I Am an Abscess


I am dopesick and coked up in my apartment—four bedrooms and a loft I share with five other men.

Normal men.

Not men like me.

The loft is my bedroom, a narrow staircase leading up to it from the entryway, the high white ceiling a dozen feet above my head, my bed pressed against the half wall that overlooks the living room. It is a room of empty spaces, so that all might hear my long snorts of dope, my fights with customers, my shrieking in the night.

The three full walls I have are great and pale and high, one filled with long windows that let in sunlight all day long, the Kansas summer making the room burn with heat, even now in the middle of the night.

GT has stopped answering his phone. He may be in the hospital again for his diabetes, or he may be dead. I neither know nor care which it is—all that matters is that I am sick.

In six years, I’ll hear that GT fell asleep behind the wheel and drove into the Kaw River, all three hundred pounds of him sinking to the icy muck.

I won’t care then either.

My body pours with sweat, the coke making the sickness worse, but I cannot stop snorting it, cannot lie still. To drive off the opiate sickness, I’ll have to deal with someone else and pay retail.

Any profit I made for the week on OxyContin will be wiped out.

What choice do I have?

I bought an ounce of coke three days ago. It has taken months to convince Jacob the coke dealer to front me the ounce, months of patience, of hanging out at his apartment, of giving him outrageous deals on oxy from my hookups.

It is an investment, my time with this man, and it has finally paid off. I purchased inositol to cut the coke. I will double my money if I am careful. Oxy alone will never make me rich because of my habit, despite selling it for 100% profit.

But you must be quite stupid to sell coke and still be poor.

“you got that oxy clean still?” I text Chris from my bed while chopping up a line of coke on the mirror I keep in my nightstand, my legs twitching.

“ya. u stil hangin out wit that white girl?” he texts back.

“ya”

“can i come thru?”