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Intro: Let me start by saying, I had reservations about posting this online, and where. Although no names are mentioned, some of the stuff in this, as well as the next post of this story, the part on Saturday, is not quite for the easily offended.
So, because this does, overall, tell the story about my frined, who I did love while we were growing up, and now, well, almost as much. I did promise him that I'd never tell anyone else about the story.....
So, this is the story of one weekend, quite recently.
Contains mature, homosexual content, also depicts scenes of addictive regulated substances (i.e. "drugs").
08 Feb 08, Sunday
Wow. It was less than 2 days, but it was a 2 decades of mass insanity packed into a tight little bundle.
Let me start out saying that crack cocaine addicts, (a.k.a. crack-heads, spelt krked,) are, entertaining to watch and be around. Not just funny, outright gut-blowout-ly amusing—unless it’s your friend you’re watching, then it’s just sad. The balance of the time, though, they're desperate, maddening and obsessssed. Now hold on: who, in their right mind, would have the audacity to say say that krkedz are entertaining? Aren't they dangerous and disgusting? Aren't they carriers of great plagues and pestilences? Yes, that is generally true, as well. But in this case, I'll explain further.
It's the obsssssessssed bit that is the key in understanding the mind of the krked. Addicts are, at large are obsessssed, compulsive people. That demon voice in their head talks, well, much louder to the full-blown addict than to the "normal" folks. His hit, that first good pull, is all that s/he's looking to do. That chase is what motivates.
The heroin ( H., junk, smack, et al.) addict isn't so entertaining. H. will cause the user to "nod", pass-out basically. That's great for him, he now thinks he's Jesus, and immaculately concepted, but that's not much fun for the rest of us watching you flop around like a wet dishrag.
The krked is different. S/he doesn't nod, these folks are fully awake, fully up and moving around. As soon as they do that first hit, the search is on.
The krked is first looking for other people to barge in at any time--generally it's the cops, or more likely the DEA, raiding the place, or it's a spy, or scout, or nosey landlord, or, as in our particular case, the landlord's son.
After smoking a few hits, the krked is now looking for those tiny bits of rock that "were there just a second ago", what happened it it? It must've fallen down somewhere, so now s/he's on all 4s picking up every bit of plaster, and lighting it to see if it's melting. If it melts, it's real rock, not sheet rock.
After that last fateful hit, then we're searching again. For money--monies to give “his man” who's on speed dial. In fact he’ll have a virtual rolodex, a whos-who of the local krak peddling circles.
That brings up the next search, for the dealer who he doesn’t owe money to, or who he can con into “fronting.” Dealers do indeed take credit, but up to a point. And like the regular world of finance, some have more credit, or “juice” than others.
The search goes into the pockets for a fifth, sixth, seventh time, hoping that a 20-spot has magically appeared inbetween the last search of the pockets.
The search goes to the floor for more rocks and sheetrock to check. By now, discolored past the white it originally was.
S/he searches the “stem” for any remaining residue on the inside of the pipe, that maybe got missed the first 15 cleeenings of the glass dick.
The search goes to look for those who might want to get high with her-him. Search for your pants cause you took them off when you like to get high, search for the car keys, the license, the what-have-you to get another person who’ll get high like that with you.
“The search is on…” could just have easily have been the name of this piece, but that describes the life of every addict. The life of this particular addict, K-., an old friend of mine, is beyond the simple search.
It’s important to give the preceding information so that once can comprehend, and assimilate the events transpiring in the following paragraphs.
Our story starts on Friday after work. I left work at about 4pm, cause I got all my work done a little early. I was so excited about seeing my friend, that I almost forgot to do a few things atwork. I felt nervous, and anxious, and excited about seeing him. I was also feeling good, looking forward to seeing K-. I had only recently heard about the where-abouts of this friend, whom I haven’t seen in neigh upon 20 years. I was very anxious about seeing him, and so looking forward to seeing him after all this time. I wanted to confirm the rumours I’d heard about him were true.
Not, of course that he was dead. I knew that rumour was amyth, because I’d stopped-in to see his old man ostensibly about the details related to his nearly-mint red ’63 T-Bird. At that time, My ex-partner owned a white, condition 3 (a 20-footer, no 25, three tons of it), ’64 Bird. Gave us common ground. At the time of that meeting, I’d asked him About my friend, K-. His dad then was cordial enough, now civil. He wasn’t always that way, generally a harsh master, it appears that his stint in jail has chilled out his disposition. K-.’s dad told me how he was doing: “K-. is just being K-.” Hmmm. I’m sure. Please do tell him I’m asking about him. I hope he’s doing well. Of course he never got the message.
The rumor I was thinking about was whether or not he was gay. I was hoping he was, and that he’d be willing to get busy. I’ve always had a crush on him, most cause he had an awesome body, a swimmer’s build, which was very hot, and had a good looking face. I used to workout with him in his basement when his dad wasn’t there. I got so hard working out with him on the bicept curls exercise. At the time, though, I was too shy, and wasn’t honest about my sexuality. I should say publically honest. Neither, it turns out, was he—more-or-less.
I arrived at his work around 5 pm. It’s a petrol station with a small convenience factor to it. Pulled up to the gas pump, and went in to get gas. Immediately I was shocked. He looked like he was 48,9,50-ish. Wow. Time had not served him well. As I described it to my roommate, he’s “weathered”—people who work in the great our doors (roofers, carpenters, et al.) get that. His body still looked hot, as near as I could tell under the uniform shirt.
We started talking immediately, but there was customers coming in so it was distracting, and annoying, because we wnted to talk, and catch up. I felt goor, and natural to be with him again. The person I knew was there, talking with me.
He introduced me to an associate, J-. who was had been standing there. He’d bought K-.’s camper, and was planning to use it as his living room. . He left about 6.
The search starts. He was not kidding about doing a rock. The search goes to funds. He needs a 20. I offer 10 of my dollars. He has 6. He decided that, at that point, the proper copurse of action is to “borrow” $20 from his drawer. Of course, he left an IOU for the amount. First, I will say, he did try the credit machine. It wouldn’t accept his bank card. He thought the bank server wasn’t communicating, or what have you, when in fact he only had $8.48 available in funds. The atm machine was later specific about that. So, my 10 now gives him cigarette money basically.
About 7:20 pm his Man arrived, right before I was going to go to the packy.
I ran to the packy, 500 yards away. I got a modest 40 of Steel 211 for me, and 16 of Natty Ice for him. I come back and the “piece” is set-up in the stem.
Before I mention about my blast, I’ll give a quick primer on a few important of the bits of merchandise sold at this store. There’s of course rollers, rolling papers, of different dimensions, flints, blunts, phillies, et al, in addition to the glass rose holder, the “stem”, and Chore Boy Steel Wool pads. All the makings of a good head stop, at the convenience of my friend. So, with the items for sale, he’s enabled in his quest.
He’d taken his first blast, and was off. He said mine was waiting. It was small, as to be expected, but you don’t need much. I think the main reason I took a hit was just to assure him I wasn’t a cop. I do get a rush from it, and it perks me up and I’m talkative and alert…until it wears down, and the paranoia starts to work on the brain. I think the other reason why I do the small amount that I do is so that I can remind myself how much I hate it, and hate the people, and situations that one finds when dealing with this beast. Usually, I find that I gradually dislike intensely the people I meet who I find on these runs. Occasionally I find the notable exception in this croud of rabble. Generally this time was the same, with the possible exception of one soul of sanity that kept it all in perspective, and light; but I get ahead of my story.
At this point, it’s been planned, completely unspoken, that I would not be doning $10, my fair share’s worth, but more like, oh 7.50’s worth, give or take. Enough to prove conclusively that I’m not a cop, but yet enough to get high. So now I’m off, and rushing on my run, and I do indeed feel like Jessuss, son, and I guess, bbbbbbut I jjjjjjust don’t know, an’ I gggggessss, bbbbut ii jjjussss donnnn knoooow,,,,at the petrol. Station. I’m good for like 5 minutes, and now, it starts coming back to me: WHY I hate this shit. I want, no, NEED more.
I go back into the storage closet where the stem is kept. I’m now picking at every little bit of white thing that looks like rock. I know theres more here from all those other rocks cut in that spot. Another hit. I watch the store as he goes back to do that tiny small sliver he saved for his last blast. I’m already sick of it, bringing back all those memories of those nights spent, back when, when there was a lot more money available for the long-duration-run, and I wasn’t paying for my shares, through whatever means I needed, or were available. I was, I thought, a short duration saviour. I can’t save you, however, I can’t even save myself. My friend was around from back in those days too.
At 9pm, we close up shop, after an annoying steady dribble of customers buying whatnot. I was able to see some old acquaintences, those off for a night of gambling at one of the local casinos, a scant few miles up the road.
We remember to take the stem, I grab it, and stash it safely. We’re not carrying anything illegal at this point. We take off to go to his house.
By calling it his house, it’s only mean to suggest, the house he was staying at for a period of time where he was also making repairs on said house. This house is owned by his ex-fiance, I gather. They were not engaged long, and I did not get much of the succession of events but one thing is clear. He did a lot of work on the house, and there is a dispute of money versus rent, versus work done.
I will try very hard not to get into any of the specifics about money, because (1) I don’t care (2) I don’t know any, (3) I don’t care, (4) the less I know the better, (5) I don’t care, and did I mention that I don’t care, and don’t want to know? But of course, I still got to hear about it, getting embroiled into his personal affairs. The search is on…and I don’t care. Except I’m going to be hearing about them for the next 48 or so hours.
After counting his drawer, and making sure we had the stem, we went on our way to the house of S-., his ex fiance.To this point we still hadn’t talked, and no rumours were confirmed. He did explain to me who S-. was, and why he broke off the engagement.
As we got close to the house, he told me keep going, turn-around up ahead. S-. was there, and up, and he didn’t want to see her. Apparently this was supposed to be the last day that he was allowed to keep his stuff at the house. I got to see his Jeep, at the end of the driveway.
We pulled off the road so he could call someone. He’s looking to buy some rock. The first guy doesn’t want to talk to him. He doesn’t have any cash left. He’s got nothing to bargain with. He has no firearms to barter for rock. Four, or five, more, times he’s hung-up on. He has to liquidate. The only thing he can think of is his desktop computer. It’s a complete package, with a printer, and all the accessories, he bought it new, about a 18 months ago. He tells the dealer on the other side of the line that he’ll let it all go for $50. Within a few minutes, he thought better of it, and called his man back. He renegotiated, in some manner, up to $100 for the thing, but to the effect of half now, half later, generally.
We get back on the road. We’re talking more now, about some stuff from the old days, and interesting things. It was about a mile from the apartment that he finally confirmed what I wanted to hear. It happened in more of a build-up.
“They’re not letting me into any churches. I haven’t been a good boy, exactly.”
That much I knew already. I volunteered that my roommate, and the guy who owns the house I live in is my ex-partner. He finally told me “I’m gay.”
At the apartment, there are no keys. His keys were at the house—the one we were just at. We didn’t get them because he didn’t want to talk with S-. We need to use a credit card to get in. He’s at it for about 15 minutes, trying the Stop N’ Shop card, the bank card, the some other card… and then, after all that, he still had to ring the doorbell of the landlord’s son. It’s now about 10:30-ish at this point. This is not the first time he’s had to get into the apartment in this fashion. I get to meet the landlord’s son, which I’m not too happy about, because this means that we are now eminating heat. We are now a bit of a niusence, and we haven’t even gotten into the building yet.
The building itself was nice looking, yard decent, new siding. The neighborhood, looked fairly safe and sedate. Deceptively, it conceals a mass of dysfunction that I was nowhere ready for. True, he’s in the process of moving, so some mess, and disheaval is to be expected. Some disorganization is understandable, and what I expected. That’s not what I stepped into.
As I think back on all the places I’ve been, and what I’ve done, I try to recall the worst, nastiest, most disgusting place I’ve been to, where someone was “living,” even if only part time. If I’m honest, I’ll have to say that this was the worst place I’ve ever seen someone living in. This was one of the worse.
I’m at a loss how to begin describing this cesspit. The room we entered into, the living room, was packt full of clothes, boxes, dishes on the bed, microwave on the bed doubling as a counterspace. In fact, that seemed to be the only available counterspace in the entire apartment. Separating that room from the kitchen is a sheet. Of course he’s got a big tv, and stereo, setup in front of his beat-up comfy chair. He turns on the tv and VCR. I take off my coat.
In the corner, on a desk is the computer. It would appear that at some point there was a general order to the place, now long since gone to the winds of unmanageability. The only source of heat was a space heater, which was not very efficient.
Cans and beer bottles, displaying myriad levels of a yellowish liquid punctuated the general chaos. I picked up a half-full forty, and simply asked how long that had been in there.
“Don’t drink that,” he cautioned quickly.
“Don’t drink that,” he repeated.
Gulp, I just got a sinking feeling—“uh, this isn’t beer, is it?”
“No,” he said. “There’s no running water, so the toilet doesn’t flush.”
“So you mean that all these bottles are..”
“Yup. They all got piss in them.”
Immediately I thought of the Trailor Park Boys, and Ricky’s father who stored his plastic gallon milk jugs full of piss, stowed all over his property.
By this point the video had started. It was a guy, naked on bed, in front of camera, stroking his not-very-hard dick. There was no sound, of course. The picture was snowy, and flickered, and faded in and out. The connection was, expectedly, broken.
The apartment was cold, drafty, messy, and it was a weird situation. But still somewhat manageable at this point. K-. told me that the guy on the vid was actually him stroking himself. I have to say that his body looked good there, and it got me a little excited. This is, after all, the main reason I came over, to see him naked.
I got the computer ready to be sold.
He got a call, or made a call. His man was coming over to look at the computer, and make the deal. He arrives, comes into the apartment, while I’m doing a defrag. At this point he gives K-. a 50 rock, and tells him hell be back in about 40 minutes or so to pick up the machine.
No time was wasted in him breaking open that rock, and starting to smoke it. From that piece, I had 2 small hits. Those would be the last hits I would take; I’d reached my “when.” I’d smoke my smoke, the herb I’d brought--he could do all the rest of the shitty shit, without my help. That’s the best thing to do when dealing with a krked whose krakn, give ‘em the whole rock.
I get the computer taken apart while K-.’s taking off his clothes, inbetween hits on the pipe. Almost immediately after taking a hit, the paranoia rings in his head. He’s seeing lights. He starts the quest. He’s hearing noises, seeing lights that aren’t there. He’s puts the only blanket over the archway to the kitchen. I tell him the door’s locked. All the doors are locked. We only talk in whispers, cause he knows that talking will bring them.
I tell him that everything’s fine, and noone’s getting in, and noone cares about him. His ex-, S-., is not coming over to the apartment, she really doesn’t care that much. He stands in the archway, naked, peering through the sheet and blanket. He’s obssssesssssed over the back door, and the bathroom door, which is open.
Eventually, the immediacy of the hit wears off, that bouncing-around for 5 minutes or so is your rush. After that, he’s starting to realize he’s being foolish, and all is secure again.
He wants me to fuck him as he’s pulling from the pipe, but I know that will never happen, it’s either or, and more likely it’s the pipe that’ll win. Inbetween hits, I fondle, and caress, and lick his body. I can feel the nicotine seeping through his pours, it tingles my tongue. His body is delicious, and I enjoy a minute of two before he’s off to the chase again.
It’s all gone, and he’s on the chair back to stroking his not-getting hard cock.
I get the computer set to go. He gets the call that his man is coming by in 5. He’s gotta put his clothes back on. That’s all that I tell him he needs to be concerned about. His man comes by, and it’s showtime, as it were. There’s about 5 pieces, altogether, which three people could, should be able to handle. He’s getting his coat on while I help the man with his stuff. He get to his car, a mercedes sedan and still no K-.
“WTF?” we say. I go back into the apartment to see what’s going on. I see him in his coat, but not holding the printer, what he was to carry. He’s kinda pacing around.
I’m like “dude, and you coming down, or what? You bringing the printer?”
No reply, so I grab it and make another trip back downstairs. Put the thing in the back of his car. I offered him computer tech support if he needed it, but figured he wouldn’t be taking me up on it.
I went back upstairs. He was still pacing in the dark kitchen.
“Did he give you something.”
“No dude, he didn’t give me anything. Why didn’t you go down there with me? You’re dressed, ready to go.”
“He didn’t give you anything?”
“No, he didn’t give me anything. How come you didn’t come down with us with the printer, like you were supposed to?”
“He’s still downstairs, right?”
“No,” I say,”he left.”
“No, he’s till down ther.”
“No, K-., he took off. Why didn’t you come downstairs with us? If he had something for you, then howcome you didn’t grab it?
“No, he didn’t leave…”
And on this went for the next 5 minutes untill he called his man. Then that conversation went on for about 5 more minutes, where the phrase “that’s why I gave you a $400 computer, so I could…” was uttered no less than half dozen times by my recall
The short version of that conversation has me, and him, taking a drive to his house. Not exactly something that I had wanted to do. Not for the factor of fear, but for (1) the bitch-ass inconvenience of it, but (2) cause I now have his krked-ass got the dirty with him, and (3) general principles alone.
Back at the apartment, we used the back door which we left open before we left. In addition to relocking, I put a blue plastic recycle bin in front of it, as a sort of alarm, purely for the benefit of Mr. Paranoid. He’s hitting the pipe, but wants me to top him. He really loves doing both at the same time. We try that, I get it in, but he’s got to get up again, and check the back door. He won’t settle in until the last of that last rock is done. Then he sits with me, naked, and we hold each other. I’m where I’ve wanted to be for a long time. I caress and touch his body. I try to stroke him, but the drugs won’t let it stay hard. In fact, the whole night he couldn’t keep it up for any length of time. And that’s too bad, cause he’s got a nice big unit that should be hard.
It was about this time I had to tell him that if I didn’t like him so much for so long, I’d have left by now. The whole scene was not getting me off. I had to concentrate on him to look past the mass of chaos, and he couldn’t help me do that.
Our booze was about gone at 3-ish, and we decided that he could come back to my place to sleep. I was beat, and needed rest.
We got back to my place. We watched porn, and layed down together without our clothes. I cued up a string of short clips I’d downloaded. I stroked his cock, but It still wasn’t staying hard. As we drifted off, I loved the feel of his body in my hands. It brought back a lot of desires from back in the day; the musts of my lust. Brought back all the times we worked out, his skin rubbing up against mine. It brought back all the times I was so excited about lifting with him that I had to stop, because I was not longer able to contain my protuberence. It brought all those desires I had for him, the him I’ve known, maddeningly wishing that I could’ve told him that. It’s not only his body, then and now. It’s that I really liked him as a person, and had a big crush on him. I liked him as a person, and enjoyed his company. I was too shy to say anything then, and wish I did. It turns out we both would have been better off had I said something.
I fell asleep next to him. The whole night I couldn’t keep my member down. It felt like I finally had a little slice of that horney, lonely 15-year old’s heaven. I fell asleep at 5.
End part One
Once Fred Neitszche declared God is Dead, f*ck became the most important word in the English languag
This post was edited by zen on Feb 20, 2009.