The young man wraps his belt around his forearm slightly above the elbow, flexing so that all the veins in that area bulge. He bites one end of the belt, pulling it even more taut. The leather already is nearly chewed all the way through from him biting it in such a manner so many times. It hurt his arm, in a way, but the rising smell of vinegar within the car engendered a maniacal pleasure, making him pull the belt even tighter in excitement. There’s a moment of intense piercing pain as he slides the needle into the soft skin of the inside of his elbow, pushing the muddy brown poison into his bloodstream. But all is forgotten as his pupils dilate and his body shudders with the intense euphoria of it all.
And then, in an instant, he’s wiping the little pile of blood off of his forearm, pulling the sleeve of his flannel shirt back over it, capping the needle, and shoving the whole set into his glove box. He shudders, thinking of what he’s just done, and glances out either window in embarrassment, checking for onlookers. He wipes a tear that’s gliding down one of his thin, pale cheeks and then steps out of his car, making his way towards the supermarket.
There’s a couple of kids sitting in front of the place, smoking their little cigarettes. Typical teenyboppers, too busy trying to look tough to realize how weak it’s really making them. They call out to him, ‘cause he’s the guy they want to emulate, of course. He doesn’t even respond.
He was a teenybopper like that only a couple years ago. Back when getting high meant taking a hit of chronic before school and meth was only a myth, the kind of thing they told you about just to keep you away from drugs in general. They’d show you the pictures of all the hobos they pick up off the street, the one’s who’ve picked their entire faces apart. But, for some reason, they leave out the real tweakers: the guy who runs the gas station downtown, your next door neighbor’s son, maybe even your brother. The parents, the teachers, all of them are just in conspiracy against the reality of the issue. It’s not just the kind of thing you pick up on the streets of South Tacoma anymore. It goes from cigarettes, to chronic, to beans... Then the scary stuff. Once you realize what you're into, you're stuck. For good. And the futility of it kills you.
He sees a little boy inside, wearing a nice little blue flannel, buttoned all the way up to his chin, and smiles at the tyke. The kid smiles back at him, showing off a couple missing front teeth, and then the mom turns around, wondering who her kid’s smiling at, and smiles as well.
But who really knows where that kid’s going to be in fifteen or twenty years? After the mother finally pulled the tyke away, even though he was struggling because he wanted to keep on staring and smiling at the man, the man started getting teary eyed again. It wasn’t as though he was ever going to have a kid like that, following him around, copying everything he did; and, come to think of it, it was probably better that he didn’t. He’d have to be an idealist to think that the kid would turn out all right.
It’d be nice to have a good faithful wife, a couple of kids playing in the backyard, working a blue-collar forty. That’s the American Dream, anyway. In the real world, you’ve gotta give up all those idealist sorts of thoughts. He knows that, in ten years, he’s gonna be in the same place he is now.
He urinates in the supermarket bathroom and then leaves. As he’s walking out, the kids are still there, still smoking the same cigarettes. And that’s how you can tell they aren’t really enjoying it; they’re just doing it all for the image, they aren’t relishing the taste or anything like that.
They call out to him again, asking something about if he knew of any Gigs Goin’ Down That Weekend. He actually stops this time and looks at them for a minute. The boy who called out to him, his hair’s cut all nicely. Probably a twenty-dollar hair cut from the place down the road. He’s got new shoes, too.
“Nice shoes,” he says, looking down at the teenybopper’s shoes.
“Thanks,” the teenybopper says, taken aback a bit.
“Where’d ya get ‘em? You’re mama buy ‘em for ya? And who’s payin’ for that fancy li’l cell phone ya got there? Your mama payin’ for that, too?”
The teenybopper just sort of stood there, not knowing exactly how to reply.
“Do yerself a favor an’ go back to where you’re s’posed to be.” And then he just keeps walking towards his car, hoping in his heart that the kid stamped out his cigarette and went back home to study for his American Literature test on Monday. But he knew that wouldn’t happen. It’s not cool to stamp out your cigarette just ‘cause some older kid tells you to. It’d take a whole lot of other people stamping out their cigarettes for the teenybopper to do that. Instead, he's probably going to fail his American Literature test. It makes him sad to think of how many tests he failed and how many days of school he skipped before he eventually gave up. He wasn't a stupid kid, he could have gone to college and all, but it's too late for that now.
He gets into his car again, starts it, and realizes that he really has nowhere to go. He doesn’t have a list full of friends who he can stop by and visit for a minute; they’re all away, at college, or just making something of their lives.
And so he drives back to his mama’s house, the same place he’s been living for the last twenty-three years. His mama’s sitting on the couch watching TV when he walks in. She doesn’t say much of anything, just grunts and throws him a sharp little glare.
Six hours later, he’s puking in the bathroom. His head throbs, begging him to induce rapture. His mama walks over to the bathroom to see what the ruckus is, and she’s able to see right inside since he’s left the door wide open.
“What the hell’s goin’ on now?” she yells, slamming her hand down on the counter top. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
He rolls over, lying down next to the toilet. “I’m sorry, mama, I’m sorry, I been tryin’ a be a good boy for ya…” And he really had tried. When he was a kid, he'd run home from the bus stop every day after school as quickly as he could, just to show his mama how good he'd done on his homework. He'd stick all his little papers to the fridge with magnets. He just wanted, so badly, to make her proud.
“You ain’t a good boy, you ain’t never been one. You’re a fucking dumbass. A piece of shit. Wipe that nasty fuckin’ sweat off your forehead and get the fuck outa my house.”
Soon he’s driving out to town in his car again, the tears rolling all the way down his cheeks. He hopes, in his heart, that he’s not a real piece of shit. But it’s hard to believe that it’s not true. He hasn’t done anyone good in his life. He parks out in front of the supermarket again, and pulls the whole set out of his glove box. There’s a little bit of brown sludge left in the plastic baggy, and he pulls it into the syringe, and back out into a metal spoon. He adds a few milligrams of water to the mixture, and then lights it all up.
He was a dumbass, back in the day. Back when he picked up that first cigarette. Back when he’d even had the urge to pick up a cigarette. But it’s past the point of just being stupid. He’s stuck, cemented into this permanent cycle of self-hatred and mutilation. But that possibly make him a piece of shit, can it? He thinks of the little boy who was smiling at him in the supermarket just a couple hours ago. That little kid didn’t think he was a piece of shit. He smiled at him. He was just another person to the tyke. And that’s probably how it works in the world. You can’t just say a person’s a good or bad person on account of petty things like dependency. That’s ‘cause we aren’t all good or all bad people; we’re just people.
He breathes in the sweet vinegar as he pulls off his belt, preparing to wrap it around his forearm once again. He’s crying even harder than before now, begging himself to put everything away and just go home. In his heart, he wants to quit, but he can’t do it that day. He’s just not strong enough yet.
And he’s happy with himself once the euphoria sets in. Suddenly, he’s not a piece of shit anymore. The insecurities wash away. All for a brief moment. And those minutes of ecstasy are an easy trade off for the hours of self-abhorrence.
When he’s strong enough, he’ll get better. But, for now, the euphoria is all he has to live for.
