessfully, to achieve the kind of spiritual peace though meditation that I am suddenly bestowed with while going to score. Maybe this is the closest I will ever get to that kind of bliss. My situation is suddenly cropped and reduced down to the bare essentials—I will leave, I will score, I will get high. Beyond that the world is an irrelevancy.

In my hurry to leave I could not find my shoes. Instead of wasting time hunting around under the bed or rummaging through piles of unwashed clothes I simply walked out the door barefoot, nervously fingering the scrunched up twenty in my pocket. As soon as I had taken a couple of steps down the block, the heat rising from the pavement started to burn the soles of my feet. Well, fuck it. I considered the delay that returning to the guest house and finding my pair of shoes would entail and decided against it. I turned left on Rose and carried on walking the seven or eight blocks to where I was due to meet Raphael. The sidewalk changed from broken paving slabs to tarmac and the tarmac was beginning to melt already under the desert sun. I could feel its softness under my feet and became aware that it was beginning to stick to my skin. Each step became more and more painful. I could feel blisters forming as I started to walk on the sides of my feet to take some of the pressure off my burning soles. The sun beat down mercilessly, but I fixed my mind on the drugs I was going to buy, and like some old Indian yogi walking on hot coals, the thought of fixing pushed the sensation of my breaking and blistering flesh to the back of my mind.

I made it to a strip mall on the corner of Rose and Lincoln consisting of a fast food Chinese, check cashing place, pawn shop and a bodega. I ducked into a shaded spot and sat on the wall waiting for Raphael to show. I watched every passing car, intently looking for his junkyard Toyota. A new-looking SUV pulled into the lot and I was surprised to see Raphael behind the wheel with a new girlfriend in tow. He looked clean, healthy. I wondered absently if he’d finally stopped drinking, snorting and whoring every dollar he made.

I limped over and slid into the back of his cool, air-conditioned vehicle. I closed my eyes, enjoying the feel of the leather seat and the cool air against my skin. I couldn’t help but notice the change in our circumstances. When I first met Raphael he was working the corner of Pico and Coronado in ripped sneakers and a dirty T-shirt, hawking balloons of dope to the white dope fiends who descended from every part of the city. I had a car, an apartment and a life. Flash forward to now: I am broke and broken, climbing into his brand-new, air-conditioned ride.

“
Hey buddy,” Raphael grinned, turning round to face me. “You don’t look so good.”

His girlfriend glanced at me before turning away with a slightly disgusted look on her face. She muttered something in Spanish and started fixing her lipstick.

“
I don’t feel so good, my friend”

We did the deal and Raphael dropped me on the corner of my street. I thanked him, told him I’d be in touch, and split with my drugs. There's not a lot of small talk to be done between a dealer and a customer once the transaction is completed. If only all human interactions were so clean cut and well-defined.

I carefully slid the front gate open, and walked back into the house. Jim was in the yard watering his plants. He looked up at me and raised an eyebrow.

“
Hey, what you doing up? I thought you’d be … well, you know.”

I had originally met Jim through Dito. He was in his fifties and had been on the periphery of the music industry for most of his life. He made his living training corporations on how make even more money by employing some kind of new age psychobabble. He tried to explain it to me once, but it made no sense whatsoever. My overriding impression of him was the bitterness he carried around at never making it as a musician. I figured this was why he still tolerated me coming around to borrow money that I could never pay back.

He was the type who collected colorful characters and I was sure I made a funny topic of conversation over dinner. To Jim’s friends he was a genuine eccentric – good old Jim with his crazy musician friends. In exchange for fifty dollars here and there, or a roof over my head, I was here to provide Jim with material. Sometimes he’d play me a song he’d written and then it would be my job to tell him I liked it. I was a whore. Instead of sucking his cock I was a performing monkey. My role had changed slightly over the years: now I was playing the part of the junkie musician on the skids. More material for dinner party conversation. Jim smoked pot and claimed to understand my problems, yet he thought it was as easy as just putting the needle down for me to get straight. Right now I was not in the mood for his bullshit.

“
Yeah, I’m not feeling so good. Tried to take a walk to clear my head but I didn’t get far.” I gestured to my bare feet. “Too hot to go more than a block without shoes.”

“
I’ll say!” he laughed. I saw him file that one away.
Walking around Venice barefoot!
“You look pretty bad. You are doing the right thing, though. That shit will kill you, know what I’m saying?”

I stared right through him, focusing on getting past him, into the guesthouse and fixing.

“
You’re right, Jim. I’m over it. I just need to get my strength back and I’ll be cool.”

“
Good, man.” He gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder and I tried not to recoil from it. “Keep it up.”

I walked past him thinking FUCK YOU JIM, FUCK YOU FUCK YOU, but said something about going for a lie-down as I slipped inside my room to get myself well again. I split the twenty bag in two and slid the needle into my neck for the sake of speed. The shot instantly flooded my system with warmth and good feelings. I didn’t get very high, but that familiar feeling of all being well radiated within me. I had come home.

I spent the day in a pleasant state of blessed out lethargy. Suddenly I had an interest in TV, music, writing again. I scribbled in my journal a little, ate some cakes and chocolates from the fridge, dozed off for a while. I awoke some time later, when the sun had set and something dark had risen in my heart. I looked at my pathetic wrap of smack and resisted the urge to do it. I wasn’t sick yet. Again, the thought of what would happen when I ran out surfaced and I felt a pang of psychosomatic withdrawal symptoms simply by thinking about it.

I stood up with a new sense of purpose. I started hunting around for the last of my money. I was going to get high, and if there was no heroin in Ghost Town then I suppose I’d have to smoke crack. I rustled up forty dollars in bills and change and headed out of the back door.