2002-03-21 - 2:22 p.m.
The snow came down like ribbons of fine lace upon the windowsill of the burnt out motel room that I had found myself in. The neon sign that beckoned wayward travellers and lost souls from the street managed to fill my room with a deadened and numbed flash that seemed to pulsate almost like the heartbeat of a ER patient that wouldn't see the light of the next day. I sat on the stone bed watching the old battered TV that looked like it was from the corner of some suburban garage sale. It was broadcasting a grainy kinescoped episode of "The Honeymooners" that I had already seen. The styrofoam cup that held the coffee I had bought that afternoon with the buck I had found in the torn lining of my jacket sat solemnly on the table. The sign seemed to pulsate slower. I found myself reaching the boiling point. I knew what it was all about. I had been through this before.
I had the crave again.
I put on my old grey jacket that smelled like grass and old casino whores who wore hooped earrings from K-Mart and smoked too many Camels. I noticed the way my jacket hung like an oversized Red Skelton clown coat on my wasted frame. I caught a glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror that hung beside the velvet portrait of the young dewey eyed Mexican boy and judged my appearance. Too thin. Too pale. Too many rings under the eyes. Too many wavy red lines in the eyes. Too many whiskers on my face. Too many neglected teeth. Too many track marks on my arms. I left the stench of the hotel room to find somewhere where I could fix and leave this hell hole of faded Americana. I closed the door to my room and walked down the musty hallway to the elevator. I pressed the elevator button, realizing what a filthy shithole this really was and just how many vile fingers had pressed this same button. I was repulsed almost to the point of turning around and heading back to my room and vomiting, maybe passing out and letting the crave wear off. It was at this point that the elevator doors struggled open with sounds reminiscent of emphysema and I decided to step in.
The elevator was full of things that most people never see in their crisp, clean nouveau office elevators. There were used condoms pressed up against the sides of the wall. Cigarette butts seemed to almost reach ankle length. Old syringes puncuated the floor and seemed to stare at me and say "Don't complain about the garbage-you're one of the people that put it here". I heard the strains of Johnny Cash singing "I Walk The Line" filtering through the PA system.
"You've got a way to keep me on your side,
You give me cause for love that I can't hide,
For you I know I'd even try to turn the tide,
Because you're mine, I walk the line."
I stepped into the lobby of the hotel and saw a cast of characters that could have stepped out of an apocalyptic carnival. There was the old black man with his wispy white hair and faded tweed suit that screamed passages from the bible everytime the hookers wandered in from the street. An old woman in a flower print dress with more stains than flowers sat on a bench in a puddle of her own urine. A young man with long hair and an unhealthy complexion sat curled up and motionless in a corner. I wanted to be where he was. I wanted to feel the numbness that he felt, flowing through my veins like my own blood.
I stepped out into the long black veil of the night and walked down 14th to my first destination. I had always wondered why a pawn shop would stay open around the clock, and then I realized that the usual percentage of people that use a pawn shop probably don't start trickling in until at least after 1am. Other junkies most likely, trying to pawn off convienience store rings from chocolate eggs and cracker jack boxes. As I approached the door, I fingered the old wedding band that lay alone in my pocket. I stopped and asked myself if I really wanted to do this, if I really needed the fix that badly. My mind answered me back: "Your soul is already half-gone...and yes...you do need the fix that badly..."
