Friday, April 8, 2016

The Meth Diaries

"Go on and hit it. Ain’t nothin gonna hurt ya. Shit'll make ya feel like superman if anything. Hehhehheh!”

Cody was an interesting person to say the least. I’d met him outside in the smokers circle, the same way I met most people. On a typical morning, I would wake unshaven and hung over. I’d then proceed to stumble out of the dorms passing my floor mates who had lives and obligations. After the morning cigarette, I’d usually head back up to my room to smoke a hitter's worth of some dirt weed and take a couple shots after vomiting last night’s vodka into my wastebasket, but sometimes I would hang around and interact with other people. I wasn’t the most social person in the world but it beat studying for my research methodology midterms.

He was built like a brick-house. An all-star lineman in high school and on his way to the army after college. An all-around, all-American… whose father among other things, had taught him the fine art of slinging crack at the age of thirteen. He’d been somewhat of a personal assistant to one of the biggest meth/crack/whatever cooks in the tri state area before I’d even smoked a cigarette. Small, deceptive world.

“Man I need some fuckin Xanax. Been goin on a hell of a run. Can’t sleep for shit.”

“I fuckin wish I had Xanax. Trying not to fuck around with any of that though. I’ve had some, I don’t know, let’s say issues with well… everything. What are you running on, Addies? Your eyes are huge as all hell.”

Alcoholism took my vocabulary down a few pegs but the ride was worth the price of admission.

“Kind of... Hey, you can get booze right?”

“Yeah, I can. For better or worse… Why?”

“Swing by my room later and bring some Jack. I’ll show ya what I’ve been I’ve been up to.”

So there I was about to have my first meth bender… Had it really come to this? The short answer was yes. The bag was filled with an odd mix of yet to be broken down rocks. A chemical taste, somewhere between gasoline and battery acid greeted the back of my throat after the first bump.

“Whooo!! fuck yeah!!! The path to heaven really is paved with broken glass!”

“Dude, I’m buggin. Your weird shit is trippin me out,” Cody prepped his slice of tin foil and after creasing it at the perfect angle (the sweet spot that will keep all of your dope right in the center and leave enough of a flat bottom for the flame to heat without torching the product... Meth and trigonometry are quite the interesting pair), proceeded to spark up.

I rambled on about God and sex and other dark, misanthropic shit. Cody stared glassy eyed at a live web cam of some trashy redhead shoving a myriad of odd shaped dildos inside of herself (All watching, no auto-erotica. Curse of the dope dick). We both listened to terrible music, pounded whiskey and chain smoked… Then things took an odd turn.

“That was pretty good man. Can I have another rail?” White Mike asked… wait, White Mike. When the fuck did he get here.

“This is nothing like heroin dude. Not at all. This is, this is the fuckin work of the devil man. I would never wana shoot this shit.”

“What? Mike when did you…?”

Poof. Gone. I rubbed my eyes and the scenery had changed. Cody sat at his desk. His eyes still glued to the same porn he’d been watching on repeat.

“Where’s Mike man?”

“The fuck you talkin bout? Who’s Mike?”

I glanced something out of the corner of my eye. It was hard to pin down what it was exactly, but it was there…I swear to God it was there. This happened more than a few times. Tiny tears in the fabric of my dopamine receptors. Oh well, minor brain damage. Nothing a little more feel good couldn’t fix.

“Hi there big boy.”

"What? What? Who the fuck said that?” Cody shouted

“What’s the matter sweety? All I’m looking for is a piece of ass. Don’t you want to give me your ass? Your…sweet, sweet ass?”

“Fuck you! Fuck you, you goddamn faggot!”

I tried my best to ignore Cody’s imaginary temper tantrum and after a healthy swig of Jack (for good luck), closed my eyes again. There still wasn’t much to be had in the way of sleep. I opened my eyes again and saw a very naked, very strung out looking girl leaving the room with the rest of my whiskey. Cody, asleep at his desk in a bed of vomit and cigarette butts, was jolted awake by a barrage of curse words and pounding on the door.

“God damn junkie bitch,”

Stomping his way to the door, he threw it open and was greeted by… no one.

Time passed by at an unholy pace. Looking out the window and seeing the sun when it had been 6:00pm on a Wednesday the last time you’d checked the clock really puts things in perspective. I’d decided to call it a (God knows how many) night(s) after my brief flirtation with schizophrenia. Cody made a call to the cook and said he’d have more this time tomorrow. I’d survived my dance with the devil.

I ran into Cody about a week or so after. One too many hot-rails and fresh out of product, he’d taken a heavy dose of Xanax/Ambien/Methadone to knock himself out and spare the hassles of withdrawals from what little remained of the dope he'd scored after I'd left (ah entropy). After passing out hunched over his precious glass deity. Cody was (yet again) jolted awake and almost immediately came to the frightening realization that his dope-pipe (still warm to the touch) was cauterized into the torched-up skin covering his sternum. The smell of burnt skin/hair lingered as he spoke to me. Running around, naked as he was frantic he decided that the best course of action would be to shatter the glass...

“Fuckin hurt like a son of a sonofabitch man. Shit…but I uh. I got some more if you wana partake.”

If he hadn’t of shown me his scars, I never would have believed him. Meth… it’s a hell of a drug.


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  2. Love reading this stuff by dudes who can really write..dude can really write. Great post.