Peter Hannan

I am on my fourth prison term.

This story was primarily written because of thoughts and feelings I have about female addicts. I have been a heroin addict for 20 years. I am on my fourth prison term because of my need to steal to support my addiction. I have deep regrets about wasting all of my life. I was disowned by my family, I have no wife or children, and I own nothing of value. I, however, do not feel particularly sorry for myself. I’m a man and I made the choices in my life. They were bad choices, so I must pay the consequences.

I am familiar with women’s liberation and their desire to be equal with men in all areas. For the most part I am in agreement with them. I do not believe, though, that they are equal with men when it comes to drugs. I have found very few men who were introduced to drugs by a woman. On the other hand, most women were turned on to drugs by a man. And in many cases they were turned out by a man (induced into prostitution). Men generally steal or deal to support their habit. In some cases women do too, but the majority of women end up selling their bodies for drugs. They are degraded in body and spirit much more than male addicts. It’s also much more difficult for society to accept them back if they clean up. I see them as victims to a greater degree than their male counterparts.

I believe your readers will find this story extremely interesting. I’ve always been amazed by straight people’s curiosity and fascination with drugs. For years I have been asked over and over to describe what it’s like being an addict. This story gives an accurate portrayal of addiction. I am uniquely qualified to write this story, as using and abusing drugs has been my lifelong pursuit.

A young girl, perhaps 20. Her face is still pretty; waist-length, flowing black hair, beautiful though lacking luster. The body is appealing but undernourished, all sharp planes and right angles, an effect achieved from starvation rather than any fashionable diet. Brown eyes contain a certain brightness. This light, however, isn’t from mischievousness or any girlish gaiety. There is no fun or playfulness in them. It is the consuming fire of the addict. The ever-aware hustler. Fire without warmth. Only the cold narrow beam from a burglar’s flashlight. She was my friend, a Mayan princess on skid row.

I was released from the Los Angeles County Jail after doing seven months. I had received a one-year sentence for the crime of auto burglary. Just dope fiend action, no big-time crime. Made worse by the fact what I took for a box of tools turned out to be a pet carrier. But that is behind me now.

I walk the two miles to the truck stop on Alameda. I have a couple of hundred dollars in my pocket. This from selling candy and smokes on the line. As I arrive at the truck stop, Linda is the first person I spot. She has seen me also. She rushes up to greet me, “Where’ve you been, mi hijo?”

“You’re lookin’ good,” I respond. “I’ve been in the county, on some ol’ popcorn case. Where can we get some good drugs at?”

Without having to give it much thought, Linda tells me, “The stuff is good up on Seventh and San Julian, but we’ll have to get the coke on Sixth and Ceres.” I digest that for a minute.

“All right, let’s walk up to Ceres first and then swing by San Julian.” Linda is agreeable to this but says, “I’ve got my works stashed in the bathroom. Let me get them real quick.” After she retrieves the works, we walk up to Sixth Street towards Ceres. I ask her if she has a new set of works for me. She looks at me accusingly. “Why don’t you think you can share my outfit? I ain’t got no AIDS.”

“Nah, it ain’t that, it’s just that it ain’t safe nowadays, Linda. I’ll buy us both a new set of works, okay?” She still seems offended, so I change the subject to something more pleasant. “Hey, is there any ether wash coke?”

Linda brightens at once. “Yeah, Antonia’s got ether wash. It’s got a good rush.”

About the time she completes this remark, we arrive at our destination: Ceres, a street that would warm any addict’s heart. People selling drugs as far as the eye can see.

Some of the dealers that know me come and greet me. How are you doing, Huererito? You got some muscle on you now. I smile and joke with them for a couple of minutes until Linda tugs on my arm. “There’s Antonia.” As soon as she says this, Antonia walks up and gives me a quick hug. “Hey,

Huererito, what you bring me?”

I answer, “Nothing right now, I just got out.”

“You got any money then?”

“Yeah, I got money! Why don’t you give me three and three for 35?”

Antonia looks pained. “That ain’t enough, mi hijo. I need 45.”

Feigning regret I tell her, “I guess I’ll just get it from someone else.” Sensing the loss of a sale, she immediately becomes more agreeable. “Three and three for 40. I got good dope, and you bring me a VCR and a gun when you get them!”

Agreeing to her terms, I pass her two 20s. She spits some balloons out of her mouth and counts me out three yellow and three green ones. I take them from her hand, wipe them on my pant leg, and pop them into my mouth. The transaction complete, I ask Linda, “Do you got any water?”

“Yeah, I got water, but I thought you were going to get the stuff on San Julian.”

“They got tar up there.”

“All they got down here is Kool-Aid!” “Yeah, but I want to fix right now. I got more money. I’ll walk up there later. Let’s go up behind the Lincoln and get down.”

Linda teases me, “Don’t you want to buy a new outfit first?”

“Look, Linda, I want to fuckin’ fix. C’mon, let’s go.”

“Okay, okay, but don’t fuckin’ yell at me.” After this exchange we walk up the alley to a spot directly behind the Lincoln Hotel. I notice they have bricked in the narrow space between the back of the Lincoln and the rear wall. They’ve also topped it with barbed wire to keep the junkies from fixing back there. “When the fuck did they do this, Linda?” “A while back. We can still get over.”

I watch her grab a piece of rusty iron protruding from the wall. She pulls herself up and brings her foot up on a jutting brick. This gives her enough leverage to make it to the top and over. I figure, what the hell; if she can do it so can I. So up and over I go. Linda has already begun to set up for our little party. It’s not exactly like a little girl setting up for a tea party, though. For one thing, the implements are different, and there’s nothing childish or sweet about what she has spread out. On top of an old milk crate she has unfurled a dirty red bandana. Inside the bandana are three or four used syringes, a wine cap, a cigarette filter, and an aspirin bottle containing water. The bandana also serves as a tie-off and to wipe up the blood from needle punctures. Linda apologizes for having only one cooker. I tell her it’s all right ’cause we’ll just cook my fix and hers together.

I remove the balloons from my mouth. “Hey, Linda, which is the coke and which is the gow? I forgot to ask Antonia!”

“The green is stuff, and the yellow’s coke,” Linda answers.

Linda hands me the wine top, into which I empty two of the green balloons. Linda has meanwhile drawn up about 40 units of water in one of the syringes. I squirt the water into the cap with the dope in it. Linda hands me a lighter set on its highest setting. She also hands me a pair of nail clippers to hold the wine cap.

I hold the tip of the flame to the bottom of the cooker, gently heating its contents. Within a matter of seconds it comes to a boil. The cut in it has given the stuff a purplish tinge, hence the nickname “Kool-Aid.” Anticipating my next move, Linda hands me the syringe with 20 units of water in it. I empty this into the cooker to cool the heroin before adding the cocaine (hot water ruins coke). I drop a balled-up piece of cigarette filter in the mixture. I put the end of the needle in the middle of the cotton, so as to filter impurities when I draw the drug up. I draw up 30 units and hand it to Linda. With another syringe I draw up the remainder for myself. I can afford to be generous: I’m clean, it won’t take much to get me off.

Linda takes the bandana and ties it on her upper arm to bring up a vein. I remove the belt from my Levis to use for the same purpose.

We both withdraw into our own private ritual of trying to find a vein. Even though I’ve been lifting weights for the last few months, it’s still hard to find a register. Twenty years of using have pretty well collapsed all my veins. Linda is having a hard time too. She has only been using for maybe three or four years. Only 20 years old and already burned out her veins; she uses like she’s in the last stages of addiction. She won’t last as I have, maybe not even another year, but now I’m thinking she’s more fortunate than me. She’s already found a register. I watch the rush wash over her, watch her gasping for breath. For a moment I’m jealous, then I see the blood flow up into my own outfit. I don’t tease the plunger slowly back and forth as Linda did. I depress the plunger all the way down to the hub. All of a sudden I feel the top of my head blow off. I jump to my feet blowing menthol dragon breath from my mouth. My heart is trip-hammering in my chest; for a minute I think it will explode. Soon the heroin kicks in, taking the edge off the coke rush.

Now I can sit back down. Linda and I look into each other’s eyes like we’d just achieved simultaneous orgasm. To further complete the similarity of a successful sexual union, I ask Linda for a cigarette. She lights one and hands it to me. I take a drag and remove the cigarette from my mouth. Linda reaches over and gives me a long, deep kiss. I kiss her back, enjoying the kiss, but not wanting it to go any further. I’m wrapped up in my high right now, and I don’t want to waste it. I tell Linda to go and do what she’s gotta do. I tell her I’m going to steal a car and make some more money. Linda asks me if I don’t want to go back to her place and kick back for a while.

“I’ve got a trailer in back of the auto body shop,” Linda says.

“Nah, Linda, not now. It was after 11 when I got out, it must be almost 5 in the morning now.”

“Yeah, you’re right, but come by later, okay?”

“Sure, Linda, I’ll come by later.”

After getting our few things together, I help Linda back over the wall. Then I climb over myself. Some quick “See you laters,” and we go our separate ways. Me to go get a car and pull a burglary. Her to go out and turn a trick or hustle somebody out of some money.

I was successful that day. I found both a car and a house to burglarize. I guess I should define my meaning of success: Avoiding Arrest. So with that definition in mind I was “successful” for nine or ten months before I was unsuccessful.

During those months I was in and out of the hospital five or six times. I had a blood infection. I got this from using contaminated gutter water to fix with. When they arrested me they did me a favor. I had a temperature of 104 and open sores on my arms and legs. So I received hospitalization in the jail ward, which probably saved my life.

When I was well enough, I was moved to the main jail. From there I went to my court proceedings. After much haggling I settled for a deal of 9 years out of a possible 20. I’ll do 5 years on that. Doing 5 years in prison isn’t on my top-ten list of fun things to do, but in comparison to Linda, I feel lucky. My body and mind are healthy now. I have a future to look forward to. I have a chance to make it.

Now that I’m capable of feeling again, I find myself wondering about Linda. Is she alive or dead? Does she have AIDS? She wasn’t really a very hard girl; none of them are. She just learned to wear a mask. You can still see the real her if you care to look.

I remember a particular incident. I took her to a neighborhood she wasn’t familiar with.

We went there to buy an eight ball — an eighth of an ounce of coke. It was a hot neighborhood, and we got separated dodging the police. I found her about two hours later. She was sitting on a bus stop crying. In retrospect she looked like a lost little girl in some not very fun amusement park. At the time I didn’t think that though. I asked her, “What the hell’s the matter with you?” She responded, “You left me all alone!” I answered this with: “Stupid, I had to get away from the cops, didn’t I?” I wish now 1 had lost the power of speech before uttering that heartless remark.

If I could go back in time, I would do it a lot differently. I would hold her in my arms and kiss her hair and her eyes. I would rock her and comfort her. I would cry with her. I would tell her over and over, “Everything is going to be all right.” I would physically restrain her from using drugs and never let anything hurt her again.

I was never her lover, but I wish I could have been loving to her. I don’t have any children; she could have been my daughter. Nobody else wants her. She’s a hurt, lost little girl. They’re all hurt, lost little girls. My God, won’t somebody show them some love and help them?