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Buy Good Drugs to Goodbye Drugs - Chapter 1
Perhaps it was pure exhaustion that drove me to that bank early Thursday
morning. Perhaps it was the words that my daughter so sadly spoke to my mother just a few days prior, that were now seared into my mind. Whatever it was, I think subconsciously, I was done running, and I was done hiding. I had enough of living on the streets, or in my car as it were. I had enough of the drug known as Blue. I had seen all the devastation, disaster, wreckage, and loss that these tiny little blue devils were responsible for in the last three years of my life. I couldn’t help but reminisce and grimace over my overtly terrible choices either. I felt like I was carrying the weight of my world on my shoulders, and I was done just shrugging off all of my choices that had led to this cataclysmic, yet so anticlimactic climax of my life.
“You have the right check, right?” These words softly spoken from the passenger in my back seat. Tricky was as exhausted as me, neither of us having slept since Monday. I know because when he slept, I allowed myself to get some sleep. This was a terrible habit I had picked up somewhere back in 2020. I would never sleep
around others, especially if I had trust issues with them. This stemmed from my now ex-girlfriend Lana, who had a taste for blood, or more importantly, my blood.
To put it mildly, Lana wanted me dead. She also loved me very much. It was a weird dynamic to say the least, but I digress. These days, I have trust issues with everyone I come into contact with. Tricky was no different, I have major trust issues with him. He is another who systematically incorporates violence into his day-to-day life, but only when he has to. Otherwise, he’s just a teddy bear with a butcher knife, or today, a small hatchet. Damn, no wonder I never sleep, look at the company I keep. “Are you sure your Uncle Terry is okay with this?” I asked for
what seemed like the hundredth time. “Yes, Unc’s is okay with this, I told you, it’s for the kitchen remodel.” “Then why does the check’s memo line read ‘For Farm Work’?” I had to question again this little bit of information, that seemed so significant. “Because he owns like 20 different farms, and that’s what he wanted
to put on the check.” “Okay” I said, barely audible as I muttered my last word. I
grabbed my foil from the middle console of my car, picked up my lighter and straw, and drew a rather large hit from the five little blue pills that were already burned onto the foil. I sat holding the hit in, finally exhaling after a good fifteen seconds. Then I hit it again, following the exact same routine as before. I continued this process until there was nothing left on the foil except a golden trail of goodness. I folded up the foil, stuffed it down in between my seat and the center console. “Someone please hand me the bubble.” I said, Cindy, nodded out
in the front seat, being a terrible co-pilot on this glorious morning. “Here, I just loaded it.” Tricky said from the back, handing me the bubble, filled with meth. I drew my lighter to it, and started to roll the stem in between my fingers, waiting for the smoke to fill the glass chamber. “Why do you always use a lighter on my shit, bro?” Tricky asked me annoyed. “Because I hate using torches on bubbles, I
always burn the shit out of the dope.” I replied. “Besides, unlike everyone else
you know, I actually know what I’m doing, when I put a regular flame to this here
bubble. You dig?” “Just don’t ruin my bubble.” he barked at me. I wondered if it
was even worth mentioning that the bubble in use was actually mine. I thought better of it. As Ice Cube once said, “Don’t start nothing, won’t be nothing.” After hitting the bubble a few times, I passed it back. I finally reached for a cigarette from my half-smoked pack of Reds, lit it up, and drew a long drag from it. I
withdrew and did it again. I did this a couple times, then without a goodbye from me, or good luck from them, I exited the driver’s side door of my 2007 Buick LaCrosse. I closed the door gently and stood there for a brief second. What was I doing? Was I actually getting ready to enter into a bank, a place of business,
dressed in sweats, a zip up hoodie and a beanie? I looked like shit, I smelled like
shit, I felt like shit, and now, I was on the verge of breaking the law and becoming
a real piece of shit. Well, I am my own worst enemy, I thought to myself. With
that, I straightened up and proceeded into the bank. Let the shit show commence.
© JML - Still a Work in Progress
morning. Perhaps it was the words that my daughter so sadly spoke to my mother just a few days prior, that were now seared into my mind. Whatever it was, I think subconsciously, I was done running, and I was done hiding. I had enough of living on the streets, or in my car as it were. I had enough of the drug known as Blue. I had seen all the devastation, disaster, wreckage, and loss that these tiny little blue devils were responsible for in the last three years of my life. I couldn’t help but reminisce and grimace over my overtly terrible choices either. I felt like I was carrying the weight of my world on my shoulders, and I was done just shrugging off all of my choices that had led to this cataclysmic, yet so anticlimactic climax of my life.
“You have the right check, right?” These words softly spoken from the passenger in my back seat. Tricky was as exhausted as me, neither of us having slept since Monday. I know because when he slept, I allowed myself to get some sleep. This was a terrible habit I had picked up somewhere back in 2020. I would never sleep
around others, especially if I had trust issues with them. This stemmed from my now ex-girlfriend Lana, who had a taste for blood, or more importantly, my blood.
To put it mildly, Lana wanted me dead. She also loved me very much. It was a weird dynamic to say the least, but I digress. These days, I have trust issues with everyone I come into contact with. Tricky was no different, I have major trust issues with him. He is another who systematically incorporates violence into his day-to-day life, but only when he has to. Otherwise, he’s just a teddy bear with a butcher knife, or today, a small hatchet. Damn, no wonder I never sleep, look at the company I keep. “Are you sure your Uncle Terry is okay with this?” I asked for
what seemed like the hundredth time. “Yes, Unc’s is okay with this, I told you, it’s for the kitchen remodel.” “Then why does the check’s memo line read ‘For Farm Work’?” I had to question again this little bit of information, that seemed so significant. “Because he owns like 20 different farms, and that’s what he wanted
to put on the check.” “Okay” I said, barely audible as I muttered my last word. I
grabbed my foil from the middle console of my car, picked up my lighter and straw, and drew a rather large hit from the five little blue pills that were already burned onto the foil. I sat holding the hit in, finally exhaling after a good fifteen seconds. Then I hit it again, following the exact same routine as before. I continued this process until there was nothing left on the foil except a golden trail of goodness. I folded up the foil, stuffed it down in between my seat and the center console. “Someone please hand me the bubble.” I said, Cindy, nodded out
in the front seat, being a terrible co-pilot on this glorious morning. “Here, I just loaded it.” Tricky said from the back, handing me the bubble, filled with meth. I drew my lighter to it, and started to roll the stem in between my fingers, waiting for the smoke to fill the glass chamber. “Why do you always use a lighter on my shit, bro?” Tricky asked me annoyed. “Because I hate using torches on bubbles, I
always burn the shit out of the dope.” I replied. “Besides, unlike everyone else
you know, I actually know what I’m doing, when I put a regular flame to this here
bubble. You dig?” “Just don’t ruin my bubble.” he barked at me. I wondered if it
was even worth mentioning that the bubble in use was actually mine. I thought better of it. As Ice Cube once said, “Don’t start nothing, won’t be nothing.” After hitting the bubble a few times, I passed it back. I finally reached for a cigarette from my half-smoked pack of Reds, lit it up, and drew a long drag from it. I
withdrew and did it again. I did this a couple times, then without a goodbye from me, or good luck from them, I exited the driver’s side door of my 2007 Buick LaCrosse. I closed the door gently and stood there for a brief second. What was I doing? Was I actually getting ready to enter into a bank, a place of business,
dressed in sweats, a zip up hoodie and a beanie? I looked like shit, I smelled like
shit, I felt like shit, and now, I was on the verge of breaking the law and becoming
a real piece of shit. Well, I am my own worst enemy, I thought to myself. With
that, I straightened up and proceeded into the bank. Let the shit show commence.
© JML - Still a Work in Progress
