Empire of Dirt

  “Holy shit! I don’t remember this hurting that fucking much,” I whined as she poked the needle through my skin. I really didn’t. I mean, I knew it had been a while, but I thought my memory for pain was a little stronger than that. It was clear that my memory for mental pain was completely shot, otherwise I wouldn’t have been back in that hellish situation again: spoons, Q-tips, and needles all over the table, little shot glass amounts of water in plastic cups, ashtrays full of cigarette butts smoked halfway through the filters. 
    But in a monstrously perverted way, it was good to be home.  
    I knew any second, once that euphoric tsunami overcame my body, everything would be a fucking blur. I missed it— that nothingness. I missed the sensory incapacitation. I missed the complete and utter disconnectedness from the universe. I didn’t want to be part of anything anymore. I wanted to wander alone, a free radical in the ether, on a path still undetermined. 
    I don’t remember exactly how I got to that point, because for so long, all I wanted was to be connected to something—to feel as if there was anything more than just my miserable loneliness to help me pass my time on Earth. But there I was, my belt around my bicep, hand clenched in a fist, needle sticking out of my arm, sitting with some girl I met on a hookup dating site next to me. I think her name was Judith. 

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    Then it hits me, and suddenly I’m floored—my chest tightens up like someone’s sitting on it, all the tension in my shoulders pours down my back and is gone before I even realize it. At one point, I lived for this feeling. Now I’m pretty sure I’m gonna die for it. If that dealer finds us, there is no chance of survival. I could see the gun sticking out of his belt when we ripped him off. Luckily Judith (or whatever her name is) has a lead foot, and pulled away before he even had a chance to pull his hand back out of her car. I guess he didn’t feel like shooting at us that close to a police station. Now I get why she said that would be a good place to pick up. 
    I’m now a puddle, just sitting. But I’m back. Funny how possibly killing myself can make me feel so alive. But as sure as I am lounged on this plaid beanbag chair, and sure as there are four bundles with my name on them sitting on her makeshift table made of shoeboxes in front of me, I am fucking back. As I’m staring out of one of the broken windows that face the alley across from her shithole apartment, two thoughts cross my mind: first, I catch myself thanking the god I don’t believe in that it’s spring so that the broken window is practically irrelevant, and second, “Judith” did not seem as translucently pale before she did her shot.  
    I start trying to think of what to do. I’m pretty sure she’s not breathing. She might have a pulse, but complete and utter apathy permeates my every thought, leading me to take absolutely no action. I want another shot, but not here. To hell with her, I think to myself. I’m pretty sure I never told her my real name. And from the looks of it, she’s not talking to anyone anytime soon. I take her car keys, and more importantly, I take the four bundles she had on the table. That gives me a car and 8 bundles. Fuck! No money. I’m toying with the idea of emptying her wallet, but I stop myself for some reason. But it doesn’t take much self-convincing before I’m pulling her ratty-ass purse out from under her near-dead body. And to think, I was about to take her dope and leave her to die, but not touch her precious knock-off Louis Vuitton purse on some sort of moral ground. I may not be the worst person in the world, but I’m sure as hell not the best. 
    Suddenly, there’s a brief flicker behind her glassed over doll eyes. There’s someone trying to jumpstart the engine in that dope-fiend brain of hers. It’s decision time. A few bars of a Clash song pop into my head. 
    It’s time to go.

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    Grabbed the gear, grabbed the money, left the girl. It’s not exactly something I’d want on my tombstone or anything, but if I don’t go, worrying about my tombstone will be a much more pressing issue. Just as I’m about to make a clean getaway from this shithole, I hear the unmistakable sound outside of a flashy sports car’s high-end breaks screeching to a halt: the telltale sign of a ripped-off dealer coming to get his pound of flesh. Whats-her-name probably weighs about a buck twenty. That should be enough flesh for both of us. 
    I gotta go. Fast. 
    I take one last look at this hopeless girl and the even more hopeless situation, and make a dash down the back stairs into the darkness. I’m not sure, maybe it’s the nostalgic feeling of the dope coursing through my veins, or maybe it’s just an almost absurd fight for life while carrying around a bunch of needles and nearly a brick, but something is kicking my ass into full on sprint mode. Apparently, not wanting to die at the hands of a severely pissed off, possibly homicidal drug dealer is all the motivation I need to push through the walls of my physical limitations. I just really wish I had some fucking shoes on. 
    The missing shoes wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t raining, and if I wasn’t running for my life in the side streets of Williamsburg right next to the BQE. What the fuck am I doing back in Brooklyn anyway? Why does it always have to be Brooklyn? Could’ve found a cute trust fund girl in a swanky little Manhattan apartment…but no, adventure boy has to make it a challenge and team up with some crazy Jersey transplant who up until about an hour ago seemed like the second coming of Bonnie Parker. Bonnie’s dead, so I guess they are pretty alike.
    Okay. I need to make it to the Lorimer Street subway and to back into Manhattan. There’s no way that crazy Dominican bastard will find me there. I just need to keep moving west back toward Jersey. How I’ll get there, I have no idea. But that’s the goal. Eventually my wet, cut-up feet are going to start hurting a lot more unless I can get a hit. But getting clubbed to death or cut up or whatever the fuck Domincan drug dealers do is going to hurt a lot more, so I need to keep moving. Why did I take off my goddamn shoes? 
    Ainslie Street. 

    Almost there. Maybe one or two more blocks. I hope she has a Metrocard in the knockoff purse I’m lugging around. I don’t have time to stop and make nice with those annoying card-spitting ATM machines. I have places to be— like not fucking here. 
    I hadn’t heard any commotion coming from the direction of the den of death. That’s probably a good thing, but I don’t exactly have time for a celebration. I’m sure Paco’s found her, dead or alive. I almost hope for her sake that she’s dead. I keep telling myself it was just her turn, and for now that’s gotta do. It’s survival of the fittest out here, and sometimes fit means ruthless. And tonight, I am definitely without a single ruth. 
    I can see the station. I’m almost there. Hopefully no one thinks too much of a shoeless crazy fucker running into the subway with a knock-off Louis V purse sticking out of a ratty Eddie Bauer rucksack. Luckily, this is New York City. This kind of thing happens all of the time here. I love this city. I dig into her purse and pull out a Metrocard, wasting no time trying to get it into the little slot to get me through the turnstile. I’m in! The subway is just pulling up to the platform.  I’m home fucking free now. Except—
    Behind me I hear shouting, “He’s down in the subway! I just saw him!”
    This is going to be some Jason Bourne shit right here. I’m either making it right now, or I’m dead. There’s no other way this ends. I run as far up the platform as I can, waiting until the last minute to duck into the car. Hopefully no one sees where I’m getting on the train. I pull off the green hoodie I was wearing and throw it in the closest garbage can just before I jump into the subway car. I fucking loved that hoodie. Oh well. I grab the blue raincoat out of my bag, and get it on as fast as I can. Maybe these guys will fall for something as cliché as that. Who knows? Maybe I’m being chased by a bunch of dumbass spotters or lookers, and not actual drug dealers. Dealers wouldn’t fall for that. Jesus, please have it be lookers. I want to go home.