When Hottie Met Junkie by Adam Woods, Ishita Garg (books to read to be successful .TXT) 📕

“I just wanna do a few more hits.” He had a low, but firm voice.

Demarco took out another cigarette from his pack of camels and held out the pack at the kid. “You want one, Jesse?”

Jesse shook his head.

Demarco sighed. “You have started shooting ‘em up, haven’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

Jesse shrugged, unblinking.

“Look, kiddo, shooting coke is a whole different ballgame. And what I sell you is pure shit. You start hitting them in your veins and you are gonna turn into seaweed in no time. Believe me, it will burn you out.”

Jesse leaned forward and swiped away the pack from Demarco’s hand. He removed a cigarette, placed the filter end between his lips. Demarco tossed the lighter at him. He lighted the cigar and leaned back, taking in deep puffs.

He wasn’t immature, Demarco decided. Maybe there was a reason. Maybe he had a grief to burn. He sure didn’t look like the ones who did coke for the hell of it.

“Just a bit for the night,” Jesse said, his gaze unwavering.

“And you gotta start paying for the stuff. I am not a fucking bartender who keeps tabs.”

“I’ll pay you, Mark.”

Demarco leaned forward and lowered his voice: “I have told you this and I am telling you again. I am just a fucking nobody in the lowest echelons of this food chain. I keep pushing out stuff without payments, someone’s gonna notice. And , frankly, I love my work too much.”

“Just give me the damn thing, Mark. I’ll pay you this weekend. I promise.”

Demarco ran his finger over a scar on his forehead absentmindedly. He knew he wasn’t a cutthroat businessman. He was just good at beating up guys. And he didn’t wanna thrash this one. This one had a pretty face. And a warm heart. He looked at the dirty walls of the cabin. Everything was so dismal and bleak. The memories of that night faded in.

 Rain poured from the skies without mercy. A man lay in a puddle outside a football field, shirt and trousers torn to pieces. He didn’t move, didn’t want to move. His body was shaking. Not from the cold, but from shock. He closed his eyes and prayed for death to take him in her arms. He had no loved ones to picture in his mind for the last time. No regrets. No sorrow. Just agony.

“Hey man, you still alive?” came a distant, subdued voice.

He opened his eyes. A hazy figure was crouched on the muddied ground, examining him. He managed a small nod.

“That’s a nasty gash on your head.”

The man closed his eyes again. However hard he might try, one feeling kept surfacing again and again. The feeling that he wasn’t gonna die that day.

“Earth to Mark. Earth to Mark.”

Demarco returned from his thoughts. He took a look at Jesse and mumbled to himself, “Oh what the hell.” He reached for his socks and retrieved a tiny plastic packet containing a white powder. He slid it across to Jesse.

“Thanks,” Jesse said, pocketing the drug. “Oh, and can I have another one of those?” he asked indicating at the cigarette pack, “they are the shit.”

Demarco gave a wan smile. “Take the pack. There’s a whole lot where this came from.”

“Don’t worry. I will pay you this weekend.”

Demarco took out a pen and a slip of paper from his pocket. He scribbled something and held it out at him. “This is what you’ll be paying.”

“No problem,” Jesse said, standing up.

“And don’t overdo it,” Demarco said, pointing at the pocket where Jesse had kept the drug.

Jesse gave an affable smile, and left.

He seems to be in control, Demarco thought. He can take care of himself.

“What’s the deal with the guy?”

Demarco turned around. It was Zinger. Boss’s right hand. “Nothing,” he replied.

“C’mon. He has been freeballing coke for weeks now. I watch everything,” Zinger said, walking up to him. Everybody hated Zinger. Hated and feared. There were numerous rumours to why his Mohawk was half-blond half-red in color. One rumour was that he struck off the head of a guy with one swing of the axe, and the blood splattered on his face and hair, turning the front half of the Mohawk red. There were some other funny versions too. But right now he didn’t seem to be in a funny mood.

“He saved my life once.”

“Oh, well that explains quite a lot. But what I am more interested in the explanation as to what you’ll do if he doesn’t pay up.”

“I’ll do what’s necessary,” Demarco replied, his face emotionless.

“Attaboy,” Zinger said, patting his shoulder.

After Zinger was gone, Demarco went inside the cabin or, as they called it, ‘the Den’. A half-dozen people sat scattered around the room on sofas, lost in paradise. They came here every day, to destroy the remaining part of their lives, and sink into deeper crevices of insanity. Demarco took a look at them and felt disgusted. They looked like skeletons ready to give up their skin any moment.

He reached inside a drawer and took out a new pack of camels. Methodically, he retrieved a cigarette and lighted it. You had to agree, smoking had style.  As he looked at the druggies again, his thoughts went back to Jesse. He had changed a lot, Jesse had. Demarco recalled how Jesse and his uncle had taken care of him. For two whole months. And Jesse used to be a fun kid back then. So full of life. So ebullient. Now, he had become so subdued and phlegmatic. He still had that warm heart. But yet, Demarco wondered, what happened to Jesse?  

 ***

Jesse walked through the cobblestone streets; hands sunk deep in his pockets, eyes fixed on the path. He looked around once in a while, catching a peek of what was happening in the environ.  He had always liked it in Portland, particularly Old Port. The place had a certain charm to it. Like a small town. And there were people everywhere. In cafes, bookshops, restaurants, and on the streets, strolling in the fine weather. Nobody seemed to have a damn care in the world. He used to love that thing about Old Port. Now he just felt disgusted.

Every where he looked, there were smiling faces. Some laughing ones too. But he knew that deep inside that was not what they were. Deep inside, everyone was different. Everyone held some sort of remorse; some sort of pain. So did smiling and pretending make it any better? No, it didn’t. Jesse knew that. He had tried it himself and then cursed himself later for even hoping it would work.

Or maybe it’s just me, Jesse thought. Maybe I am just losing my mind. But at this point he certainly didn’t care. He felt for the pouch in his pocket. Satisfied that it was still in there, he increased his pace. He had started using a couple of weeks ago; wary at first, then totally lost to it. He’d lock himself in his room, and lose himself to paradise. At the beginning he snorted lines, two or three at a time. He upped it when the tolerance began to build, and by the second week he was at the local medicine store nicking syringes. IV-ing coke was like sitting on the wings of a 747, 30,000 feet above the ground. After the first time, he had never looked back.

He passed through the bustling markets to an old pier. He stopped and looked at the setting sun across the horizon. The waters reflected different shades of crimson. He sighed. He despised this life so much. Everything felt fake to him. Sometimes he had felt like jumping into the water. He didn’t know how to swim. But he knew he couldn’t. Just not right now. He patted the lump in his pocket and turned around to a small cabin a few yards away. He walked to the door and knocked. He heard some movement inside and a couple of grunts before the door opened. A weary, haggard face peeked out of it. “Oh, hey,” the man said, recognising Jesse. “You’re back early.” He opened the door wide and stood aside as Jesse barged in without a word.  

***

Jesse sat on the floor. He was in his room, locked from inside. He’d always lock himself in his room, whether he was using or not using. To keep out his uncle. He hadn’t talked to him in a while and certainly wasn’t starting now. He didn’t want anything to do with his uncle. What he felt for his uncle was not hatred; it was disgust. He didn’t know whom he despised more: himself or that old man he shared the roof with.

He looked down on the mat spread in front of him. The pouch was on it, half open. He took a tiny spoon and nicked some powder from it. Then he looked back at the pouch. The hell with it, he thought, emptying the pouch in a small Petri-dish. He took the syringe and filled it with water, which he then emptied in the Petri-dish. He repeated the same again and the water level reached the brim. Then he mixed coke carefully. He filled one fourth of the syringe with the mixture. He didn’t wanna start large. He knew he had built tolerance to that much of coke, but upping the dose with each subsequent shot had its perks.

He positioned the needle on the pouch and busied himself with swabbing. He folded the sleeves of the t-shirt till his shoulder. There were marks on his arm already, bluish-black in colour. He took a rubber cord and wrapped it around his arm a couple of inches above the elbow; he crossed the cord at the middle and took one end in the same hand and the other end he held tightly in his jaws. As he straightened the hand, the cord tightened up. A couple of veins stood up against his skin. He chose the one which he had least used. “Your lucky day, babe,” he mumbled, teeth still clenched tightly on the cord.

He started swabbing the vein with cotton dabbed in alcohol. He could already feel himself burning with anticipation. His hand was shaking slightly as he hurried to get the first shot. He checked the syringe for any air bubbles. He held the syringe by its barrel, keeping it slightly inclined to his arm. He jabbed the needle in and pulled back the plunger a bit. A crimson fluid gushed into the mixture forming swirls at the needle end. Then he drove the plunger home.

He released the cord and retracted the needle immediately. Then her held the cotton to the vein and sat back against the wall. Within seconds, he felt the metallic taste in his mouth. It was delicious. He knew he had boarded the train. He was in for the ride of his life.

His heart started to beat faster, and his breathing accelerated. He started to sweat and he could feel a tingling sensation in his legs. His vision started getting distorted. He closed his eyes. He could hear the thumping of his heart in his ears. The euphoria burst into a blinding flash of ecstasy that surged through his body and shook him with pleasure.

Minutes later, he held the syringe in hand, ready for the next shot. This time he had filled the syringe three-fourths. He injected it again and sat back, the metallic taste spreading around his tongue.  He looked down at the Petri-dish which seemed to have duplicated into another Petridish. There was a whole lot of watered coke left. He almost heard an evil laugh resounding in his ears. As the flash hit his body stronger than ever before, he knew he was gonna plunge it again. And again. And yet again. Till he could feel no more.