the fool’s back pocket…

I heard of this guy once who used to let himself fall into an almost comatose state of withdrawal psychosis so as to break his resistance to morphine and heroin. Then, when he was about two steps away from flogging himself into a pine box, he’d shoot a small amount of junk into the deepest vein he could get too with a short needle. He had this gigantic syringe attached to the needle and was almost fanatically precise when measuring out the dose from a tattered leather satchel that held his stash. The satchel had probably seen more than its share of fractured usage, but despite the folds and creases in the leather, it held up to a lot of shit pretty well, all things considered.

Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this story is that I’d never understood how he broke out of the standard junkie psychology and managed to chase a buzz that far without caring what it did to his body, his spirit, let alone his fucking mind. You see, any addiction is contained of many interlocking ideas, emotional needs, physical short-comings, etc. Most junkies will continue to needle themselves into hysterics simply by wanting it all at once; too much, too fast. This guy didn’t want to lose his ability to feel every last mind-blowing moment of that small hit of whatever the fuck it was that went barrel-housing through his veins. My feelings toward him zig-zagged from profound admiration all the way to pity. When he went without, it was always with the purpose of feeling the full value of something that was killing him both in his usage, and, at times, his non-usage. Very few people had the mental agility to see the big picture like this guy. He could see, and he knew what he was looking at. He knew it was a death-trip, but he always told me “That’s what we all get. Don’t waste good tears gone on.” I never was sure what he was referring to. My tears were never wasted.

He might have been folly chasing down death, or maybe just a guy who saw what was coming and decided he didn’t want any of what it was going to be. He was able to retain his ability to literally starve his body into submission by withholding the low hanging fruit of the desert from his mouth and veins. I’ve never met another junkie who maintain under those rules, although to be honest few actually try to. Like I said, most of us are content to keep jamming the needle in (or whatever other method of ingestion is available) with the needle dirty and the syringe packed to the gills.

When the tendril of blood flecks out into the liquid suspension, it looks like a long thin finger being unrolled to point in admonition. Then, with a little pressure on the plunger, it’s gone, back to where it had come from, amidst a concoction of pain relief and depression cleansing fog where it all feels right.

I know, I know, that doesn’t mean shit unless you already know what it means to wake up with the hit long gone and your body begging and crying for just a little more, just a little longer, just make it all go away for a few more hours and I’ll deal with it later. Under those premises, that supply will shrink and tolerance will grow, one more shove towards the precipice from an unseen hand. (That’s because you just pushed yourself…without seeing a thing. Ask any junkie what that means.) No, this guy was smart. Every hit had to count, or in the end, he was doing something for nothing, which is exactly what the average junkie will accept in return for their soul, not to mention the television set or radio. Not him. He wasn’t that cheap, even in the dire straights of the worst of the withdrawal syndrome. I didn’t say it was an easy or particularly heroic lifestyle. The truth is, most of the people I have met along the way seem all too willing to hold a firesale, and after all the cheap plastic shit has been sold, then the fire sale truly begins. What gets sold next largely depends on the user. How far are you willing to go to find out how much you can take? The physical collapse will be easy, the emotional collaps will probably kill you…if it doesn’t, you might find yourself a lot closer to doing the deed yourself than you ever thought possible. That doesn’t mean you will, it just means you might. Scary, is it not? But not for him…

This guy didn’t believe any of the rules applied to him. This wasn’t about trying to duck the punishment of a life spent chasing the next high. He just had higher standards, and knew that selling out your body and mind deserved as high a price as you could possibly fetch. Mark all the suffering between reaching the plateau as part of the price. Nothing more, nothing less. That there would be eventual relief of every symptom and facet of existence was a given. That he would suffer a self-imposed sickness of a deprived mind just kind of happened. I seriously doubt anyone tries to decide what kind of junkie they might make in some exigent future. The iron law is nobody ever gives it much thought until that first test high becomes imprinted on your fucking skull, and like a monster you give up anything that doesn’t aid in search for a pleasing high that lasts until the end of time. And you thought I was kidding about the death-trip. I don’t know anyone who laughs at a sick joke like that, except of course me.

So what does it all matter? Does it even matter at all? I’d say yes, if only because even a junkie knows that while on this death trip there is a lot of life. I can let you in on the methods, we can speculate on the rationale, but in the end, unless you know what chemical joy really feels like, nothing I am saying will make any difference in anything. Nobody should so willingly set themselves afire just to see the light, and what’s worse is that so few ever actually realize the power that they hold when a crinkled plastic bag or maybe an old shoebox is opened up to reveal the fruit of the gods. If you can wrap your head around the fact that some people place a much higher value on the ability to smile and smile while the world comes to a grinding stop than in preventing the planet from stopping on a dime (or insert your favorite end of times theory here) then you’ve got it. Whatever you think your life is “for,” or any such quaint sentiment, not everyone will act accordingly. Like every other choice, this one comes with the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Oh, and my buddy, the self tortured junkie? He just up and disappeared. You don’t even know who you’re running from sometimes, right? He stopped showing up to the park where I used to do business a while back, and that’s all I heard. I doubt he OD’ed, although it is one possibility. I like to think he’s still out there, busting his own ass in search of the perfect high. It makes the rest of the trip much more entertaining. If he was here, he’d probably grimace whenever the subject came up. The whole ordeal gave him the worst night sweats you’ll ever hear about, not to mention the bleak depression. That was something though, the way he would walk right up to the line where one more step means the end of the road, pause, and smile like the whole thing was a bad joke before stepping back for another orund of withdrawals. Just another story, perhaps, but in the few moments I’ll allot to thinking about the guy, I imagine that he’s still looking. I don’t think he’ll find it, what with the limitations of his methodology, but hey, fuck it and keep looking anyway. Taught me a few fucking lessons, and now that his story is out there, I consider it paid in full. I don’t miss you you bastard, but I wish you were here.