FEBRUARY 2012 - ISSUE 01 - Massive Magazine

24FEATUREmachines on main streets andoutside drop-in centres in mosthigh traffic districts.]I explained why I smashedhis window and he was genuinelytouched.Then the three of us divvyedup and shared what we hadon us and all had a good laughabout it watching the oceandarken.As we left the Addict to hissolitary life, I kidnapped his cat,Baby. A photographer at theparty we left had been lookingfor one to pose with the girls.I couldn’t find the cage in thegarage, and didn’t want to reawakenthe Addict from hisrare sleep, so I lured Baby intoa cardboard box with a chunk ofcarrot soaked in vodka. He putup a real fight the whole driveback to the city, bouncing roundthe cardboard walls of his cell.I said something to the Negroabout Schrödinger’s cat as wedrove. ‘Who’s Schrödinger? Wescore off him a month back?’Close. I told him Schrödingerwas the kid who plays piano inCharlie Brown & Snoopy.The day party had devolvedinto night. More people werethere, more music, more mess.Baby proved an unwilling model– we only got a few usable shots.I locked him in a bedroom withsome milk. Things deterioratedinto strobes. I remember somethingabout a wheelchair, anargument, and then I hit a guy“I always kept one eye on my intakeand whether or not I was slipping intoa swamp I wouldn’t be able to pullout of. (Burroughs was correct in hisautobiographical Junkie: Habits, goodor bad, take a while to take. He injectedmorph every day for almost a year beforehe felt the tingle of serious addiction. Iconcur)”who wouldn’t quit bugging oneof the girls. (I’m fairly certain Ididn’t hit the guy in the wheelchair).I woke up the next afternoonin the bathroom. Baby had escaped.The Negro and me wanderedthe streets calling ‘Baby?Baby? Here, Baby!’ Strangersgave us strange looks, althoughthe Negro managed to get thephone numbers of two girlswho mistook our intentions foramourous. I found Baby an hourlater in the abandoned officebuilding where all the homelesscats and people congregate. In amatter of hours the cat thoughthe’d gone stray. I taxied himback to the house at the beach,but found it empty.The first time I blasted heroinwas like a scene out of amovie.Me and a friend of a friendtalked ourselves into it atthree in the morning, drunk.She used to use, and had beenclean for a few years. She hadjust begun to drift back in, andshe found kicks in introducingme to it. I always knew I’dtry it. I’d seen Trainspotting,Drugstore Cowboy, and all sortsof anti-drug specials, and theyhadn’t scared me straight. Theymade it look so much more . . .real – realer than anything else.I didn’t want to die wonderingwhat it was like. So off we went.In a corner of the park, nearthe fountain, Tess spoke to ablack kid in a hoodie. Maybe 15years old. He took our moneyand rode away on his bike. Wewaited there for 10 minutesor so with drunks and junkiesnodding out. We were theonly whites there, apart from atoothless guy who reminded meof a pirate. The black kid cameback with two balled-up bits ofpaper, like the gum wrappersyou throw away. We left thepark and bought some fits fromthe machine.Here’s the movie bit: we satin between two parked cars ina back alley, our asses in thegutter, literally, and shot up. Ieven choked my arm with mybelt, despite my fresh veins, justto make it theatrical. It was soclichéd and ‘gritty’ and all that,the fumes and traffic sounds, so‘urban decay/inner city’ stereotype,it could’ve been in oneof those anti-drug specials. ‘TheCity is a dark and dangerousplace, and little Timmy is startingdown the road to ruin.’And it felt so numb. It feltgreat, but there was no ecstasy orrapture. Where were the trumpets,the angels’ choir? It wasmore like indifference. Blankindifference. I understood whyprostitutes and the homelessdid it: people with hard lives,hard to face. It made nothingmatter. Oh, my life sucks? Ah,who cares. You’re doing thingsthat shame you and your wholefamily? Who cares. It was likeone big indifferent shrug. Wewent to score more an hour later,still high, dragged ourselvesout from between the fendersto find the kid on the bike. He’dbeen replaced by a greasy Italianman with gold chains andgym gear. More clichés. He gaveus two wraps and drove away inhis sports car. This time whenwe unwrapped them there wasno grey powder, just bits of paper.We shrugged at each other.Who cares? We’re like fictionalcharacters in a movie. None ofthis is really real. Who cares?We just got ripped off, 50 bucks.Who cares? Sneering at eachother, ‘Whatever, man.TWO...And on and on it went. Bitsand pieces scrawled oncardboard and newspaper,documenting the slide intoharder and harder vices. Hundredsof stories based arounddrug-fueled highjinks, arrests,poignant ironies and harrowingaftermaths. At length it wouldread like most any other tale ofyouth on drugs: relapses, rehab,and some sort of saccharineredemption at tales’ end. Etcetera. You’ve read The BasketballDiaries, and James Frey’sA Million Little Pieces. I’m notgoing to retread old tracks. Socan I realistically expect to addanything new to the pile? Probablynot. But not for the reasonsyou’d think. But first thingsfirst: I’m going to skip over allthe played-out scenes you’vealready seen and read ad nauseum,and jump straight to epilogues:My core crew of partiers remainedthroughout the years aswe escalated and declined, wentclean and sober for a time, thenrelapsed. Peripheral characterscame and went, floated in andout of scenes.The Negro replaced his addictionswith the volatile love ofa girl on and off her meds. He’dstill drink and pop uppers withme when we hung out, but themajority of his time was spentarguing and reconciling withthe girlfriend. For three yearsthat atrocity of a relationshipdragged itself on, kicking andscreaming; but at least it curedhim of the constant thirst.My Thai ladyboy friend wasdeported, and later died inBangkok. The photographerdied. Various others died, O.D.-ed, went clean for good, gotmarried, left the city. Baby gotrun over. Tess stopped usingshortly after popping my cherrythat night between the parkedcars. She moved with her girlfriendto Adelaide and no crewheard from her again. I like tothink she’s living happily. TheAddict’s brain spiked and hechewed through his face during