alcala0001
10-17-2010, 04:49 PM
The alarm wakes me and I slam my hand down, my lethargic fingers fumbling for the switch. Did I hit the snooze button once or twice? I wipe the gooey sleep from my eyes and focus on the clock - 4:40 am. I got a few hours of sleep, but my muscles ache and my throat has a sore tenderness to it. I feel like hell, my head slightly foggy. Yesterday's rush has completely left me, leaving a burnt-out shell of a man. I turn the shower on and let it run cold. It awakens me, but does nothing for my aching muscles and joints. I shower and dress, then sit on the bed next to my wife as she sleeps. God I love her so much. I force down thoughts of guilt and betrayal, promising myself that I'll do better, I swear it. I lean over to kiss her and I watch her for a moment, curled on her side, her chest rising and falling in her slumber. I head down the hall to the kitchen and open the fridge, grabbing the components for a simple sandwich: bread, mayonaise, bologna. I climb into the cab of my truck, bologna in one hand, coffee and keys in the other.
It's dark outside, the sun hasn't yet risen and my heater blasts me with warm air as I glide down the freeway. I look in the mirror and scan the road up ahead for cops; they like to hang out under the overpass bridges.
I reach into my flannel shirt pocket, taking out the hollow glass tube with the bulb on the end. I hold it up to passing freeway lights and peer into it. It has enough to get me through the morning. I reach into my pocket and pull out the lighter, putting the pipe's stem to my dry lips. My heart is already beating in anticipation. I remember this feeling as a kid, during Christmas, when I could finally open the presents I'd been waiting to get at for weeks. I check my speed and lift my knee to the bottom of the steering wheel, keeping it straight as my lighter raises to my pipe and flicks sparks, then flame into the tiny cabin of my truck. I roll the pipe, letting the splattered crystals melt, then smoke. I inhale the thick white chemical smoke, hold it for a moment, then exhale. In less than thirty seconds I feel the tingle on my skin and my heart awakens in my chest. Energy and vitality flow into my aching muscles and my head gets right.
I arrive at the warehouse and park in the employee parking lot, way in the back. I pick a spot in the back of the lot and I see Chuck's beat up old car, his silhouette in the driver's seat. I see the shadow turn toward me as I approach. "Hey, Chuck! Got anything for sale?" I ask in a sly manner, careful not to let my voice carry. "Yea I do. Talk to me at lunch". That's gonna be a long wait, I think to myself. "I have my pipe, want to load one up before we head in?" I offer. Please let him say yes. "OK, sure. Get in. Don't slam my door." I ease into his beat up old junker and close the door with a squeak. I reach into my pocket and pull out the paper-towel-wrapped pipe. He fumbles with a small baggie packed with small crystals. He snaps off a little shard and hands it over to me. I hold out my hand as he brushes it into mine, careful not to drop any. I load my pipe and give him the first hit as I anxiously watch, my heart pounding. The shift bell rings and we exit his car in a quickly-dissipating cloud of white smoke. I am electrified and vitalized, ready to take on whatever the day can dish out. For a few hours, anyway.
I go through the motions of my job, packing boxes and stacking pallets, then wrapping them with plastic so the fork lifts can haul them to the shipping dock. I laugh, joke and chide with the guys as I work and at lunch time I sneak back behind a stack of boxes and finish off what Chuck and I shared earlier. Then I make my way back to where Chuck is. We shake hands and he palms me a tiny baggie and exchanges it for the folded up bill tucked between my fingers. We are experts at this sort of hand-off. I return back to my area after lunch and I'm met with knowing eyes and sly grins. They all know. They stopped with the 'hey where's your lunch?' comments long ago. When you're on methamphetamines food is relegated to a less basic human need, more of an afterthought. But they all keep quiet because I'm pleasant enough and I work hard and do my job, whether I'm high or hurting from not being high. The day ends. Time to go Home.
I sit in the cab of my truck, keeping my eyes on my mirrors and side windows as I load up my pipe. Co-workers drive out of the lot, kicking up dirt and dust as they pass. Giving one last look, I light up and take one last pull before leaving. As I lovingly wrap my pipe in sooty, frayed paper towel, I contemplate on what a failure I am. This is the fifth job in four months for me. My wife deserves better. I deserve better. My head tingles and my heart pounds as I start the truck and pull out, then point it toward home. I'll just finish what meth I have on me, then I can quit. Promise.
It's dark outside, the sun hasn't yet risen and my heater blasts me with warm air as I glide down the freeway. I look in the mirror and scan the road up ahead for cops; they like to hang out under the overpass bridges.
I reach into my flannel shirt pocket, taking out the hollow glass tube with the bulb on the end. I hold it up to passing freeway lights and peer into it. It has enough to get me through the morning. I reach into my pocket and pull out the lighter, putting the pipe's stem to my dry lips. My heart is already beating in anticipation. I remember this feeling as a kid, during Christmas, when I could finally open the presents I'd been waiting to get at for weeks. I check my speed and lift my knee to the bottom of the steering wheel, keeping it straight as my lighter raises to my pipe and flicks sparks, then flame into the tiny cabin of my truck. I roll the pipe, letting the splattered crystals melt, then smoke. I inhale the thick white chemical smoke, hold it for a moment, then exhale. In less than thirty seconds I feel the tingle on my skin and my heart awakens in my chest. Energy and vitality flow into my aching muscles and my head gets right.
I arrive at the warehouse and park in the employee parking lot, way in the back. I pick a spot in the back of the lot and I see Chuck's beat up old car, his silhouette in the driver's seat. I see the shadow turn toward me as I approach. "Hey, Chuck! Got anything for sale?" I ask in a sly manner, careful not to let my voice carry. "Yea I do. Talk to me at lunch". That's gonna be a long wait, I think to myself. "I have my pipe, want to load one up before we head in?" I offer. Please let him say yes. "OK, sure. Get in. Don't slam my door." I ease into his beat up old junker and close the door with a squeak. I reach into my pocket and pull out the paper-towel-wrapped pipe. He fumbles with a small baggie packed with small crystals. He snaps off a little shard and hands it over to me. I hold out my hand as he brushes it into mine, careful not to drop any. I load my pipe and give him the first hit as I anxiously watch, my heart pounding. The shift bell rings and we exit his car in a quickly-dissipating cloud of white smoke. I am electrified and vitalized, ready to take on whatever the day can dish out. For a few hours, anyway.
I go through the motions of my job, packing boxes and stacking pallets, then wrapping them with plastic so the fork lifts can haul them to the shipping dock. I laugh, joke and chide with the guys as I work and at lunch time I sneak back behind a stack of boxes and finish off what Chuck and I shared earlier. Then I make my way back to where Chuck is. We shake hands and he palms me a tiny baggie and exchanges it for the folded up bill tucked between my fingers. We are experts at this sort of hand-off. I return back to my area after lunch and I'm met with knowing eyes and sly grins. They all know. They stopped with the 'hey where's your lunch?' comments long ago. When you're on methamphetamines food is relegated to a less basic human need, more of an afterthought. But they all keep quiet because I'm pleasant enough and I work hard and do my job, whether I'm high or hurting from not being high. The day ends. Time to go Home.
I sit in the cab of my truck, keeping my eyes on my mirrors and side windows as I load up my pipe. Co-workers drive out of the lot, kicking up dirt and dust as they pass. Giving one last look, I light up and take one last pull before leaving. As I lovingly wrap my pipe in sooty, frayed paper towel, I contemplate on what a failure I am. This is the fifth job in four months for me. My wife deserves better. I deserve better. My head tingles and my heart pounds as I start the truck and pull out, then point it toward home. I'll just finish what meth I have on me, then I can quit. Promise.