I Should Have Known Better
I Should Have Known Better
The beer is just as warm as the stale air blowing lazily from the swamp
cooler. Cooler my ass, it's 107 degrees outside at 9:30 in the morning and
the thermometer drips upward. I'm sitting at the Meet Rack on Miracle Mile
in Tucson. Safe bar, nobody ever fucks with me. And today would be a bad day
to challenge my patience.I haven't had a fix in thirty-nine hours. The " Heebee
Jeebeez" are starting to crawl under my skin. The condition of my stomach
comes into question. Here I am like Jean-Paul Sartre’s character dealing with
Roquentin's curse. Feeling nauseated, trying to hold back my wanting to vomit and I
occasionally gag loudly. Got kicked out of the Pussycat Lounge for puking on a table
earlier this morning. It feels like cats scratching at me from the inside. And I have no
idea when relief will arrive . It's dry .The whole city is dry. I can't even locate a fucking
Mandrax or Quaalude to take the edge off. The Chicanos on the Southside can't scare
up Xanax and there hasn't been any decent Heroin around in weeks. Swear I'd shoot
cough syrup right now if it contained enough Codeine.
She said she'd meet me at the library on North 1st avenue at 9:00 .I'm late and now a
no show. Just can't muster the energy or enthusiasm to walk that distance in this
scorching, merciless solar torment. Besides, I'm not hard to find. It's not like I have an
active social agenda. I am similar to a Homing Pigeon. It may appear that I am
wandering from my confines but I always find my way back. Especially when dope is
involved.
She enters the Dive Bar gliding across the floor with the grace of a swan.
Her tits are like ripened mangoes and easily visible through her sheer
summer dress. I was sure she was created by the Gods from sea foam
navigating her half shell thru calm seas. Nope, she was born to Jewish
parents in New Jersey.
“Hey baby how ya feeling?” she whispers as her fingers slide gently through my hair.
"I said library not libation” she lectures.
“How the fuck ya think I feel? I'm sick from withdrawls and I need a bump badly
baby.”
“Ok let's get outta here. Did you pay for that beer you didn't drink?” She
asks concernedly.
“I”ll pay Jimmy later. He’ll be happy just to get rid of me.”
We head out to her MG convertible. The heat slaps me with intense sincerity
and I ask myself why I live in the desert. Almost every plant that grows
and survives in this wasteland has some type of thorn or quill fashioned
brier or barb on it as protection from scavengers. There’s a variety of venomous snakes
lizards and insects sharing this ecosystem. These are my neighbors.
I sit down on the black vinyl seat of her MG with the top down. I let out a scream that
rivaled those that echoed throughout the dungeons during the Spanish Inquisition.
My legs exposed from sporting cutoffs make contact with the seat and they are
instantly fried, burnt, charred. I forget about my other symptoms and concentrate
solely on the pain ravaging my legs. I swear I heard the sound of sizzling. She throws a
towel over the seat while giggling, attempting not to laugh. I think, I
should've known better. She pats my leg affectionately and says, you guessed it.
”Silly, you should've known better.”
“Where we headed?” I bark.
Her dress dancing in the breeze, occasionally providing me with a brief
glimpse of her trimmed pussy. Elegance defined. Sex ,the farthest thing from my half
mind at this time. She smiles, her hand on my shoulder
“Pascua Yaqui reservation, black tar baby, Mexico's finest just arrived!”
On Grant Road just east of I-10 is the Indian Reservation best known for its fat
women in black dresses, Indian Fry Bread and incredibly potent Heroin. I cringe with
anticipation. She races past the Multiplex Movie Theatres and into Geronimo’s
neighborhood. A small dust devil sweeps past us as we park near the elementary
school. I can feel the souls of a thousand warriors resting their eyes on this Dago kid
from the south side of Chicago. Enough with the mysticism back to the main theme.
“Ok give me the money. How much ya got?”
She’s not gonna like this answer.
“Fourteen dollars and like sixty four cents”.; I respond like a guilty child.
I think to myself, She should've known better.
And then just like it was possibly rehearsed. She grabs at the dollar bills and the
CHANGE as well and says what class?
“I should've known better. You know it’s twenty dollars! I'll cover ya again!”
No smile now.
“Still love me baby?”
“YA LIKE A TOOTHACHE!” She screams over the sound of a ringing school bell.
I hear her mumbling obscenities as she walks towards the orange, green, blue, yellow
painted house that appears as if it belongs on Sesame Street. She enters the yard
where the young braves are gathered. And with the swiftness of Elvis leaving the
building she’s back with the cache.
“Just smell this shit baby.” she giggles.
I open the cellophane and inhale the smell of redemption.
She slams the gear shifter into 1st and we are on our way back to her apartment on
North Campbell .
I light a candle unwrap my syringe ,spoon and cigarette filter. Next I draw water
from a red Bugs Bunny cup.
”What's up Doc?”I chuckle sarcastically.
The smoke from cooking the dope filters off into Heroin Heaven and I fill the
syringe with the coffee like liquid. I slide the needle under my skin into a vein that I
fondly refer to as the ditch. EUREKA! Blood billows into my gun and I push at the
plunger.
“HAPPINESS IS A WARM GUN.
BANG BANG SHOOT SHOOT
WHEN I FEEL MY FINGER ON YOUR TRIGGER.”
I quietly sing the Beatles song.
I hear her voice faintly ordering me from the kitchen.
”Hey asshole don't shoot that whole twenty dollar bag. This is strong shit not that
street dope you've been used to.”
My answer; a "THUD" as my body slams into the floor.
I should've known better.
©2017
WC 1053
