The Last Trip

I cannot describe to you what happens when you shoot up. Others may be horrified at what we do, but I promise you, there is a method to this madness. A set of precise steps that is not possible if you are not focused on what you are doing. Amateurs make the silliest of mistakes which almost always results in infection or a bad trip, but when you nail it down, the euphoria is like none other. First, the spoon. You will never find anyone use a straight spoon to melt the rocks in, the hands are too unsteady, even for a first timer. You drop the little baggy of white crystalline rocks in the spoon and hold it as steady as you can as you hold it over the little lighter flame, and soon enough you see the rocks melt into little brown flecks and then to a clear liquid before it starts bubbling. You have got to be quick now: you cut the heat and drop the little cotton ball you have ready to soak up the impurities and within seconds plunge the needle into the hot clear liquid around the cotton and draw it into the little syringe. You set it aside and use something to tie off the vein if you need it. When I was a lot younger than I am today, I used a re-purposed rubber pipe, thin enough to be able to tie around arm, but durable enough to make the vein pop. And then off you go to a place where the voices that torment you every minute of your wretched existence are pushed far into the margins of consciousness. The very act of injecting fire into your veins is a dance between the need to stay patient and do everything right and the demons in your head that cannot wait a second longer for bliss. You do it right and you have earned yourself some hours of respite.

I stand in front of the mirror in the little dingy restroom of a two-bit truck stop that I found myself in. It did not matter what I was running from, it did not matter what I was running towards, it did not matter what I had to do to earn the last bit of money to buy a thimble of love from a stranger who demanded the same from me. I was only too willing to do what would get me that bag. It did not matter the banging on the door of the restroom. I was just staring into the woebegone mirror in front of me. There were massive flecks of silver missing from the coating, and much of the rest was covered in residues of whatever patrons had stuck on it over the years. I was humming to myself a tune I remembered from a long ago that used to make me cry, but not now. I just stared straight into the my own eyes and hummed the same lines. My eyes began to feel heavy and my vision started tunneling and I don’t know what happened next. All I know is that I woke up to find myself standing in front of a mirror. I reached out and touched the surface which looked brand new and smooth. The odd part was what should have been the reflection.

I recognized the red flannel shirt from my own cupboard a long time back. The memory of a thrift store and a changing room with a broken door flashed in my mind. I remembered the shirt as my own and the fingernails as my own and the little tattoo of a semicolon on the middle finger on the left hand to be my own. The body was crumpled on the sink on the other side of the mirror, twitching ever so slightly, soft groans and the occasional hiccups emanated from the figure that was passed out. I tried pushing against the mirror to reach the person who had passed out, but the mirror held strong. I stood there for a long minute staring at the twitching body, humming a song that I recognized

A service moves slowly through the hills

Faint sound of the highway

Night sets on the Church of the Pines

Ending the day, they laid them to rest

I hummed along to the tune that reverberated on this side of the mirror, and I realized there was a long corridor that stretched to the left of me, sparsely lit. The song continued playing, echoing off the papered walls of the room, adorned in little plastic butterflies that flew between flowers of white. There was a door at the end of the corridor and beyond the door it was filled with the sounds of glass, and silverware, and laughter and conversation. There was a rouge guitar playing on the other side, that played the same tune I was humming. My hands trembled as I laid my hand on the knob and pushed the door.

It was a long room with tables that were arranged in a way that only allowed one person to walk comfortably in the little aisle between them. I never understood how someone could carry multiple plates of hot food to the tables in such small space but the elderly waiter did it with a smile in his face. I don’t remember how we had found the restaurant, but Julio had guided us through winding streets of cobblestone and cigarettes to this little establishment tucked away in a hidden corner. He was waving me over the the little table in the corner and next to him was a woman who played the guitar. After all this time, what I remember most about him were his eyes.

“You certainly took your time” his eyes glinted in the low light. “I was gonna send someone to look for you.”

I laughed in reply, but I never took my eyes off him. I knew every inch of it but it felt like I was looking at him for the first time all over again. The single gray hair in his beard, the wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled, the single stud he wore on his left ear. Most of all, his eyes. He had the kindest eyes, eyes that made you feel at home. Eyes that made you feel safe.

“Yeah… I think I got lost there for a bit.”

“Well you’re here now” he motioned to the lady who was strumming the guitar behind me. “I remembered you loved this song. Never knew why, it was just too depressing for me.”

I merely chuckled in reply. “How’s your carbonara?”

“It’s not the best carbonara” he replied with a smile, “but I love it all the same.”

“I’d forgotten how annoyingly optimistic you were”

He laughed and so did I, ignoring the lead ball that rose up from the depths of my being and laid heavily in my throat. I laughed ignoring all that would happen from this day forth. I laughed ignoring the body crumpled on the sink in the restroom in a truck stop somewhere, poison coursing through the blood, humming the same tune.

“Is this real?”

“Would it matter?” he had a knowing smile on his face as he stared at me.

“I don’t know… I want it to be.”

“Why?”

“Because” my voice catches in my throat but I persist, “because this was the last time I remember us being happy. This was the last time before…”

He nodded his head and placed his napkin on the table as he sat back. He fixed his eyes on the lady behind me playing the guitar and continued “You’ve been through it huh?”

I looked down as my skin began to feel cold and a distant sound of a door banging began reverberating in my head, “After you were gone, I had nothing else to live for. I..I’m not as strong as you Julio.”

He reached forward and took my hand in his and turned it over, and ran his finger over the scars of vertical lines that covered the forearm.

“I tried” I said, fighting to hold back tears, “I really tried, but I was weak..I could not deal with the emptiness, and it swallowed me. Will you ever forgive me Julio?”

He looked at me, from behind those glasses he always wore, his eyes reaching deep into me, and said something that I couldn’t hear. The banging was getting too loud. I knew somehow that my time here was not for long.

“Listen” I took his hand in mine, tears in my eyes, “I need to remember this moment. And I need you to remember it too. Whatever happens next, I need you to remember this day and I need you to remember that I love you. And that I tried my best, okay?” I did not realize that I had tears flowing down my cheeks when I uttered the last part, but he came over anyway, and held me in a hug. He pressed my head against his chest as I clung on to his sweater and cried some more. He smelled of a rain in November. The small hairs on his chin dug into the top of my head but I did not mind. As we held each other, the guitar crooned. And I hummed the last lines of the song, my legs gone out from under me, holding on to the sink like a buoy…

From the hills I look at the stars

I feel the darkness swell like a bruise

And in my head, I'm playing with words

I scramble and strain to find the right ones

Sometimes there are none

Sometimes they don't come

I remembered the little restaurant and the dinner we had that night one last time as my breath slowed down and my fingers stopped twitching. I remembered crying for the first time in a long time. I remember the words he said to me as the single tear flowed down my cheek, and my eyes closed in blessed reprieve.