THE DAY THAT BROKE ME

Part 1 – When Harry Met Rosie

–3:45 A.M.–

I still remember that night vividly–and not just through my eyes and ears, but with all my senses.

Like anyone who has experienced acute withdrawal from the drug-of-gods called heroin, you know that all of your senses are on a retributive overdrive.

During this time, the senses of the body grow so overly sensitive that nearly any sensory input becomes agonizing; punishment for their opiated sedation for so long, I suppose.

As I laid there on my bed, it seemed like the walls were slowly closing in on me, the room becoming smaller and smaller every time I opened my eyes. I could never get used to the sporadic sensations of panic during detox.

My body was tense, I quite literally had to remind myself to breathe every so often. Similarly, a powerful feeling of anxiety was running rampant. Worse yet, this anxiety seemed to manifest physically as a constant and unbearable pressure on my chest, as if a heavy bowling ball was permanently rested on my sternum.

I also felt like ripping off my own skin, just in the hope that it would alleviate some of the pain there. The tormenting feelings that emanate from all over the skin are unequivocally some of the worst symptoms of detox. Interestingly enough, this feeling is very difficult to accurately describe to people that have never experienced it.

I’d probably have to write an 80-page dissertation to accurately describe all the symptoms I was suffering through. Sure, there are things that can help ease the pain, but the incessant misery is undoubtedly inescapable. The acute withdrawal experience has, and always will be, invariably excruciating — no matter what one does to mitigate the suffering.

I simply knew I had to pay the toll.

So there I laid, sprawled in my bed, marinating woefully in my self-induced depression.

The sweat dampened sheet clung uncomfortably to my chest. My throbbing head was propped up against the cold metal window sill, yearning itself towards the open window and the slight breeze that came all too sporadically. The night sky was pitch-black. However, I could still see that it was raining lightly.

The water droplets were illuminated magically, almost mesmerizing as they fell against the orange glow of the lone streetlight. It was much unlike me to appreciate any shade of beauty in such a condition. Yet, I did, somehow.

The errant specks of water that made it into my room felt comforting as they kissed the side of my pale face. The lone blessing in a sea of despair.

The room was cold, but I was hot.

I was miserable.

I had just lost my job. And because of that, I was trying desperately to kick my habit. I didn’t have any future income coming in that I knew of, so I obviously would not have anything to spend on dope for the next few months, at the least. I was at the tail-end of a pretty serious black tar heroin habit, tallying in at about a gram or more per day (IV injected, of course).

So again, there I laid, in my sorry, dreary room with a shoddy mattress in the corner and a small, empty desk against the wall.

The rest of the room was barren. I felt lonely.

I remember very well that there was a flying bug that kept getting just close enough to my ear so it could annoy me with the unnerving high pitch sound of its wings. It was driving me mad.

Already frustrated enough in withdrawal, these are the types of things that can easily push me over the edge. I still have an unnatural disdain for that conniving insect. But, in all honesty, any reason (or even no reason at all), is a more than sufficient reason to use dope for an addicted individual. It was not difficult to scheme about ways I could remove myself from the detox process. That was just the way my mind thought.

So, as my body languished in bed, wigging out to the tune of the passing insect, trying to dry my body with my sweat soaked blankets, I finally, finally gave up.

It was nearly 4 A.M. when I relented.

Immediately, I reached for my phone and scanned through the phone list, seeking any kind of Bay Area degenerate that would possibly be awake, and more importantly, have drugs for sale at this god-forsaken hour.

Fortunately, my contact list was chalk full of current and past drug dealers, as well as addicts…but which of them would be awake? That was the million dollar question.

Cam? – “Ummm…no”

Erik? – “Definitely not”

Jock? – “Shit, I wish”

Juice? — “Most doubtful”

The Cupcake Man? — “Hmmm…maybe?”

I gave him a call: ringing…ringing…ringing.

No answer. Voicemail.

I hung up, beyond frustrated.

“Fuck!” I yelled to no one, as I felt my stomach twist in a knot, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Over time, I have learned reluctantly that frustration and desperation are surely the best of friends, because they both love to dance with me at times like these.

“Wait…” I grumbled, as a sliver of hope sprouted from within me.

I thought in silence for a few seconds.

“What about Red Rosie!?” I asked myself, almost delightfully.

The person they call Red Rosie is a naturally repulsive and perpetually strung-out crackhead and prostitute that I’ve dealt with before, but only a few times.

“She’s middle-manned a deal for me in the past, and has been honest thus far,” I thought optimistically, yet naively.

Her real name is Angela, but people call her Red Rosie because of her fake red hair. I knew there was a good chance she’d be up at that hour.

(text) Me: hey can you get anything right now?

Before I even set my phone back on the bed it buzzed again. My heart jumped.

(text) Rosie: sure hun come on down, i’m at 5th

At that point, my withdrawals seemingly subsided a little bit, knowing that relief might be near. But, I reminded myself not to get cocky just yet. After all, I was dealing with a crackhead, and the number one rule in dealing with crackheads is that they cannot be trusted, like most drug addicts.

But, to be fair, I had worked with her a few times before and she had never done me wrong.

Either way, I was desperate.

“What other choice do I have?” I thought to myself.

By the time I threw on my jacket, got my backpack, and gear, I was in my trusty 99’ Toyota Tacoma heading towards the wondrous city of San Francisco from the other side of the Bay.

I looked at the green LED clock on my dash and was informed that the time was now 4:32 A.M., precisely.

As I crossed the Bay Bridge, I took a quick moment to notice its grandeur in the dark of night, but soon enough I gunned it and the engine roared. I had more pressing matters — so my mind and body had me to believe.

Rosie wanted me to meet near 5th and Mission, so I found a nice alleyway parking spot on 4th and texted her where I was. It was still dark out, and the city was still calmingly quiet.

About 15 minutes later, she appeared from an adjacent side alley and headed toward my truck. She hopped in. I immediately caught her stench, viewed her dirty clothing, and looked up at her bloodshot eyes and weathered face.

She was probably 35, but she looked something more like 55, and that would be in her best condition. And I guess you could consider her hair color red. But the roots were black for about six inches, and the rest was an ugly shade of red — but really more like an orange color. Apparently, it had been a long while since she had time to color it. Like me, she probably had more pressing issues.

“Hey sweetie, what brings you out here this late?” she began, with her screeching voice.

“Ahhh… ya… you’re just the only one up right now,” I replied mundanely.

It was clear she was tweaking and seemed more than happy to have company at 4:45 A.M. in the morning.

“What are you looking for?” she asked, “I’ve got speed!” She blurted out before I could even answer.

I just ignored that dubious request, cringing at the thought of using speed in my current condition; myself never a fan of most uppers in any light — especially in detox — although it has worked for other addicts.

At this point, I still wasn’t sure if I just wanted some benzodiazepines, like Xanax, to assist in continuing the kick, or just fuck it all and pick up some heroin, get some sleep, and kick another day — pushing my problems off to ‘future me,’ per usual.

“Fuck future me,” I thought confidently. “You got any black?” I asked Rosie.

“Yeah I can get black,” she says with a sly smile, “I can always get black.” She then got more serious tone, “But, first we gotta go pick up my boy Romy, drop him off at the trap house. He’ll take our money for us and then he be—”

“…STOP. Just, stop. Do you have any black? And is it on you, or not?” I replied, becoming agitated.

She shook her head meagerly.

“No way I’m doing that,” I say to her, “too many moving parts, too many chances to get ripped off, too much fucking time. Ahhh…fuck it…what about benzos? Can you get any benzos, Xanax or K-pins maybe?”

“Yeah Honey! I can get benzos. I got brand name xany bars, and they’re up in the apartment I just came down from, I just need to go get them. How many you want?”

After we negotiated the finer details, I was going to get 10 bars for $55. Not a superb deal in any fashion, but not necessarily a bad deal either. It was almost 5 A.M., I could live with it. Besides, I only needed them for a few more days of kicking.

I didn’t like the idea of letting my money walk, but at this point I was desperate enough and really had no choice anyway.

She took the money and said she’d be back in 2 minutes.

Some time passed by, much more than two minutes, but that was to be expected.

Text Messages:

(25 mins) Me: ???

(35 mins) Me: hey you almost done?

(37 mins) Rosie: yes about to leave

(37 mins) Me: ok good

…

(1:20) Me: what the hell, you coming or what

(1:23) Rosie: sorry this dudes trippin i’ll be done in a second

(1:23) Me: fine just hurry up or I want my cash back

(1:40) Me: WTF

(2:00) Me: if you fucking ripped me off I swear to god im gonna spend all fucking day looking for you

(2:20) Rosie: not ripping you off sorry just hold on

…

(Call) Me: no answer

(Call) Me: no answer

(Call) Me: no answer

(Call) Me: no answer

…

(3:36) Me: you are going to regret this bitch

…

(No response)

…

I waited my sorry ass for well over 3 hours until the sun came up for that red-headed dipshit that I knew I shouldn’t have trusted in the first place.

“FUCK.” was all I could say, or think.

Knowing I wouldn’t be getting drugs any time soon, I immediately began sweating buckets, got the chills, goose bumps, and restless legs. I was sicker than ever, and now $60 lighter.

I’ve been ripped off before, many times, but there was something about the circumstances this time that just made me feel like I wasn’t going to stand for it. Whether I did or not, I felt like I had nothing to lose. I decided right then and there that I wasn’t going let her get away with her drug deal transgression. I was fed up.

The morning sun had started to warm the street, but it was still cold as hell. Steam rose from the manhole covers, and the homeless vagrants were beginning to wake and pick up their makeshift tents before the police came by to mess with them.

I zipped up my jacket tight and stepped out into the nasty part of the Mission District, probably only the second most vile and dangerous ghetto in San Francisco.

My day’s outlook was assuredly ambiguous, like most days while miserably attempting to hustle. I felt a sneaking suspicion that my troubles were only just beginning.

Part 2 – The Henry Hotel

I walked with haste over the thick yellow lines of the crosswalk in the opening between two buildings and, no longer protected by the brick façade, the chilly wind was able to hit me with its full fury. I found myself appreciative of the fact that I brought along my heavy North Face jacket.

My pace was faster than the masses around me. I was determined. I was going to find Rosie and make this right. Of course, I wasn’t even exactly sure what I was going to do if I did find her. If I did manage to find her the cash would undoubtedly already be gone. I’m not much of a fighter either, and I wasn’t about to beat this woman (although I have to admit, I sure as hell was fantasizing about it).

I concluded that I would just try to scare her somehow, and if I was lucky get some of the drugs or money back. I would just figure out the finer details if the time came.

Truly, I was just pissed off, hurting, and needed to take out my anger somehow. It was a typical flawless plan of an frantic drug addict.

Anyway, I knew her main spots and streets. I made a few quick rounds from 3rd to 8th, following Mission and coming back alongside Market, sometimes zig-zagging in between.

After a while, it kind of started to dawn on me how hopeless of an operation this was. Furthermore, I was almost desperate enough at that point to spend my remaining money in the all-too-wretched Tenderloin, AKA the “TL.”

The TL is one disgusting cesspool of human pain, suffering, and excrement.

Sadly enough, I knew it would be a waste though; the dope was absolute trash there and wouldn’t even touch my too high of a tolerance.

For my last attempt, before I gave up, I headed to an old but operational building called, The Henry Hotel. I knew she had friends in the building, and I hoped that I might just get lucky. Although, I did have some apprehension about mindlessly walking into such a place.

—

Before I continue, it is imperative that you know what an SRO is (SRO stands for “Single Room Occupancy”). They are essentially dorm rooms for drug addicts, drug dealers, prostitutes, and others down on their luck. To even call it a hotel is a stretch. Basically, they’re these run down multi-story buildings with rooms you can rent by the hour, day, or week. Most of them are just trashed to the point of being derelict; all likely infested with cockroaches, and worse yet, infested with the humans that reside within.

The Henry Hotel is an SRO.

—

It started to drizzling again as I made my way to the hotel. I noticed that since I had been walking around a bit, I was actually starting to feel a little bit better; although every time that specific thought crossed my mind, I would be reprimanded by the detox gods with a chill up my spine or an nauseating hot flash. There was absolutely no getting away from it.

Heroin withdrawal seems to seep deep into your bones, your skin, and anywhere else you can feel. It is utterly relentless.

I stood before the hotel on the pavement and took a deep breath. It was still a few minutes until 9am, which is when visiting hours started (And, yes, the SRO’s have mandated visiting hours, if you can believe that). I passed the seconds by looking up and down the street for one last chance to glance Rosie.

But, alas, no such luck.

The inside atrium of the Henry Hotel was as dirty as one could expected. Although, it wouldn’t have been half bad had they only spent some time vacuuming or throwing some fresh paint on the stained walls.

The man at the front desk stood behind a barred gate of reinforced steel, with a little perforated circular opening to talk through, like the ones you see at movie theaters. It was an Indian fellow with his arms crossed talking with another attendant sitting a few feet beside him.

“Excuse me,” I said, “I’m visiting a friend, can I go in?”

There was a large steel door blocking the entrance to the first floor and the only way to get through was if he buzzed you in.

“ID,” he said, looking me up and down.

I didn’t like the idea of leaving my ID up front, but these SRO’s get so much trouble on a daily basis that it’s a common policy to have to leave your ID at the front desk during your stay. I may be wrong, but I assume it is so the cops will know who was there if something goes down.

But, I didn’t know, and I didn’t care, whatever, I gave him my driver’s license.

To my alarm, he then asked me what room I was visiting. I clearly wasn’t ready for this question. I figured I’d just throw out a random room number. Only, I didn’t know if the rooms were ordered by number, letters, or even in what increments for that matter.

By the look of his stoic and serious face, I highly doubted he was going to let me in if I didn’t give him an acceptable answer.

I racked my brain quickly

“C-34,” I stuttered.

He looked at me for a second longer, then reached down and pressed a button below the desk. The gate in front of me gave an audible “buzz” sound, and I was then able to swing the heavy door open.

“Whew,” I mumbled to myself, relieved, as I rolled my eyes.

C-34 was a room from a different SRO in the Tenderloin that I had bought drugs out of a few weeks ago. That gem of a building was called the Fairfax Hotel, and within it lived an old drug dealer by the name of John. Anyway, I was surprised that it worked and relieved I still remembered it.

Now, at that point, I didn’t really have a game plan besides,“Look for Rosie,” and I had no idea how I was going to do that.

Honestly, I think I was so stupid and strung out at this time in my life that there weren’t a lot of good reasons, or reasons at all, for the things I did. Looking back, it’s hard to decipher my rationale for doing any of these things. Most of the time, I just regretfully remember that they happened — with some shame in that mix as well.

So, without so much as a half-assed plan, I started making my way down the hallways, listening as closely as I could for Rosie’s high-pitched, croaky voice.

After a few floors, I finally realized just how stupid this strategy was, and decided to put my desperation borne confidence to use.

If I heard any movement or voices within a room, I would lightly knock — trying my best to avoid a “police knock.” About half the people whose doors I knocked on would scope me through the peephole, then half of those people would actually open the door.

I would greet them and simply ask something along the lines of, “How’s it going, is Rick back yet?” as nonchalantly as possible. Of course, ‘Rick’ was made up, and just a reason for me to knock on the door.

Their responses were generally all the same, “Wrong room,” or something similar, coupled with a door slam. Each time I’d try my best to get a peek inside. The rooms were small and I knew I would have seen Rosie had she been in one of the rooms that opened up.

After about 15 rooms or so I got into a conversation with a woman who figured I was looking for drugs. My ears perked up.

Although I was there for Rosie, technically the woman who opened the door wasn’t wrong; because, as a junkie, I was perpetually looking for drugs. It’s a lifestyle, a permanent mindset; there’s no such thing as NOT looking for drugs. It’s internal radar that is always on, and cannot be turned off.

“I can get you a hell of a lot better deal than Rick sweetheart, I know that fool and he gets it from the TL and then still steps on it himself. I don’t mess with that shit, uh huh. I’ve got this fire chiva and I’m about to go make my morning run,” said the woman that mindlessly opened her door to me.

She was a hunched over, older looking black lady with nappy hair covered by a torn red beanie.

She looked harmless enough, so I asked for her phone number.

Unfortunately, she didn’t have one, so I typed her room number into my phone instead, and made plans to meet up with her later.

Around that point, I could feel the futility of looking for Rosie rising, and sort of switched my main purpose of being at the hotel from the search to looking for drugs. My friends had told me that there was some good dope known to come out of the Henry Hotel, and I direly wanted to believe them.

Before I knew it I was at the top floor, my last chance.

I took a long sigh and cursed myself. “What the fuck am I doing?”

I was ready to give up. And at that precise moment I noticed some noise from the very end of the hallway. I cautiously made my way down and saw that the last door in the hallway was slightly ajar.

“Hmmm…what could this be?” I mumbled under my breath.

Something was pushing me to find out.

I approached the room and I slowly poked my head around the corner to get glimpse of the inside. I saw one person, a young black kid, mid twenties or so, probably about my age.

He was tall and lean and had short dreads; baggy jeans and shirt with a nice looking watch. From what I saw, he was stuffing some clothes into a black bag.

My junkie vision also locked in on the many discarded orange syringe caps strewn about the room. I smiled slightly with relief thinking I may have found exactly what I was looking for.

That was when the guy caught me scanning his room.

I don’t remember exactly what happened next, because I was internally freaking out so badly that I was kind of just frozen.

When the he saw me I was halfway through my sentence of, “Hey man, you know where I can get anything around here?”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say.

He started cussing me out, getting in my face, shouting and asking how I found his room. I thought he was going to go after me.

He kept asking and yelling, “Nigga who told you where I live? Who the fuck told you where I live?”

But, fuck me if I was going to let a little yelling ruin my potential for scoring dope. Nothing stands in the way of junkie desperation-confidence.

He finally calmed down a little bit when I was able to convince him that I was just a sick fiend who was looking for someone, and found his room by accident.

I told him that I noticed his gear on the desk and repeated again that I’m sick in detox, and have cash; and that if possible, would love to buy something off him.

Part begging, logic, and pity, I eventually got him to consider helping me out. I could see it in his expression that he was at least considering it.

“What you even lookin’ for?” He said with his chin up.

That was when I knew I was home free.

“Just some chiva,” I replied quickly, using my San Francisco slang for heroin.

For my next argument, I pull up my sleeves and show him my junkie ID card. And after seeing my track marks his demeanor changed almost instantly.

“Shit nigga cover that shit up before the cameras see it.” He said in an almost friendly voice.

Out of all the things that go on at the Henry Hotel, I’m still not quite sure why he was afraid of the cameras seeing my track marks, but I didn’t question it. And that wasn’t the first time my tracks have gained me access to the trust of a dealer either.

He waved me into his room, and I obliged immediately.

“Dude, you’re a life saver, I’m so fucking glad I came across you. By the way my name is Lucas,” I said as I stuck out my hand.

And that, in my unbridled carelessness, uninhibited stupidity, and clusterfuck montage of bad decisions, was how I met the man they call, “Skeet.”

Part 3 – The Herschel Supply Co.

I made friends with Skeet fairly quickly. With the like-minded ambition of getting high, we were two junkie peas in a pod. And after a short conversation, he turns out to be a low level dealer, and a user as well.

Looking back, I honestly don’t even know why I cared to meet him. I had other connections in SF besides the open air markets and even better ones across the bay. I could have just as easily hit them up and been on my way, not having to risk dealing with a new party.

I think that after some of the fear of the whole dope game wears off, it actually becomes fun. Well, maybe ‘fun’ isn’t the right word, but it certainly can be an adrenaline rush. Making new connections, trying new dope, finding a lost sack, having your dealer finally text back, successfully cold copping; these little “wins” of the game keep your head up just enough to keep you going–also adding to the mental addiction on top of the physical addiction.

Right when everything gets to the point of being unbearable, something nice will happen that reminds you why you stick with this lifestyle. Kind of like how slot machines are supposed to pay little amounts every so often to keep you going. But, overall, it is unlike a casino, and most definitely more like a prison.

Anyway, Skeet was getting ready to go out; I had caught him before he left for his morning pickup. He had a dime bag he offered to sell me, but of course, I refused–not wanting to waste my sickness on just getting back to normal–I needed to save myself for a righteous rush.

The room itself was clean enough — for a drug user. Although the carpet was matted and stained, the bed spotted with cigarette burns, the cement wall pocketed with divots from years neglect, the 150 sq ft. room overall felt weirdly comfortable.

I also remember an initial easy-going feeling in Skeet’s presence. Where any normal person would have been uncomfortable and claustrophobic the thought of scoring soon gave me all the room to breathe I needed.

As I stood in the cramped room, I scanned the interior and my eyes caught something sitting low in the far corner, in between myself and where skeet was still preparing his wardrobe for the outside. I cornered my neck to get a better view.

To this day, I still don’t know why I cared or why it stuck out to me, but I was mesmerized by this backpack sitting in the corner.

It was a sand colored canvas backpack with dark brown leather straps and silver metal buckles. I thought it was the slickest looking backpack I’ve ever seen.

And I know it seems kind of irrelevant that I even mention it at this point, but that bag, strangely enough, became a significant part of that day.

“Hey can I buy that backpack off you?” I asked.

Also, just note here how out of character that question is for me — due to my low funds and no job. I did have a little bit of cash because of some item I had pawned earlier in the week, but honestly, when you’re a junkie any amount of money that could be spent on something that isn’t dope, is better spent on dope.

So, it was out of character for me that I even considered buying it. Impulsivity is always a trademark characteristic of any lowly addict.

“That ain’t for sale,” he said as he raised his head to meet my eyes. He had a curious look.

“I’ll give you $50 for it?” I shot back.

“Nah,” Skeet replied quickly and dismissively.

“I’ll give you $75 for that backpack.”

“Nah, man”

“Dude, I will give you $100 cash right now, for that bag”

I didn’t really want to spend a hundred dollars on it, I just had an interesting inclination to see how he would respond.

“Motha fucka that shit aint for sale!” he stammered, clearly getting agitated.

At that point, I shrugged and let it go. Although I had never seen a design like that, maybe I could just go buy one myself I thought. But damn, I really wanted that backpack.

Skeet finished getting ready and soon enough we headed out into the city walking along side by side. Skeet was puffing away at a cigarette, trying to get a hold of his dealer with his cell phone.

“Fuckin’ –a” he kept repeating to himself. “Damn fool ain’t pickin up. Don’t worry though, I got another dude though who’s always ready. You got the money?” he asked.

Why I always convince myself I won’t let my money walk, but then do it anyway, I will never know. However, the last thing I wanted to do was jeopardize anything, so I wistfully hand him the cash — hoping to god our new found friendship was strong enough to withstand at least one fair transaction.

I purposely kept mentioning how I’ve got a big habit and pick up every day. If he was any sort of businessman, he’d want me as a continuous client, and thus keep his word in the current transaction, at least I figured.

“He on the other side of the plaza, we’ll be there in a minute,” Skeet said.

On the walk there this guy seemingly knew everybody. He was saying “Hi” to just about every low-life looking person on the way. People nodded at him, he nodded back. It was clear he was well known. I found it surprising I had never crossed paths with him before this point.

The deal went surprisingly quick. He didn’t let me meet his dealer, but he let me watch from afar.

Once it was over, we high-tailed it back to the Henry Hotel to fix.

It wasn’t a mere 10 seconds before we got back to his room that I had my kit out, ready to go. I’m sitting there like a hungry child waiting for dessert when he pinches the bag with his cut for middle-manning, and hands the rest to me.

By the weight it appeared I got a fair deal. But I would know for sure soon.

After quickly cooking up my dose, I found the vein on the first try (another junkie “win!”). I couldn’t really see the plume of blood because the liquid was already too dark, but by the snap of my skin I could feel the needle had found its way in the right spot.

The black tar solution was thick and gave resistance to the plunger, but that was to be expected for typical SF stuff.

A little red dot appeared where the needle had broke my skin, and I quickly licked it clean.

Per my usual ritual routine, I always play a meaningless little game where I try to clean out the rig before the rush comes on. So, I quickly sucked up some water into the syringe cylinder and pushed it back out, and repeated this twice.

I won this time. I sat there patiently waiting for the rush.

It never came. God-damn.

Before I gave it another go, I eyed the point of the needle uselessly to check it’s bevel (not that it’s sharpness even mattered, any through-and-through junkie would try to inject our life blood with a Bic pen if that’s all that was available). Satisfied with my examination, I immediately filled the rest of the dope in the rig and shot up the entire amount.

Sure, I was well, no longer sick; but without the rush, damn, what a let down.

“That shit sucked man” I said to Skeet, who I hadn’t said a word to since we arrived back in the room.

“Ya, whatever man, my regular dude has fire… if he just woulda picked up, I’ll give you a good deal on that to make up for it,” Skeet’s voice trailed off as he finally was able to hit the mark–he pushed the plunger down slowly and with precision, a true surgeon in his own right.

“Oh, thanks” I said a bit sharply as my eyes roll.

By that time in the day it was almost noon and I knew my main supplier, Jock, would be up and running by then and ready to go in Oakland. And although Skeet half-assed ripped me off, I still liked him enough to think to invite him.

“I’m going to go get some real dope in Oakland bro, you can come if you want.”

Skeet just nodded his head, his focus clearly on his arm, “Yeah, sure.”

A bit of drool was hanging was hanging from the left corner of his mouth.

I figured since the dope I could get over on the other side of the Bay was about ten times anything he could get, maybe I could get him to buy some and I’d make some of my money back off this poor choice.

About 20 minutes later, we headed out to my truck, which was still parked over by 4th and Mission from when I wanted to meet Rosie at 4 A.M. in the morning. Since it was the middle of the day on a weekday, we got across the Bay rather quickly.

As soon as we crossed the bridge and entered Oakland, I called Jock. He answered on the first ring and proceeded to tell me where to meet. He was always on point. He also carried some of the best stuff I’d ever tried, anywhere.

One of the learned talents of a drug user is being able to find drugs in any situation, anywhere. Drop me off in the middle of Timbuktu, and I’ll be high within the hour.

As such, I’ve been able to find dope all over the country. I’ve used heroin or similar drugs in all the major cities in California (as well as some smaller towns), Colorado, New York, Washington, Mexico, and many more.

But the feeling of Jock’s dope followed me everywhere, it’s the prize winner to which I’ve compared all else to–and never once found an equal, nor much that even came close.

Everything next kind of went easily. Before I knew it, Jock, wearing his usual leather jacket and dark blue jeans, appeared next to my side window.

I noticed his lingering glance at Skeet, and started to think it might not have been a good idea to bring him along. Fortunately, Jock turned his attention back to me and the deal was done. Like always, there was a bare minimum of words exchanged. Jock was a true professional.

We decided to stop by my apartment before heading back into the city, which was near Oakland anyway. I was going to let Skeet try a little bit of Jock’s stuff for free. If that other shit from earlier was what he was used to, I knew for sure he’d downright blow me for a gram of this stuff.

After we fixed for the second time that day, Skeet tried to act unimpressed.

“It’s aite, my main dude gots fire though,” he said, never once looking me in the eyes.

But, I could tell he was beyond blitzed. “What a jackass,” I thought.

Interestingly enough, in an unfamiliar way, this quirky dude with a dumb name was growing on me. I don’t know, maybe I just enjoyed the company; as this dope game I played was usually a solo venture for me. He was friendly enough when we were sitting there in my apartment.

I put some music on and we both had a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. It seemed my day was finally turning around.

Shortly thereafter, Skeet got a phone call. It was his main hook, named Trev. And we mutually decided to head back into the city.

We had probably spent an hour or so at my place. As we were leaving, my friend Brian hit me up asking if I could bring him a sack of Jock’s stuff to him down by the mall on Market St. It was perfect timing.

I texted him back: “sure omw”

After my second time I paid the bridge toll that day, we were back in the City.

“Ahh, hell yes” I said I as I pulled up to the Henry Hotel–there was a spot right out front.

Skeet was also meeting his guy by the mall, so we headed that direction together. As we got closer, Skeet saw some people he knew in an alleyway across from the mall, I followed his lead and we stopped to talk.

I texted Brian again and told him where I was. He texted right back, telling me that he was coming and would be there in less than a minute.

So there I stood, just kind of chilling off to the side behind Skeet, in an alleyway across from the mall. A few moments later, I saw Brian begin to round the corner. I started to head towards him.

He was about 30 feet from me when he stopped dead in his tracks. I kind of gave him a curious glance, it looked like all the blood had rushed from his face and his eyes were wide like he’d just seen a ghost.

His line of vision was slightly beyond me, so I turned around to see what he was looking at.

It looked to me like his stare was caught right on Skeet.

“RUN!” Brian yelled as he nearly tripped over himself, retreating, “RUN MAN!”

“What the fuck?” I asked quizzically to nobody.

I could tell by his voice he wasn’t joking around, and that something was seriously wrong.

Before he disappeared behind the corner, he continued, “DUDE! GO…GET AWAY! FUCK MAN, GO!”

He was running back towards the mall like his life depended on it.

I stood there, frozen, as I watched Brian disappear out of sight, meshing back into the masses of people walking along the main street.

“What the fuck? What the fuck was that?” I said again to myself.

Skeet, drawn over by the commotion, walked up behind me. He asked me if I know who that “faggot” was. Skeet told me that he looked familiar.

“Uhh, no” I lied, “That was weird. Who was…ummm…he anyway?” I asked Skeet.

Skeet gave me a curious and distrusting glance and turned back to his friends, without saying anything.

An unexpected gust of wind sent a shiver down my spine. I don’t know if it was due to the cold, or because I was now majorly freaked out.

I suddenly realized it was probably due to the fact that I wasn’t wearing my beloved North Face jacket any longer.

I was so high I guess I didn’t realize I was only wearing a t-shirt out in the cold SF weather. I left it at Skeet’s place when I took it off to shoot up.

Another uncomfortable panic jolted through me for fear of losing that jacket, which happened to be priceless in sentimental value, for reasons I won’t get into.

“Yo, Skeet, ummm…hey, I…I think I left my jacket at your place. Can we go back and get it real quick?”

“Hell nah, you can wait ‘till later” he said, with a noticeable edge.

It is now important to note that ever since we crossed back into the City, Skeet was acting completely different towards me. And I didn’t know if I was just imagining things or if something was really awry.

The strange situation with Brian still had me confused and unsettled as well.

“Dude, I really need to go back, that jacket is just…important. Can we please just go real quick?” I begged him.

“You can shut the fuck up or you’re never getting it back. Now fucking be quiet nigga.”

“Fuck, another situation,” I thought depressingly.

Although I didn’t like what was materializing in front of me, I did know that it is the natural course of any junkie’s day to run into shitty situations. It’s like gravity, a constant force that’s always going to take you with it eventually. There is no escaping it.

At that point, I just wanted to cut my losses with the dope, grab my jacket, go home, and never see Skeet again.

Bad vibes were reverberating through me. I was pretty much having a slight panic attack.

“Ok, fine man, fine,” I told Skeet, “I’m just gonna head to the bathroom real quick then, I’ll be right back,” I lied, unsure if he believed me or not.

Skeet didn’t even turn his head away from his friends as he casually shoo’ed me away with his hand.

Unfazed by his demeaning gesture, I started heading back the way we originally came and texted Brian. I told him to meet me in front of the Henry Hotel in 5 minutes.

By the time I arrived at the front of the hotel, Brian was already there. He was pacing back and forth with that same scared look still cemented on his face.

“Brian, What the fuck was—

“Lucas,” he cut me off, “do you know who that black guy next to you was? Why were you with him man!? That was Skit, err..Skuttle, Skizz?—

“Skeet?” I broke in.

“Yea Skeet! That was the guy who mugged Robby man! He jumped him, sent his ass to the hospital bro. That piece of shit destroyed Robby then took all his money and cell phone from his unconscious body as he fucking laid in the street.”

After I tried to calm him down, I got the full story. Apparently, Skeet, the guy I had been hanging with all day, and let into my apartment, was not a drug dealer at all. He made his money robbing people. Why he hadn’t taken me down that road yet I didn’t know–and I didn’t want to find out either.

I finished up with Brian and gave him his dope. He seemed noticeably calmer after that, but still jumpy. Brian wasn’t known to scare easily either, so this whole revelation had me on edge also.

I didn’t know the Robby kid who Skeet had jumped and sent to the hospital for over a month, but apparently it was a very messy ordeal after the police got involved at the behest of Robbie’s parents. Brian said that because of that, Skeet was out to “fuck up” any of Robby’s friends.

I didn’t really run in Brian’s circle of friends, so I figured I was safe from the wrath of this “Robby” incident. But, it was still unnerving to now know how Skeet made his money.

We parted ways and I hustled back into the Henry Hotel, for the second time that day.

My plan was to grab my jacket and get the fuck back home.

I made up a story to the front desk guy about how I left my wallet in the room I visited earlier, and I just needed to go grab it real quick.

“In and out,” I said.

The Indian man didn’t buy it.

“No, sorry buddy, I can’t let you into someone else’s room without their permission.”

I hit him with the offer of a generous bribe, and it immediately seemed to change the rules for him. He grabbed a ring of keys from the drawer below the desk and made his way toward me.

“You gotta be quick, and give me the money now buddy man,” he exclaimed with authority.

“Ummm…well…I can’t give you the money until I get my wallet, it’s in 26-G.”

He eyed me suspiciously, “I thought you were in…” he looked down at his clipboard, “34-C?”

“Do you want the money or not?!” I replied.

After a short moment of contemplation, he had his final answer.

“Fine,” He croaked sourly.

He quickly escorted me up to the top floor and used the master key to let me into Skeet’s room.

I knew I didn’t have much time, so I jolted into the cramped room and scanned it quickly.

I didn’t see my grey jacket anywhere.

“Where was it?! How did Skeet steal it? Now that I think of it, he did mention that he liked it. I’ve been with him the entire time though, haven’t I? How could he have stolen it?” I thought as I carefully racked my brain for answers.

I couldn’t believe that I had probably lost my most precious possession. There I was, sweating again, tossing Skeet’s clothes around the closet, opening the cupboards by the sink, looking anywhere where he could have hidden it.

“Alright time’s up buddy! We not supposed to be in here. This be fucking illegal you know this?”

“One second.” I plead, “Just one more second,” I replied, deflated.

I looked under the bed for the 3rd time. The jacket was simply nowhere to be found. I was nanoseconds away from giving up completely when my gaze magnetically turned towards the far corner. I took a deep breath and made the decision

“Oh… here it is!” I said, trying to imitate a look of relief. “Can’t believe I didn’t notice it right away!” I lied again, carrying on the charade as I slung the sandy colored canvas backpack over my shoulder.

“Fuck me if I’m leaving empty handed to this shithead who stole my $500 North Face ski jacket,” I thought precariously.

I headed out into the hallway and then raced down the stairs, taking them five at a time.

I heard the desk attendant’s voice trailing behind me trying to keep up, “Buddy Man! Wait up… GOD DA–!”

The Indian man tripped on a piece of torn carpet.

I made it down the flight of stairs, sprinting through the turn wheel and past the front desk.

“Hey where’s the money!?” The other desk attendant snapped after me.

The first Indian was only then making it out of the stairwell, limping.

Not bothered to look at him, I kept running, “Sorry, didn’t find my wallet!”

I had already spent most of my cash by then, but, honestly, I probably wouldn’t have paid them anyway.

I think he said something back to me but it was drowned out by the noise of the city as I flew through the front doors.

I had severe tunnel vision as I headed directly to my truck, still parked out front.

After I fumbled with my keys for a few seconds, I opened the door and hopped in the driver’s seat. I tossed my new backpack behind the passenger seat, and pushed it deeply within the back seat’s foothold.

I glanced towards the front doors of the Henry Hotel to see if that front desk guy was still chasing me. Fortunately he wasn’t. I felt a small sensation of relief.

I closed my eyes and I let out a deep breath. And just as my panic was finally starting to subside, I was startled again when I hear the passenger door being opened. In my haste I didn’t lock the doors. I look over.

My first thought was of the desk attendant. However, the face I saw was not the face I was expecting–I immediately felt nearly all the blood in my body rush up through my neck, filling my face.

“I’ve been looking for you, bruh,” said Skeet.

Part 4 – The Shakedown

I specifically remember how dry my throat was. Because of this, I decided to limit my mode of communication to head nods and hand gestures for the next few minutes for fear of having my voice crack if I said anything aloud. If I was going to get out of this whole ordeal unharmed, I would have to appear at least somewhat tough, in Skeet’s mind at least. Or else I’d need to come up with a different way to placate this dangerous individual.

An ominous fog appeared from nowhere and hung heavy outside the truck’s windows.

Now, let’s just take a step back and rehash this situation we have here. It surely wasn’t at the time, but it’s almost comical to me now the scene that unfolded as I sat there. It’s more from a detached sense of wonderment that I even look back on this whole ordeal. It took a year passing for me to even really reflect on what happened throughout that day without having a small anxiety attack while thinking about it.

So there I sat. Frozen. Eyes wide.

In my field of vision, Skeet was on the left; the stolen backpack on the right, I could clearly see the two–both entities appearing blissfully unaware of one another.

Initially, I was so stunned and panicked because I had I instinctively assumed that Skeet had seen me leave the hotel with his precious backpack in hand. But, miraculously, that didn’t seem to be the case, so I thought.

My overt panic symptoms started to subside under the thought that there was a small chance that I may not be getting beaten to a pulp today afterall.

But, it still didn’t help that Skeet, the guy who I just learned robs and beats the shit out of people for a living, was sitting mere inches away from his own stolen backpack.

Unbeknownst to Skeet, there was dynamite and fire in our midst. I knew I was going to have to orchestrate some sort of beautifully coordinated ballet in order to prevent the two from mixing.

As one can probably imagine, I was on edge, and my feelings reflected the situation–the tension was palpable.

Looking at Skeet, I could see his mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear anything.

After a few moments of watching his teeth go up and down, I was finally able to comprehend the audible words.

His words sliced suddenly through my self-induced silence, “YO! Fool, are you fucking deaf?! Let me borrow ya phone! Don’t make me say it again.”

Skeet’s voice came back loud and clear. I shook my head to help snap out of my panic, now realizing with more certainty that he wasn’t aware I had just jacked him.

After his request for my phone, I remained quiet, but I instinctively looked down at my ashtray where my prized Iphone was propped out of. The ashtray in my Tacoma always fit that phone perfectly, thus acted as a makeshift phone holster.

Skeet saw my glance and immediately followed my line of sight. He snatched the phone up quickly, without saying a word.

I could hear the phone start to ring on the other side as he leaned my direction to speak again, “Yo, playa, my phone ran out of batteries and I just need to call my boy Trev. Where you go anyway? Thought you was going to the bathroom.”

He turned his attention back to my phone without waiting for an answer when Trev answered.

“Ayo, Trev, I’m up in front of the Henry in a blue truck, hurry up.”

Skeet then put the phone down—but in his own lap. I noticed this, but didn’t say anything.

After a while of waiting, Skeet’s dealer, Trev, showed up. He was a smaller kid, white, early twenties, light brown hair, overall pretty average and unremarkable. He actually looked kind of timid, although it may have just been Skeet’s presence. But, it didn’t help him that he had bad posture and wore a t-shirt that was several sizes too big for him.

Skeet told Trev to hop in.

“Hey Skeet,” I started, “You know, I really gotta get back to my house. I’m meeting up with someone and I’m already late,” I lied.

“You’ll be home soon mang,” Skeet replied, “This won’t take very long. We just need a ride over to the Plaza.”

Skeet kept tapping his fingers on his right knee as he sat next to me in the passenger seat.

“Alright, well, can I get my phone back though? I need to make a call,” I lied again.

“I’m almost done with it,” which was Skeet’s way of saying, “No, you can’t have your phone back.”

I tried to act oblivious to the situation unfolding as to not provoke Skeet further, but I knew the ordeal was getting serious, and little by little, out of my control.

I was beginning to get pretty nervous about the phone in particular. I would never had let him use it, on my own accord. I surely would have lied and said I didn’t have it with me or something similar.

It is important to know that around that time in my life, that phone was essentially my only lifeline to the outside world. It had all my contacts, so it was the only way I could get ahold of my main connections. Also, I relied heavily upon that phone to get public transit times when I wasn’t in my truck, which was a lot of the time. And lastly, and maybe most importantly, the phone doubled as my laptop. So, I needed it to search for jobs, which was more crucial than ever now that I was gainfully unemployed.

Not only for these reasons, but if something were to happen to that phone, I’d have no way of replacing it. If I remember correctly it was an iphone 4s, which was the newest model at the time. And with rent coming due, there was no way I could afford to replace it.

I told Trev that the back passenger side seat belt was broken. This way he would have to sit behind me, behind the driver side. I couldn’t risk him moving around near Skeet’s backpack on the other side, and Skeet possibly catching a glimpse of it. The mere thought of that happening made me shudder.

I stepped out of the truck to fold forward my seat down and let Trev in the back, it was a two-door, four-seat truck, with two fold-down seats in the back. Skeet was still sitting in the passenger side front seat.

After a second or two of directions from Skeet, we were on our way to the Plaza.

Skeet was mostly just being lazy because it really wasn’t that far, it probably would have been even quicker to walk.

After a few minutes of driving, we arrived in an expansive parking lot area behind the Plaza and Skeet directed me exactly where to park. He pointed towards a group of people sitting around a patch of dead roses near the back right corner.

I put the truck in park, but left the engine running. I didn’t want Skeet to get the idea that I was staying long. I rolled up both front windows while Skeet opened the front side door and stepped out onto the bleak pavement of the parking lot. I couldn’t help but notice that he still had my phone in his hand.

My backseat area is fairly small, so Trev maneuvered himself into the now vacant front seat to sit while we waited.

Skeet was still trying to get ahold of someone on my phone. Pacing back and forth alongside the rear of the vehicle, and nodded his head to the group of people we parked by. These were people that Skeet was apparently acquainted with.

Skeet told me that as soon as he got in touch with his ‘homie’, he’d be done, and I could be on my way.

Trev politely tried to make small talk with me. I tried to make it obvious that I was not in the mood. By that time, I was getting really nervous again.

I sat there waiting impatiently as Trev continued to gush in my right ear about how ‘fire’ the chiva he had been getting recently. I laughed casually to myself because, if you remember, this was supposed to be Skeet’s ‘main guy.’ It was clear to me by then that Trev was no more than a lowly middleman, if that.

“What a joker,” I thought to myself.

Skeet walked up to the passenger side window and motioned for me to roll it down.

Before he could even say anything, I cut in, “Skeet I need to leave now, you need to give me my phone back, and, Trev, you need to hop out.”

Trev started to whine something or other about how he thought maybe I could give him a ride back to the Sunset district when an ominous smile crept across Skeet’s face.

My gaze never left Skeet’s face; I knew he was up to something and I assumed that I was about to find out. I was correct.

“Ya, about that…” Skeet started, “I’m gonna need about $100 if you gonna be wantin’ ya phone back.”

Trev immediately stops his whining as he turned his head to get a look at Skeet, trying to gauge what was now going on.

A thick, dead silence hung forebodingly in the humid air of the truck.

“Skeet, come on man, I’ve given you rides, food, and free dope all day man.” I pleaded.

“No worries brudda,” Skeet smiled casually to himself, “I’ve been wantin’ me a new iphone anyway.”

“Skeet, not cool man, just give him his phone back. We need it to call my connect anyway,” Trev protested in my defense.

“He can get his phone back if he wants… for $100.” Skeet replied to Trev, ending in a high-pitched, mocking tone.

In that instance, I was close to boiling, “You are a fucking piece of shit scumbag. You know that?” I asked Skeet as I reached into my back pocket for my wallet.

I knew I had enough cash and I wanted nothing more than for this day to be over.

“It is what it isn’t—wait, it ain’t what it is? No, it is—ahhh fuck it, however that saying goes. Homie, we all gotta make money somehow,” He said quickly.

The dumbass meant to say, “It is what it is,” but the fool was so goddamn stupid he couldn’t even get that right. Not to say, “It is what it is,” is some sort of brilliant defense anyhow.

Skeet brushed some non-existent lint off his shoulder and continued, “And just so you don’t think to do anything stupid,” he gestured toward the group of people behind him, “All these fools back here got my back.”

I honestly don’t remember being too scared, so I don’t recall if I was shaking from fear or anger. I rested my arms on my lap to steady their movement. Slowly but steadily, I split my wallet and looked to see what I have inside: it was probably a little over $100.

“I only have $50 left, is that gonna be enough?” I asked Skeet.

“Yea that should do it. Now hand it over,” Skeet said firmly.

I handed Skeet the cash, and presented my open palm for the phone. Skeet ignored the gesture and carefully counted the money, then reached for his own wallet.

“Dude, Skeet, give him the phone, ya’ll made a deal.” Trev said somewhat naively.

I still wasn’t sure about Trev, but he sure seemed to be genuinely on my side, and I was happy for any help I could get at that point.

Growing more furious by the second, I asked Skeet if he was going to give me back the phone.

“The money is only half of what I want. I want the rest of the dope you got from that dude Jock,” said Skeet, while counting through the money once more before carefully placing the cash in his billfold.

“This motherfucker!” I thought angrily to myself.

Take my money, take my phone, hell, take the clothes off my back; but never, ever steal my mental fortitude, my anxiety blanket, my depression prevention, my medicine; in other words, don’t steal my dope.

My whole body was pretty much shaking uncontrollably as I sat there and did the mental math, weighing my options.

I thought to myself:

“Fight?

…

Forget the phone?

….

Fork over the heroin?

….

Hmmm…fight?”

…

Trev was another curve-ball I wasn’t sure about. Was he going to get out of my car willingly? Or, would he prove to be trouble as well? Up until that time, Trev was mainly trying to convince Skeet to give me back my phone, which was a good sign, but I didn’t know if he was on my team for sure.

I thought it over again. The value of the phone versus that of the remaining dope (versus fighting and most likely ending up in the hospital). Also, I had to consider the fact that he might try to shake me down further, even if I gave him the rest of my dope. That was surely a possibility worth considering.

“Once I give you the black, how do I even know you’ll give me the phone?” I asked Skeet.

I could almost see the cogs turning in Skeet’s head.

Apparently, this wasn’t a question that I was supposed to ask because he didn’t have an answer ready, and the shithead even seemed offended by the question.

“Are you…are you, you calling me a liar, bruh?” Skeet responded with his head tilted to the side, like a confused dog.

I rolled my eyes.

I knew I didn’t have much of a choice. Like I mentioned early, that phone was my lifeline and I undoubtedly needed it. I was just going to have to take the loss and hope beyond hope that Skeet would give me my phone back, possibly for the sole purpose of getting rid of me.

“Fine, just give me a fucking second.” I said as I reached into my center console and grabbed my faithful druggie kit–which happened to be a old black leather Ray-Ban sunglasses case; a special belonging of mine that had become my junkie talisman.

I opened the case and took out the heroin.

I had bought a ‘Mexican’ 8-ball off Jock earlier, about 3.2 grams, and the only amount that was gone was from what Skeet and I did earlier at my apartment, and the small bag I sold to Brian. So, there was probably still at least 2 grams left of the $100+ per gram stuff.

But, before I handed the black rock over to Skeet, I made sure to covertly fingernail a rather large piece off in case I couldn’t get any more dope that day. Also, I was most definitely going to need something to relax after this, surely.

I reluctantly handed the valuable chunk over to Skeet, as Trev looked on, wide-eyed.

All in all, Skeet now had me for close to $300 for the day, not including my jacket. And the second after I dropped that chunk of black into Skeet’s hand, by the look on his face, I knew he was going to try for more.

In prevention, I exclaimed, “Skeet, I don’t have anything else, no cash, no black. Just give me my phone…please!” I pleaded with Skeet.

“Come on man, he paid up, now do good on it,” Trev echoed.

Bathed in anger and frustration, I decided right then and there, that there was no possible outcome where Skeet was getting anything else from me. I decided I was going to go home in a body bag before Skeet procured another dollar of value from me.

As Skeet thought about what he was going to ask for next, I tried to think about what I was going to do.

I came up with a simple plan to get my phone back. I was still boiling, yet I wanted to be sly about my demeanor, rather than ostentatious.

The scenario was such as this: Skeet had his forearms rested on the door frame where the window was rolled down, leaning them into the car, both his arms hovering over Trevor’s lap. Skeet’s arms were crossed, so my Iphone was in his left hand, but on his right side.

I began the act, “Skeet, listen man,” seemingly leveling with him, “I’ve had a pretty bad day already, and just look what I’ve been dealing with…I think I broke my wrist when I was walking to the bathroom earlier.”

While I was talking, I leaned over the center console with my right arm extended towards Skeet, in front of Trev.

“Look,” I said, “do you see it?”

I turned my arm over and gave Skeet a good view of the underside of my wrist, right in front of his face, so it blocked some of his view.

Confused, Skeet’s eyes narrowed to get a good look at what I was trying to show him.

My eye’s were staring at my wrist also, wide and intently, as if to say, “Go on, look at this…”

At that very same moment, with my eyes still locked on my right wrist, my left hand snapped out of hiding–like a snake on its prey–and reached quickly but blindly for the phone in Skeet’s hand.

I hoped that my right hand was enough of a distraction before he could realize what was happening, and pull the phone away.

Before Skeet could even react, I was back sitting upright in my seat…holding my precious Iphone.

All the pent up frustration from that far in the day was released out of me in one enormous fell swoop, in the form of words and in a stream of the most verbally abusive firepower I could exude. Every racist, offensive, mean, vulgar sentence that came to mind, I threw at Skeet in those next few moments.

Skeet didn’t do anything but stand there, stunned.

He said something to the tune of, “Ya well I still got your money and dope bro,” yet it was easy to sense the defeat in his tone.

He was right, but given the fact that Skeet probably never intended on giving back my phone, it still felt gratifying.

I locked the doors, rolled up my window, and floored it.

I was almost to the edge of the parking lot when I slammed on my brakes. Tires screeching, I threw the truck into reverse, and sped backwards until Skeet came back into view.

Without saying a word, I reached back and grabbed the backpack behind Trev and showed it to Skeet, dancing it next to my face, with a shit-eating grin forming in the corner of my mouth.

The feeling of satisfaction I got from watching Skeet’s facial expression go from confusion to dread was almost worth the entire $300. I will never forget that moment.

As I sped out of the parking lot, I realized I still had one more person to deal with.

“Dude, I’m so sorry about that,” Trev said, “Sometimes he can be a real asshole, I don’t know what was up with him.”

I didn’t respond to that but instead asked him a question, “Can you still get ahold of the guy you know with fire?”

“Hell ya man, how much do you want?” he replied.

I didn’t want to spend the rest of my money, but we did come up a generous amount.

“Also,” I added, “if he can’t meet up in the next 20 minutes, I don’t want to do it. I’ve dealt with enough bullshit today.”

“Ok, can I use your phone to call him then? He lives right around here,” said Trev, with no hint of manipulation in his voice.

I was positive I could easily beat the shit out of this kid, so I had no qualms with handing over my phone. Besides, I had so much adrenaline running through me, and was so jacked up at the time, that this kid would have seriously been a moron to pull something sketchy on me.

Trev quickly got a hold of his guy and agreed upon a meetup spot. I asked for my phone back immediately and he gave it back, I put it in the center console, out of view. We drove a few blocks over back to the Mission area and parked across from a liquor store, about half of a block away from where we needed to meet the guy.

We also needed to make a quick pit-stop before the deal went down because we were short some supplies to shoot up. Some fresh water and some new cotton would do the trick, we had everything else ready.

We both headed into the liquor store. I walked around getting the things we needed and a few extras as Trev just waited outside the front doors, smoking a cigarette. I was feeling a little parched, so I was in front of the Arizona Iced Tea section when Trev popped his head in the store.

“Hey yo man, I think I see him down at the end of the street. I’m gonna go get him, aite?”

“Ok, sounds good dude, I’ll meet you back at the truck,” I replied.

“Wow, something that happened rather easily,” I thought to myself.

I thought that maybe my shitty day was finally turning around, after all.

I took my time picking out just the right drink. I was still riled up and it was a little bit hard to think straight. Not that it mattered, but I specifically remember picking out the Mango flavor Arizona Iced Tea before I headed to the cash register to pay.

I tried to use mostly the loose change I had grabbed from my truck, as to not cut into any of the drug money, so it took me a minute to pay the Asian store clerk. I was paying in mostly pennies and dimes. And the clerk seemed rather annoyed, but I couldn’t have cared less.

I headed back over to my truck, I hadn’t bothered to lock it on my way in, so I just opened to door and plopped down in the front seat. I took a really deep breath and let it out slowly, closing my eyes.

“What a day,” I consider to myself, “What a day.”

…10 minutes passed, then 15…

I started looking around to all the viewable street corners to see if I could get a view of Trev. Nothing.

Another 10 minutes passed…and another…

After about forty minutes, I decided I was going to call Trev to see what was taking him so long, only to quickly realize he didn’t have a phone, which is why he had been using mine, of course. I reached for my phone to pass the time.

A sudden panic filled me once again that day.

I searched through the center console, but it was not there. Nor in the ash tray, the side compartments, glove compartment, or under the seat.

To my horror, I started to realize there were other things in the car missing as well. My Dad’s kindle, which I kept in my favorite grey backpack, had been in the back seat, but not any longer.

My eyes noticed Skeet’s canvas backpack, still stuffed tightly in the foothold. I found it strange that he didn’t take that. Also, I had detox medications to help with withdrawals that were in the glovebox, but no longer there. Additionally, there should have been a portable speaker and nice pair of white headphones in the center console, but neither were there.

“NO.NO. NO… NO… NOOO!” I shouted to myself while banging my head against the steering wheel, letting off a few ‘honks’ in the process, “THIS IS NOT HAPPENING, THIS IS NOT HAPPENING,” I prayed aloud in desperation.

It was happening, and I was jacked (granted, due to my own stupidity) twice within an hour.

There is an interesting point you can get to with emotions like depression, fear, and sadness. It is where you feel so much of it, for so long, and in such great quantities, that there’s a point where you actually just sort of weirdly feel like you popped through the emotional spectrum, emerging on the other side. In other words, it was like feeling so low that I felt nothing else in the world could even hurt me. This feeling comes only sporadically in certain situations, but is actually, paradoxically, extremely empowering.

At that point, I was so absolutely numbed by the day’s activities that I was sort of wearing it as a metaphorical emotional shield.

I had decided that enough was enough. Trev was not going to get away with this, not like Rosie, or Skeet.

Well, honestly, I thought that he probably was going to get away with it…but not if there was anything I could do about it while I lived. I truly felt like I had nothing else to lose, and it was completely liberating.

I had to formulate a plan quickly.

I ran inside and begged the clerk to let me use the store’s phone for a quick call.

Thankfully, he obliged, and I dialed my phone number. It rang twice, then went to voicemail.

“Good,” I thought, “my phone is still on, Trev is probably still using it. My plan might just work.”

After I got back in my truck, I made a fist with my right hand and hit myself in the cheek as hard as possibly could. I took a second swing and this time drew a little blood. That should do. My plan was progressing.

The sun was starting to go down as I turned the ignition and floored it.

I was headed for the Bay Bridge.

Part 5 – The Chase

The truck was roaring as I raced through the East Bay, near Oakland, from one neighborhood to the next.

A short time later, the pervasive sound of the old V-6 engine sputtered out as I turned off the ignition at the end of my gravel driveway.

I made my way down the walkway to the front of the building, and I could see that my living room light was turned on.

“Good, this is good,” I said quietly to no one in particular.

My roommate being home was key to this plan. I hustled up to the front door, and entered. My roommate jolted from the couch when I burst in through the front door.

“Whoaa, what is–”

“Marco!” I cut him off, “I need your help. I need to borrow your phone.”

I was panting from my quick sprint up the stairs. I began to tell Marco what had just transpired.

He was on board after I briefly explained the situation. He was going to let me use his phone in order to access the ‘Find Your Iphone App’ and locate my phone.

So, we fired up the app on his phone. Both of us stared intently at the screen, as if the harder we watched the faster it would load.

Once the app appeared, I entered in my log-in information and on the next page tapped the button to locate my phone.

“That mother-fucker, “ I said aloud, “There he is…”

A lonely little blue dot was moving slowly across the screen. It was moving northward overlaid on the map of San Francisco.

Trev, if he still had the phone, was walking through the Tenderloin, right next to the middle of downtown San Francisco.

Before I headed back, I thought it would be a good idea to grab some sort of protection as well. I went into the kitchen and looked through my roommate Marco’s shiny array of cooking knives. I grabbed the 9-inch blade, the largest one in the set.

Marco asked wearily if he should come with me. But, in all honesty, he was the type of person to faint at the sight of a drop of blood from a paper cut. Not that I was a regular Rambo protégé myself, but Marco would undoubtedly get in the way and probably end up slowing me down.

I told him I’d be alright on my own and vanished through the door before he could object.

I kept checking the phone to make sure Trev was still using it, and to make sure he hadn’t turned it off yet. Sure enough, it was still there. The little blue dot was still floating through the Tenderloin as I mobbed through the East bay at twice the speed limit, headed towards the Bay Bridge once more that day.

When I got to the bridge, I reached again for my roommate’s phone. I dialed the number slowly and nervously.

“911, What’s your emergency?” I heard the polite, but professional, dispatcher say over the line.

I took a slight deep breath and responded cautiously, “I…I just got mugged.”

My story was that I was waiting on the sidewalk, leaning on against my truck while using my phone, when I was approached by a white male asking for money. When I declined to give him money, the male then hit me in the face with his fist. And, as I laid on the ground, the guy picked up my cell phone and also quickly went through my unlocked vehicle. After stealing a few valuables, he took off on foot.

I don’t remember exactly how the conversation went, but that was the gist of my story. The 911 operator had a few questions for me, and after I answered them I explained my current situation.

I explained how I was on my way back into the City to go after the guy, and how I was using my roommate’s phone to track the stolen phone on a map.

A couple more questions and the 9-1-1 operator put me on hold while she contacted the police.

When she came back, the first thing she said was for me NOT to go after the suspect myself. She was very adamant about that. She was going to have me meet with a police cruiser at Market and 8th. The police officers would take care of the situation from there.

At the time, I thought it was pretty awesome that they were sending police officers just because of a stolen phone. But having some time to reflect on the whole ordeal, I’ve come to realize they were most likely only sending the police officer’s because of the physical violence, and threat of future violence (i.e. me running after the thief in the ghetto). Also, I’m guessing they really didn’t want me going after the guy by myself in the most dangerous area in SF.

In other words, it really wasn’t even about the stolen phone to them. And in hindsight, I am actually lucky I worded everything the way I did on that 911 call, or else I might not have gotten that police cruiser to meet up with me. I’ve had friends who have had their phones stolen on public transit only to get the completely off-hands approach of, “You need to come into a police station to file a report,” from the 911 operator.

After speeding through the city I finally arrived at Market & 8th. I parked a couple blocks away and headed the rest of the way on foot.

When I finally got there, it was night time by then, and the cops were nowhere to be seen.

Market and 8th is usually a pretty bustling stolen goods market, but at that time there was not much going on. I paced back and forth, looking both directions down the street, listening for sirens.

The sirens never came but my head snapped around as I heard the sound of screeching tires behind me. A police cruiser with an SFPD logo on the side came to a sudden stop in the middle of the road on the west side of 8th Street.

I cautiously approached the vehicle.

“Hi, officers. I think–”

“Are you the guy who made the call about the assault and stolen property?” the officer getting out of the driver’s seat asked me.

“Yes, yes that was me.” I replied.

The officer gave me a kind of up-and-down look and said, “Ok then, hop in.”

I made my way into the back of the police cruiser, suddenly becoming more aware of the 9” blade I had sheathed in my front pocket. I made an effort to tell them about it, but before I could they cut me off with more questions.

After retelling the story the same way I told the dispatch person, the officers seemed content with the details.

“So, you’re following him with that other phone, right now?”

“Yes,” I said as I showed him through the middle window.

“Where is he now?” one of the officers asked.

I looked down at my roommate’s phone and pinched the screen to zoom-in.

“Looks like he’s at Leavenworth and Turk, heading…east.”

“Ok, hold that phone so I can see it while I drive,” The officer said as he reached back and opened a small sliding window in the middle of the partition.

The opening was just about wide enough for my arm to fit through.

I had to crouch sideways in the footwell. The middle partition was up to my shoulder, I was extending my arm as far as it would go through, with the phone out in front and facing the officer in the driver’s seat.

He flicked at one or two switches on his front control panel and the sirens went blazing as we rocketed off towards the Tenderloin.

I couldn’t help but think how awesome it was to actually have the cops on my side. It was certainly a strange feeling, since I usually am trying my utmost to avoid them. But, I was white, well-kept, and wore relatively nice clothes, so I’ll be damned if I have a tool at my disposal that I’m too ashamed to use. Fuck that non-sense. I was out there to inflict as much damage on Trev as possible, no matter my method.

Anyway, so there we went, racing through the TL, siren wailing. I was starting to fear that the siren would ward off Trev. But then I felt sort of stupid for thinking that, because it dawned on me that a police siren in the TL is like jazzy music in an elevator, you don’t even really pay attention to it.

The knife in my pocket was seriously starting to burn a hole in my pocket. If I know anything about cops, it is that they don’t like surprises and they appreciate having all the information upfront. Wanting to be clear that I was on their side, I spoke to the passenger side policeman:

“Hey, by the way, I just want you guys to know that I brought a knife with me.”

The officer raised an eyebrow and responds, “You should have told us before you got in the car. Take it out please.”

I did as instructed, with my left hand, my only available hand at that moment.

“Jesus Christ. Were you planning on butchering a cow while you were out?” The officer remarked incredulously.

“I just brought it in case, self defense, you know…?” I stammered.

I was unaware of this at the time, but apparently concealing a blade above a certain length (like the one I had) was a felony in SF. But, thankfully, it was clear to them that I didn’t have an ulterior motive with the blade; so they let it slide (they did end up confiscating it though, and I ended up having to buy my roommate a new one–a small price to pay, most definitely).

The scene that was unfolding before me must have looked comical if not downright improbable to the outside viewer.

There I was, turned sideways, jockeying the backseat of the police cruiser, one had reached through the partition showing the phone to the driver, while my left hand was waving around a recently sharpened 9” serrated cooking blade. Mind you, the car was going about 60 mph over the hilly terrain of San Francisco. So, I felt like I was trying desperately to stay balanced on one of those mechanical bulls you find at bars, doing my best just to hang on.

After one more hard right turn, my armpit digging painfully against the metal edges of the partition, the driver flipped a switch and the sirens went silent.

“We’re getting close,” He said, “If we are going to make an ID, we’re going to have to do it through you, not through the phone. So start looking out the window, and let us know if you see him.”

Up until that point in my life, believe it or not, I had never actually been in the back of a police cruiser. And I was surprised at how difficult it was to see out the windows. With all the protective plastics it had to prevent the window from being kicked out from the inside, it proved very difficult to see out clearly. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to make a proper ID on Trev.

My eyes squinted, I tried very hard to look closely at every person walking along the sidewalk. It was getting late, so there wasn’t a lot of people out. But we were in the TL, so there’s always going to be people out on the streets, no matter what the time.

Nothing. Nothing. Not him. Not him. Ugh, not him. At the moment when that sinking feeling began to return, I saw the back of a small white kid in a big t-shirt that looked similar to the one Trev was wearing earlier, but I needed a better view.

Unfortunately, as we were driving down the street, we were approaching an over-sized 20 ft. construction dumpster that was blocking our line of sight.

When we got to the end of the dumpster, I told the driver cop to slow down, as I thought the unknown pedestrian would then be coming around the corner of the dumpster.

After a few moments of intense waiting, I saw Trev slowly round the corner of the metal container, directly to the right to the side of the cop car.

“That’s him!” I yelled, “That’s him, right there!”

In unison, the two police officers jump out of the cruiser and immediately accost Trev.

Trev didn’t even realize what was happening until the last second.

He had been looking down, typing something into my phone, laughing, when the police threw him to the ground and handcuffed him.

Relief. Sweet, sweet relief I felt as I watched Trev sit solemnly on the sidewalk, hands handcuffed behind his back. It was almost as satisfying as the facial expression I saw on Skeet’s face earlier in the day.

Trev tried to convince the police that I had given him the phone. But, of course, the cops weren’t having any of it.

As I sat there, I saw another cop car pull up and the cops within got out and threw Trev in the back. A new police officer I hadn’t seen before brought over my phone.

After I proved to him it was, in fact, my phone, he took it back and informed me that I would get it back at the station.

Once we got to the station it was fairly uneventful. I wrote a statement, and then made small talk with the officers.

At one point an officer said, “And looks like that is where he gotcha, huh?” pointing to my face.

I was confused at first, but then I remembered that I had willfully punched myself about 45 minutes previously, so as to leave a mark that could confirm my story in an officer’s eyes. I suppose it was a part of my contingency plan in the case that such a situation unfolded where the cops didn’t believe me and needed some goading.

“Yup,” I reply, “He punched me right here,” I point to my cheek.

They then proceeded to take a picture of the “injury” as evidence.

The cops were actually pretty cool, they kept reminding me that I was the victim and I didn’t need to be afraid of the guy that stole from me. Chuckling to themselves, they also told me the Trev was making up some “dumb story” about me wanting to buy narcotics. I concurred and told them that the story was indeed very, very dumb.

When I left the station, it was well past midnight. I had been there for hours and was even further exhausted.

There was a police station in the Tenderloin, but for some reason they had taken us to a different one, much farther away from where I had parked.

As I walked the empty sidewalk, the air was brisk, and I was cold again. I kept a good pace to keep my body temperature up. I still had about 10 blocks to go before I got to my truck.

Overall, I had gotten back everything that Trev stole except for the headphones, which I considered a fair price to pay for a shiny new assault charge on Trev’s record.

I just assumed Trev must have hawked the headphones quickly or just stashed them somewhere, I didn’t care.

I found myself reflecting on the day and what had happened that far. I was still feeling tense but, ultimately, I was glad to finally be on my way home.

After a brisk walk, I found myself back where I parked the truck. I jumped in, started it, and immediately turned on the heater.

I started driving to where I thought I could get on the freeway, but end up getting slightly lost, and eventually found myself on one of the one-way streets in the Tenderloin.

I took a second to pull over to the side of the road and grab my newly recovered phone to pull up the Google Maps app.

It was only when I glanced up ahead of me at the street signs, trying to figure out my location, when I saw her.

Although the sidewalk was dimly lit, I could recognize that dyed red hair anywhere.

Part 6 – Rosie II

She was singing softly to herself as I walked up beside her, matching her pace and catching her glance.

“Oh, hey Lucas! I was wondering if I was ever going to see you again!” She said cheerfully, as if we were best friends from childhood.

She appeared to be in a really good mood, most likely due to just having fixed, and that pissed me off even more.

It was typical of such a crackhead to be ignorant to my animosity. I have been told before that an addict of this type will steal your drugs, but then afterwards, eagerly help you look for them.

I know now that this was unfair, but in that moment, I couldn’t help but look at Rosie and judge her for what she had become.

From the depths of my subconscious emerged a thought akin to, “How on Earth could someone ever let this happen to themselves?”

As the ponderous thought cemented itself at the to the top of my mind, there was still no self-actualization that came to me. Most likely in protection of my own ego, my ‘addict brain’ had buried the capability of objective self-reflection so deeply that reaching it was simply not yet possible. It never once crossed my mind that I might be on a path to progress towards being like Rosie.

Before I could respond, Rosie swung her hand in front of my face and said, “Look at this!”

She was showing my some sort of god-awful, ugly ring on her index finger.

“It’s just beautiful, ain’t it?” She inquired with a huge smile on her face, showing off her infected gums.

“Oh, wow! Yeah, that’s… just… wonderful,” I replied with sarcasm, “Did you happen to buy it with the money you stole off me?”

“Sweetheart, this here is real, genuine, rose-gold, and green emeralds. This ain’t no quarter-machine ring. This is worth way more than your $60, dummy,” she stated lightheartedly.

Her eyes veered off to the side. I caught her in a moment of thought as she slowly realized she had basically just admitted, in a roundabout way, to having stolen my money.

She took a puff of the cigarette that was burnt down to the filter, and continued, “And anyway, I didn’t…steal…the money off you. I passed out, and when I came down to bring you the pills, you were gone. You left. That’s on you, sweetie.”

I knew it was pointless to argue with her, there was clearly no chance of getting her to admit to stealing from me. I also knew it was futile to attempt to get my money back, it was surely long gone.

She then looked up at me with a curious glance. I could see the wheels in her head turning, albeit slowly.

“Hey weren’t you looking for something to help get you get through withdrawals easier?” She asked.

“Uh, yeah,” I responded skeptically.

“Well, I’ve got something for you then,” she claimed as she held out a prescription bottle in front of me.

I squinted my eyes to get a better look at the pills inside. Except, I saw that there weren’t any pills inside. It looked like it was filled with some sort of…liquid? I asked her what it was.

“It’s G-water, baby. GHB, you know, date rape stuff? This shit will knock you the fuck out…won’t even know you’re going through withdrawals. Cause you won’t even be awake…gonna date rape yourself! Haha! Get it?”

Her raucous laughter made me cringe; but it was only one of many insidious noises that she was constantly producing.

I thought about her offer, then decided, “Ehh…why not? Sure, i’ll take it.”

I had no experience with this stigmatized drug, but I figured if it could help me sleep during withdrawal, it might be a good thing. Also, it appeared she was offering it to me in a sorry sort of restitution for the failed Xanax transaction earlier.

When I reached out to grab it, she snatched her hand away.

“That’ll be $60, sweetheart,” she had the gall to say, which was the exact amount that she owed me, no less.

“Are you kidding me? You owe me $60, just give me this, and we’ll be cool,” I shot back.

“Sorry, sweetie. But I already told you, your money from earlier is gone. I need $60 or you’re not getting this,” she said while teasingly wagging the bottle in front of me.

There was no way I was giving Rosie any more money, even though she did have the product right in front of me. I didn’t feel like giving away any more money to people who were pieces of shit that day. I thought about how I could get it from her without paying, trying desperately to come up with some scheme.

“Ok,” I began my lie, “follow me, the money is in my car.”

I got in the driver’s seat, and rather than letting her sit in the passenger seat, I kept the door locked and only rolled down the window halfway. This way, she had to remain standing, outside the vehicle.

I reached my hand out to her and said, “I need to make sure it’s legit before I give you the money. I’m not gonna let you fuck me twice today.”

Rosie rolled her eyes in an exaggerated dramatic fashion, and reluctantly handed me the bottle.

With the bottle in my possession, I took off the cap and I tasted the liquid. I had never taken GHB before, or even seen it, so I didn’t really know what I was doing. I suppose I was just making sure it didn’t taste like water.

I remember it tasting a little sweet, but not sugary sweet. The taste was very difficult to pinpoint. Either way, by the texture and taste of the liquid I could tell it wasn’t water. It was thinking that it was probably legit.

I put the medicine bottle in the cupholder and glanced over to the passenger door to make sure that it was locked.

Next, with my left hand I hit the switch to roll up the passenger window.

As the window began to climb upwards, I looked up at Rosie and said, “You know what Rosie? On second thought, why don’t you just put it on my tab?”

And as I was talking, I had started the truck and began to let it roll forward.

Moments after, I slammed my right foot on the gas pedal as I yelled, “Go fuck yourself Rosie!”

The frame of the truck shuddered violently as the engine revved and the vehicle lurched forward.

By then, the window was obstructed by both of Rosie’s arms. She was stuck; pinned between the top of the window and the door frame.

Apparently, I incorrectly assumed she had a natural inclination to avoid pain, and thus thought she would have pulled her arms out of the car as the window made its way up, like a normal person. I simply had forgotten that Rosie was not a normal person.

As could be expected, Rosie started to scream like a tortured pig, “No, Nooooo! Money! Money! Give me the–”

She could barely make out her words as she struggled along with the moving car, which was beginning to accelerate much faster by then.

She managed to get one of her arms in the window up to about her elbow. I was still holding down the window button, now trying to crush her skinny arms. Her left arm slid its way out of the trap, and then used it to desperately grip the back window of the cab. She was basically hugging the truck’s cab with her arms while her feet awkwardly tried to run along with it.

“God damnit, Rosie! Go away!” I yelled at her, “We are even now, you stupid bitch!”

…10 mph…15 mph…20 mph.

Somehow, she still held on–making some sort of crackhead noises and screams all the while. I was starting to get worried that we were making too much of a scene.

But, I looked around quickly, and didn’t think I saw any other cars that could see us. I fleetingly saw some people stop and watch the spectacle from the sidewalk, but I was sure it was only homeless people at this hour.

I purposely started to drift towards the cars parked along the sidewalk. I figured if I could get close enough to the other vehicles, she might pull out voluntarily, or otherwise risk getting smashed between cars.

So, we then played an unusual game of ‘Chicken’. Unfortunately, I ended up loosing. I got pretty damn close to side swiping a parked car on my right, which would have surely killed her, mind you, but Rosie defiantly held on.

I started to speed up even more

…25 mph….30 mph…35 mph.

By then, I was going too fast for her legs to keep up on the ground. So what she did was swing her legs sideways up to the side of the truck, perching her feet on the ledge of the truck bed to stay on.

Amazingly, she was now completely sideways, with one arm still stuck in the passenger window and one hugging the back of the cab. We must have been going 40 or 50 mph down the road by then.

I looked over at her and was nearly fearful of the utter determination that I saw in her eyes. I knew for a certainly she wasn’t going to give up easily.

At this point in the story, it would be seemingly required to say that she was ‘holding on for dear life.’

But, I honestly don’t think she actually was. To this day, I truly believe that this thoroughly insane woman was more than willing to die for the 60 United States Dollars that she was so desperately chasing.

This was such a powerful realization for me that it has even altered my understanding of what the human brain is capable of. Objectively speaking, Rosie was quite a fascinating specimen. Anyway, regardless, it was clear that she was not holding on for her life, she was holding on for the money.

My right foot remained hard on the pedal and I flew down the ghetto of San Francisco in the dark of night, yet Rosie persisted. She held tight on to the outside of the truck, still wailing her lungs out.

I started to veer sharply left, then right. I punched the brakes quickly, then I floored it again. I swung right, left, then right again–trying anything I could to loosen her hold.

Since that wasn’t working, I tried rolling the window up and down, which kept smashing her arm every time it went back up. By the loud shrill of a scream she let out every few seconds, it was clear the window was causing her a lot of pain. Knowing that, I continued to go back and forth on the window lever: down…UP, down…UP, down…UP, repeat…

Finally, thank Jesus, she’d had enough of the window.

I rolled it up one last time, and then down. Rosie conceded and pulled her arm out of the window.

She then only had one arm hugging the truck’s cab…or bed, I couldn’t really see clearly from my angle.

However, I did see her suddenly lose balance, and was fairly certain I heard her tumble from the right side of the truck. But, at that very same moment, I had to look forward to avoid colliding with a parked car. So, I didn’t see her fall off, but when I looked to the right again, Rosie was no longer there.

Not that I am proud of it, but I immediately felt some gratification. I imagined she was a bloody, tangled mess; sprawled out in the middle of the street somewhere behind me.

I glanced to the right once more just to make sure that she was gone. Once I turned my head back towards the road, I finally started to feel a little relief.

Unfortunately, my relief was short lived when a loud and sudden “BOOM” sound came from the top of the aluminum roof right above me, reverberating throughout the inside of the small cab. I was so tense that it nearly made me jump out of my seat.

I immediately looked in my rear view mirror. To my own horror, I saw Rosie’s ugly mug staring right back at me, smiling ecstatically.

Somehow, someway, that clever crackhead had maneuvered her way backwards into the truck bed. I still don’t know how she did that without falling off.

She began screaming, however, only several moments later did I realize she was actually speaking, “…ain’t leaving ‘till I get my money you assh–”

Her eager demand was cut off when I slammed on the brakes as hard as I could. The tires screeched loudly. Her face had collided with the rear window in front of her.

With the truck now stopped, I looked back and it was clear to see that Rosie’s two front teeth were obliterated. Also, it looked like her nose was bleeding. I noticed that her last facial expression was now imprinted on the window. Her mouth still was open, but she was no longer smiling.

I don’t know why, but a little pang of guilt stabbed at my chest. I grunted in frustration.

Begrudgingly, I grabbed my wallet from my back pocket and got a fist full of ones and fives–a good deal of cash, and the remainder of my money.

My heart sank a little as I momentarily stared at the empty wallet before me. From the gold and electronics I had pawned earlier in the week, I had started the day with several hundred dollars.

I thought about that exact fact and asked myself, “What, exactly, did I have to show for it? A shoddy bottle of ‘maybe’ GHB? I don’t even think I really want it.”

Feeling defeated, I rolled down the window and tossed the wad of cash on the ground beside the idling vehicle.

“You win, Rosie, here’s your fucking $60! Now get the fuck out of here before I change my mind and beat the shit out of you.”

Because of what Skeet had taken, I knew what I gave her was most likely less than $60. But, by the time she finished counting the scattered dollars on the street, I knew I’d be long gone anyway.

With the money now on the ground, Rosie instantly forgot about her smashed nose and broken teeth. She hurriedly jumped out of the truck bed, and turned her crack-induced focus from me, to picking up the money.

I couldn’t help but notice how much she looked like the character “Gollum” from the movie, “Lord of the Rings,” at that particular moment. In a silent moment of introspection, I had a an overwhelming feeling of sadness and pity for the creature–the one with dyed red hair.

“Jesus, what a sorry excuse for a life,” I thought to myself, as I started intently at Rosie.

But quick enough, a brand new thought entered my mind, “Well, shit, who am I to judge? If I’m not as sad or sorry as Rosie already, I’ll probably be there soon enough. Fuck.”

What a seemingly innocuous revelation that was to myself.

Ready to end my humbling inner monologue, I punched the pedal forward and began to speed out of that situation once and for all. I was already thinking to myself how badly I wanted to shoot up.

Like always, that feeling eventually got the best of me. I knew I still had the piece of the black that I had pinched from the chunk I was forced to give Skeet earlier.

Plenty far enough away from Rosie, I started scanning the streets for a good spot to fix. I eventually found a perfect parking spot outside of a 24/7 pawn shop. I had been driving kind of frantically since Rosie got off, just in a general direction toward the bridge. So I wasn’t exactly sure which neighborhood I was in.

I parked my truck up alongside the pawn shop. The bright neon lights from the store lit up the inside of my cab, which was nearly perfect for fixing. I wouldn’t have to risk turning on an interior light, which can always draw unwanted attention to any parked car.

At the same moment that I reached into my center console to grab my kit, a fleeting glimmer of light caught the corner of my eye.

I looked and saw that the unknown glimmer came from a small round object on the floor of the passenger seat. I had to unbuckle to reach it. As I pulled it into the light, I realized it was some kind of a ring. A woman’s ring. It was Rosie’s ring.

“Holy shit!” I muttered in disbelief.

The rose-gold ring must have unknowingly slipped off her finger sometime during that whole ordeal, while her arm was stuck in the window.

My field of vision slowly moved upward, moving from the ring in my hand, directly to the 24/7 neon “Pawn Shop” sign that was shinning so brightly in my face.

I couldn’t help but smile.

Part 7 – The Beginning

As the adrenaline died down, I realized how exhausted I was. I sluggishly made my way towards the glass and metal double doors of the pawn shop. I had to shield my eyes from the bright spectacle of flashing neon glare emanating from the facade of the store.

Like a moth drawn to a light bulb in the dark of night, as a desperate junkie, I might as well have been magnetized towards the prospect of cold hard cash. Cash which happens to be only as valuable as the dope it can be transformed into.

I stepped up to the door and cupped my hands around my face, leaning them on the glass. I took a curious look inside, and entered.

I heard a bell jingle softly when the door opened. My eyes scanned the room as they quickly adjusted to the lighting. Listlessly, I made my way to the the main area of the shop.

I soaked in my surroundings. It had all the classic pawn shop items hanging on the walls: bikes, tools, instruments, jewelry in glass cases. However, I could only see shadows of bad times gone by. Relics of despair, bred out of necessity. For how bright, pretty and interesting the whole place looked, the feeling that it was all gilded was noticeably prevalent. I momentarily thought about all the meaningful possessions I’ve pawned over the years, and wondered where they were now.

I distinctly remembered the stale smell, like the smell of an unused basement. It wasn’t bad, but not pleasant either.

As I stood there, looking aimless, I could hear “Basin Street Blues” by Miles Davis playing softly through the unseen speakers–I considered this to be ironic at first, but then redacted that idea, and simply came to the conclusion that it was just…oddly fitting.

I was actually enjoying myself despite the fact that every time previously the only reason I’d ever been in a pawn shop was because I was broke, dopesick, or both; and needed to sell some dignity in return for fast cash.

An enormous black lady with long dreads stood in front of me. She was arguing with the man behind the register about the value of her DVD collection.

Towards the end of the transaction, I wanted to grab the nearest guitar and smash it on her strangely shaped head. But, alas, I never got my chance. She got off with substantially less than she wanted, and pouted her way out of there with her unsightly pursed lips.

She tried to slam the door when she left, but the hydraulic door lever above denied her that meager satisfaction.

The man at the counter waved me forward. He had half moon spectacles, grey hair that was wound up in a raggedy pony tail, and skin that said, “I’ve smoked cigarettes for 60 years.”

Without saying a word, I presented him with the emerald and rose-gold ring.

He effortlessly slid his glasses to the brim of his nose and donned his jeweler’s loupe that hung around his neck on a silver chain.

Next, he took out a hard slab of some type of material and a few bottles of reactive solution. He was making sure it was genuine and also checking the quality of the gold.

I stood there staring intently. The man made no indication to whether the ring would be worth anything. For all I knew, Rosie got the thing at the dollar-store.

I prepared myself for him to throw the ring back in my face, yelling at me to get the fake ring out of his store. But, that was not what he did.

“Would you like this in hundreds?” he asked.

I answered the only correct answer to that question, “Yes.”

“I’m going to give you $225, no more no less. That is a fair deal,” He said firmly out of the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll take it,” I replied quickly.

I probably could have bargained for more, but, at that point, I was just happy to know the ring wasn’t fake. B