JUNKe Life

Drive me home, Jebs…
September 20, 2008, 7:33 pm
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I once had a junk dealer who was also a heavy user himself.   He had the grayest death-pale like complexion of anyone I’ve ever know.  It was absolutely incredible how his skin appeared.  Almost elephant-like, but without the fat wrinkles.  His eyes were also had the largest darkest circles.  I think his appearance was a result of his near to unconscious junked out state most of the time, and his long time AIDS status.  He had passed the HIV to AIDS threshold many years previous.

He didn’t talk a lot, but he as an alright guy, and usually pretty fair.  I could usually trust his word, so one time when he warmed me, very insistently, that his current batch was “very good! way better than what I normally have! Do not do your normal sized hit!  Please don’t.  I don’t want my people dying” I took his warning to heart.  I went right home, put half my normal amount in the spoon, it cooked up real clean, and immediately went under.  Luckily I didn’t die from that overdose.  Instead I came out of it a half hour or so later, having no other memory than beginning to inject that hit.   A few days later, with a friend, we tried to be careful, but again both of us went under.  Luckily the phone rang, which “woke me up” and I was able to deal with my friend who quite likely would have died had I stayed under a half hour that time.

Anyhow… because this dealer was always junked out, he required a chauffeur to drive him to the big city when he resupplied.  For awhile I had the job.  We always went in his Cadillac with him and his lady in the comfortable back seat.  The round trip to the big city, scoring, and then getting back home took between 8 to 10 hours depending on whether or not he and his lady dithered and dathered (i.e. did a few lines of coke and a few shots of booze, and of course, a maintenance boost of junk, while I sat in the car waiting a couple blocks away) while at his dealer’s place.

One thing he didn’t want was me being too high when I drove.  Not so much for road safety reasons, but so I wouldn’t draw heat by floating across a couple lines on the freeway in a semi-nod.   However, with the trip being 8 to 10 hours I more or less needed to do a so-called maintenance hit sometime during the trip.  After all, I couldn’t do a big whack just before leaving, or I’d be too high on the way there.  So, what I’d do what take a modest sized pre-mix with me, tucked into my sock, and we’d usually stop for gas sometime early on the return trip and I’d visit the bathroom.  I figured he’d be fairly wasted after just visiting his dealers, as so early on the return trip he would really notice my condition all that clearly.

One time he was hungry so we stopped for a meal at one of those freeway gas station restaurant pull offs about an hour outside of the city.  I didn’t think I should do my hit there.  It was a bit early and I still had the final intense portion of the drive into the city.  So I held off.  Besides it was already dark so I figured I could quickly fix in the car right after he walked off to the dealers.   And that’s what I did.

Luckily he was inside for awhile because I nodded out for a bit.  I think it was as much a factor of being tired as good dope but for whatever reason it put me down for awhile.  Luckily he stayed at the dealer’s for some time and didn’t return to find me with my head slouched forward and drooling.  I was “awake” by the time he got back to the car, but definitely quite out of it.  But what could I do but try to get my shit together, keep some focus and drive?

But that proved impossible as I was just a little bit too wasted.  More than a couple times I swayed across the yellow line into another lane as my eyes blurred over and likely closed for a second.  I wanted to open the window to catch a cool breeze in my face but it was early winter and not the sort of weather to open the window.  That would have froze them in the back seat.  So I just tried to shake my head inside, shake it back to being clear.  Without too much success…

His dope always stayed well-stashed (suitcased in fact) for the drive back home.  And the routine was as soon as we got home, out it came, and right into it we got.   And then, after being well taken care of, then he’d start weighing it up, and divy off my “payment” for a chauffeur job well done.

Or in this instance, not so well done.   He gave me my payment and off I went.  But I never got called to drive him again.   Oh well, it was good while it lasted.  All in all, it was just a bit of a bummer, because even though I didn’t get the chauffeur’s bonus, of course I was still welcome to buy my dope from him, day after day, after day, for many year’s to come.