Going home

“We could stay here, how much money you got left?” My friend Kevin says as we walk down under the Venice sign in Venice Beach. Sedate, he looks around taking in his first time in Los Angeles, but not California. The heroin has something to do with his leisurely manner. “I don’t have much, a few hundred.” I speak. “I have about the same, but we could make it work. Stay here?” He says this in a joking manner but with a hint of seriousness. I scoff first and then say, “Eh, these fucking desert people, sometimes I think we’re just too different.” Every drug addict has a what could have been moment here and there. I see Kev is having one now. I’m surprised he was even able to swing coming out here, usually all his money goes in his infected looking arm. What a guy. Not to worry, last night I made the trip downtown and did my walk across the financial district to skid row. The Mexican I usually get it off hasn’t been answering, where I’m from that means he’s either dead or in jail. I wanted a new dealer anyway. That guy couldn’t even speak English and we had to pass a phone back and forth while his friend who I never met translated. Anyway, it didn’t take long being as conspicuous as I am with my good clothing and mostly shaven face, not to mention my white skin. While walking a high school age kid gave me the eye and spit five balloons from his mouth into his hand after I signaled back. Yes. I found it. That was relatively quick. At least if they were in his mouth that most likely means they were never in anyone's ass. Not that it matters, even if they were I'd still take the dope. I relay this story and thoughts about it to Kevin which makes both of us laugh heartily. Now we are on the Venice boardwalk and I see girls looking at us in a manner I perceive to be envious as we laugh animated and genuine. I envision they are thinking “Wow, those guys seem to have it together, I like them.” Of course, this is just what I would like to think that they think. It helps with the crippling anxiety and insecurity my heroin addiction helps kill but gradually makes worse over time. “So then I did my walk across the 110 or the 101, whatever main highway through the tall buildings, knock out my tradition of stopping and looking out to the traffic down below, contemplating suicide.” I say this to Kevin, finishing my story as he gives me an “I know what you mean look” with traces of our last mutual laugh surviving into this story. It is good to see him. I’ve been out here all by myself for the past six months. Ha. That’s all it took. Six months and I am going home. It’s getting warm back there and I miss it and everyone else. But mostly I miss the heroin and my beloved Newark. That brown or China white goodness that gives me a warm hug from the inside out every time we embrace. Combined with the crime ridden, dirty, dilapidated west ward of Brick City. My city. Paradise. That black tar shit they got out here, eh.

On the road. Luckily, I have a few of my old CD books. We pop in some Wu-Tang and start the trek to Barstow. It says that on the sign outside of LA so okay then. Going through the desert feels like Mars. We both are mostly scanning the landscape with a subtle awe and appreciation. All the windmills they have in Palm Springs. Imagine walking through that tripping on acid. I bet someone is doing it right now. Fuckers. We got to Barstow, and I immediately saw the In-n-out burger. “Bro, this place is way better than anything we got at home. We’re going.” I suddenly realized Kevin is a chef. Now I’m kind of interested in what he has to say. “I’m not hungry,” he says nonchalantly while lighting up another cigarette. “I’ll get another for later then but don’t buck if I end up eating it.” Well, about 50 miles down the road, I puke up that delicious burger along with all the blue Gatorade I’ve been chugging. For whatever reason, I’m a puker. Meaning pretty much every time I use heroin, I puke. Usually because I drink so much lemonade or Gatorade or whatever on it. So, We split the other burger later on towards the Nevada state line. He likes the burger but doesn’t give the OMG this is so good commentary I wish he did, mainly to validate how much I talked it up.

The sun has gone down and there is something that we’ve mentioned here and there but now is at the forefront of both our minds. We see the lights. Vegas. Never been to Vegas. “We could have stayed in LA by choice. Knowing us, we will stay in Vegas, but not by choice.” I say while looking at Kev. He laughs but I can see I’ve kind of made him think about being in jail. I’ve never been to jail. I always say if we got arrested together I would try to take the blame being, I have a foul to give. It just hasn’t happened yet. Not while we are together anyway. We pull into the city and drive down the main strip slowly. This is way nicer than Atlantic City. This thought strikes me with anxiety as maybe we won’t be able to find drugs. Quickly I snap out of it remembering my perfect record of scoring in a new place with no phone number and not knowing a soul. My special talent. It’s important to be good at something. “Where to?” Kevin looks right at Caesars. So I smirk to myself and pull in front of the building saying “We’re here.” “Funny, even if you were for real I’d say save the money.” “Yea this fucking Jeep eats gas bro. I don’t know if we’ll even make it back.” After saying that, Kev gives me a whatever happens happens look. We both get off on this adventure shit. Not knowing what might happen. It’s not the usual “we might die here today” that we face in Newark, but it’ll do. Motel 6 for 30 bucks a night two blocks down from the strip. Jackpot. All this careful budgeting. “Kev, we might actually make it back home if we keep…” I’m cut off by a group of guys walking up to us trying to sell us their mixtape. We don’t want their shit music. We want drugs. “Nah, I’m good on that but I’m out here on some other shit, I say. “What’s that?” The dude says. We’re looking for something, not sure what you call it.” I say this instead of using the actual words heroin because that is a sure-fire way for someone to think you’re a cop. Quickly, it’s all sorted. It’s Vegas. We go back to the room which is quickly filled up with Newport smoke, do the drugs and head to the strip. Kevin is getting pissed off that he doesn’t have any needles. He always says, “You’re wasting it” to me.” I’m a sniffer and a smoker when I have the tar out here, eh. Anyway, on the strip I end up throwing up in front of some old couple probably on vacation from Iowa and a street performer in the form of a fat guy with pink lingerie, Elton John glasses and a top hat on. What the fuck is he performing to get money? I hear a couple “Ohhhhhs” from drunk people. “Yo Bri, get all your puking done before we get to the Casino.” Keeled over with spit coming out of my mouth, I chuckled. “Okay, I’m good.” Puking on dope feels great. You snap back immediately most times. “Ay yo my man I got something that will help with that.” My eyes light up and pray that he’s talking about coke. “Yeah, white girl. White girl for the white boyz.” The man who looks like one of my dealers in Newark who got shot in the face crossed with the rapper Kurupt says in a half singing/half rapping manner. Kevin and I, being such careful budgeters, spend a lot of the money we have left over on coke. We are kind of proud of ourselves for saving some, after all, if we spent it all on coke, what would we have to gamble with. We sit at the slot machines long enough for the pretentious resting bitch face hot as shit waitress I’d like to fuck in the bathroom brings us jack and cokes. The coke has made me wired and wanting a drink but Kev is roaming around with the confidence of Robert De Niro in Casino. Roulette. He doesn’t know how to play, so talking a mile a minute I tell him as the other people at the table become noticeably uneasy. I pride myself on knowing this. It’s my sixth sense. I can sense the vibes of situations. I credit it as the reason I’ve never been arrested. Anyway, that quarter that we threw in the Bellagio fountain must have worked because Kev hit a number on roulette and we won 400 dollars. It takes arguing with him to get him to get up from playing. He won’t until I mention that we need that money for heroin because we’re going to need what we have tonight for landing gear coming off cocaine. On the way back we hit a guy up for weed and I went to sleep staring at the fan in the room, remembering all the windmills in Palm Springs, getting dizzy. Puke round three. The next morning it’s hard to get up, but the heroin helps. Today I’ll do some driving. Luckily, I’m one of those people who can just go, if I have music. And drugs. Can’t forget the drugs. “Look at us, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” Kev says. I smile while dipping my hand in the motel pool, looking up at him, squinting from the orange desert sun.

Back driving through a now different looking version of Mars, we abandon our plans to drive straight for a long time when the Grand Canyon enters our recovering minds. “We gotta see it,” I say. Who knows what the fuck is going to happen there. Well, we get there after a few wrong turns which really piss me off, being extra irritable while the coke leaves my system. Adding to the misery we stop and try to help some people who are stranded. Turns out they don’t speak English, so I call a tow truck for them and the guy offers me 50 bucks. I don’t take it. I usually pride myself on these moments but all I’m feeling is regret because that was gas and heroin money. I don’t mention it to Kevin which doesn’t stop him from asking me what the fuck I was thinking. Idiot. We get there which starts off with us talking to some kid working at the BBQ place we go to. Worst BBQ ever. Should of went to McDonalds. It fascinates us that this kid is from the Grand Canyon. He tells us he wants to move to Chicago which sends us off on a tirade of jokes at his expense after we leave. Getting to the actual Canyon we find a spot along the edge, far enough away from the tourists that they can’t see the joint we are smoking but most assuredly can smell it. Lucky them. Adds to the whole experience. That should be in the tour brochure. “I can’t believe we can just walk up the edge of this thing,” I say while getting closer to the shrubs peeking out from the face of the canyon below me. “Yea,” Kev says nonchalantly while lighting the joint with his feet dangling off the edge. I join him as the sun starts to go down. The horizon stretches so far out here, the addition of the vastness of the canyon it becomes the most vivid sunset I’ll ever come to remember. Both looking out over the landscape I say, “How long you think it’s going to take the sheltered BBQ kid to get got in Chicago?” Without missing a beat Kev says “Instantly, he’s going to trust the first person off the plane and get robbed, turned out and shot, or the plane will get shot down before he even gets there.” I laugh but it’s cut short as I’m drawn to take in what’s in front of me. The sun sets.

The next day we drove up through Southeast Utah, which is more Mars than any of the other Mars looking places we’ve been. It’s all red rock. At night, while Kev sleeps. I listen to No Quarter by Led Zeppelin. This song has always brought a calm with it to me. I have a ritual of listening to it after I surf. It adds to the “volume turned down” feeling I get from being in the ocean. Driving, I noticed there wasn’t much road to the side of me before a very steep cliff, and with no guardrail between us. It makes the experience more visceral, more primal, more real. I slow down and look out over the landscape and make out the shadows of the towering red rock formations in the distance, reminding me of Indiana Jones and the last crusade. I’m on an adventure. They don’t all have to be filled with wild stories worth telling at parties. I’m having a perfect moment.

Getting through Utah we move onto Colorado, Marveling at what and how long it must of took whoever to build this highway through the Rockies. It’s June and there is still snow on the side of the mountain the sun doesn’t shine on. The air is crisp and thin which gives me an a feeling like my equilibrium is on one of the ski lifts I’m staring at while I take very little hits off of the joint we are smoking, quickly refusing anymore in response to the intense high I get. My marijuana induced state of mind makes me concentrate super hard while I continue driving through the mountains, eventually we make it out and down into the valley. I don’t let on to Kev how hard that was and the anxiety I experienced while focusing on not crashing. He was probably happy as a pig in shit absorbing all the greatness of nature we experienced (or lived through, depending on which one of us you ask). Fucker. The rigid lines of the Rockies accompany us in the distance behind as we get further away until flat, windy Kansas.

Kansas. After long hours of flat field nothingness. We arrived in Salinas. A “city.” After some fast food that I eventually threw up we saw flashing lights in the distance. So out of place for a town like this, we verbalize to each other. Investigating, we find it is a strip club. “I bet they have top quality in there,” I say jokingly. “We have to go in” So we go. Two 20 something guys from New Jersey in a Kansas farm town strip club. I notice we don’t have any more tin foil which means we can’t smoke the tar, eh. After a not so quick trip to CVS we smoked it and go back to the little mini Vegas we found. When we walk in we get carded and immediately everyone turns and looks at us. Not rattled, we sit by the stage and are immediately swarmed by the strippers. One of them puts their pussy in my face which presents me with mixed feelings. A good feeling that a pussy is finally in my face on this trip but then remembering it’s some farmers daughter on meth pussy. Fuck it. I’ll take what I can get. In true fashion of guys on a budget, we make it rain on the stripper with the least number of teeth and head out. The motel we get looks haunted, out in the middle of cornfield nowhere on. If that’s not enough, the first thing that pops up on TV is Children of the corn.

Naturally, us Newark, NJ boys are freaked out by all the country business so we haul ass to Chicago. This is a highlight of the trip. For one, we need more heroin. It’s reputation proceeding it, Chicago will give us our adrenaline fix of the “we could get shot here” feeling we love, amplified by us never having been there before and having to truly seek it heroin out in the worst neighborhoods. The dope is powder, cheap and fire. So long, Cali tar! Eh. We buy a bunch off my man Black, who says come back anytime. The trip was half over, we had enough dope for the ride home, a relief. We headed downtown checking out the river and of course, Lake Michigan. As a surfer and ocean lover I marvel at the massive body of water. Reminding me of when I saw the Pacific in Cali for the first time, and of my beloved Jersey Shore. Afterwards, we head to Giordano’s for some deep-dish pizza, a must for NJ guys to compare to our home pies. It’s good, but NYC style reigns supreme. After driving to Winnetka, we sat on the curb across the street from the Home Alone house and compared our thoughts on the windy city. Happily, enriched by feelings combined of adventures lived, the rush of the hood, great dope and staring at The McCallister’s house, a piece of our childhood. I puke up the pizza.