I arrived in Pittsburgh and stayed at Hippie’s for a few days getting my self together both physically and mentally. I had gotten back from LA in one piece and now what? My mind was so clouded from months of continuous drug use. I tried to explain my misfortunes in L.A. to Hippie, but the words didn’t fit right in my head and I don’t think he got the magnitude of it all. He, since he left Los Angeles in 2001, had become a father. It happened to him so unexpectedly that it left him partially shell shocked for a flash. He was doing well working as an aspiring cook at a fancy restaurant.
I didn’t have plan for what I was going to do in Pittsburgh when I got there, but I was 100% dedicated to cleaning up and living a normal life. I had felt hopeless and insane during my last run but three thousand miles doesn’t get you that far from your problems. My life was in danger of crossing the line. If I wanted any hope at all I was going to put down the drugs. While I was shooting the cocaine every twenty minutes in L.A. I felt suicidal. I took refuge in my hometown, but my fantasy of living happily ever after was just that, a fantasy.
I moved in with my dad, again, in his over sized Victorian house in Shadyside and wasted little time rekindling my habit. Judge wasn’t around anymore, but he left me with enough phone numbers to get good bags. It was back to the stamp bags. Everywhere east of the Mississippi River ahs the powder dope while tar heroin comes in from Mexico and owns the rest of the country. I took buses; walked wherever it took to procure the junk to help escape from anything life had to throw at me. I spent most of my time waiting in alleyways or walking from one side of a neighborhood to the other to be where I needed to be.
I was a pawn in the game of junk. If a dealer said jump I’d say how high, if he told me to be at ‘the spot’ in four minutes I’d be there in three. One time I was to meet my guy about ten blocks away on a simmering summer day. He stayed on the phone with me while I ran to see him before he said fuck it and left. When I stopped running he’d say in to the phone “I don’t hear you running”. It was fucked up, but it was also how it was and still is today. Either way you look at it, I was chasing medicine. The medicine I thought I had to have to live. Running and chasing and finally putting a needle in my arm was all I thought about from the time I woke up until the time I passed out at night. I stayed at my dad’s house as long and as much as I could, not because I loved him and wanted to see him, but because I was closer to cash. He had a container of nickles, dimes and quarters he kept next to his bed and there was easily enough to cash in for a bundle weekly. I tried to camouflage it with a handkerchief at the bottom of the container, but after a while he confronted me about it.
“Of course I took the change, dad. I’m fucked up.”
He and Jane had enough of my one way mind and kicked me out a few months after I moved in. I’m now surprised they put up with me for so long considering my actions I thought at the time were just a mild side affect of my disease. I jumped ship and returned to the streets where I did what I could to get high everyday. And I wasn’t satisfied with just everyday, I wanted to cop bags two or three times a day.
My mother had been dating Ray and they decided to move in together. I think as a sign of peace, Ray gave me the apartment he was staying in. A nice, two bedroom joint about ten miles south of the city. I, at last, had my own place to go to get high and do whatever I wanted. What else does an active junkie need? The police station was next door. Five feet away were cops doing paperwork while I was doing drugs, an ironic twist I still find humorous.
After two weeks one of my customers brought by a guy I knew years ago. Jon became my roommate and partner in crime. He had a couple good dope connections that were sometimes more convenient and better than mine.
I got an occupation with the Pittsburgh Post Gazette, the largest paper in the city, as a salesman. I sold newspaper subscriptions in supermarkets, malls, on the street, where ever. During the time I was evicted from the apartment and moved in to a motel nearby and continued working for the paper until, after two months I never got paid and the reason they gave me was someone from the mail room must’ve stole it. As hard as I tried I couldn’t get a straight answer or any money. So I decided to leave and take a vacation with the little money I had left. What better place to go than Philly where the dope was good, cheap and easy to find. The train trip was going to be good for me. I ride the rails eight hours east in to the downtown p\hilly station and I remember that the subway comes through the Amtrak station and takes fifteen minutes to arrive in the badlands area where I could easily find good heroin. I got off at the Somerset Station and walked down the same three flights of stairs crossed Somerset and walked up the first street I came to trying to hit a lucky intersection. It took me mere minutes to cop a bundle of ‘magic’ bags and find a cab back to the train station in time to catch my train.
As the train left Philly I broke into the blue, ‘magic’ bags and snaked my way in o the bathroom to try them out. Oh, good shit. Philly has yet to disappoint. I transferred my trip to Boston to visit Red. He was living with his mom in a suburb and going to school. Good for him. I was jealous, but too fucked up to think it was the path in my life. He was great. Content in his life. Taking up the hobbies and interests he always dug on. And I bust out the heroin after the light go out. We watched some fucked up, 1970’s movie about the hood in Harlem and got high. I stayed for a couple day and Red drove me to the downtown station in Philly and figure out something from there. I bought a ticket to Philly and waited outside the station knowing I had couple hours until my train left. I scanned the area and ended up in Chinatown. I walked up the main street and was fiending like crazy. I would’ve taken any drug at the point. I walked up on a corner with a couple guys hanging out talking.
I asked them about the scene and looked looked closely at their eyes and body language before accepting going in with them on a crack rock. We walked around the block and I took a couple puffs from the community pipe. The high was intense and I walked back down the main road totally amped, paranoid and wanting heroin. I walked around block a couple times and almost gave up before I got near the entrance of Chinatown and saw a deal going down. I walked up to the white kid and told him I’d buy him a bag if he hooked me up. He did and we went to his spot under the highway bridge. It was about three feet high so we were both crawling to his squat in the middle of the underpass. I’ve shot up in much worse places and with much dirtier people. We took turns shooting up and the other holding the lighter so we could see as the Boston rush hour crawled by us under the underpass. I couldn’t care less as long as I got the drug in to me and left quickly. I got back to the station and sat down at a round table close enough to see when the train was boarding. The dope was shit and my paranoia set in from coming down from the cocaine. I was sweating buckets and started freaking out. I had about eight needles on me and was sure every cop in the station had their attention directed solely on me. I walked to the men’s room and insanely shoved the needles wrapped in paper towels down the garbage. I was even more paranoid when I walked out and returned to my table. My train finally boarded and I got a two person seat. I looked out the window which was just a mirror starring back at me in the darkness. I opened the pill bottle i had and took a palm full of morphine and Valium. I didn’t know if I was going to set off the panic button and feel the fear I’ve frequently referred to it as.
I woke up in Washington D.C. and got of the train, dizzy and barley conscience. I missed my stop in Philly and did the first sting that came to mind in a pressure situation, I went to find dope. I walked a couple blocks with my luggage and spotted a line for a soup kitchen breakfast. In my experience a soup[ kitchen was a perfect target to find info on a cop spot. I went over and talked to a couple guys before finding myself on a corner smoking crack. Strong crack and it had me twisted for a good hour. Paranoid high. I hated it, yet couldn’t say no to.
