Spring Break

Always there was the rain. Even when the skies were clear.

Blue/black and streaky at right angles to the ground, carried on the wind blowing into your face. You huddle near the door step, paint peeling onto broken shards of glass at your feet. Peeling, broken. That's appropriate, you laugh swallowing. The itching is incessant. The nose. Scratching. Distractedly with your palm, reddish/clear. The balled up tissues in your jacket pocket come out again.

Fully clothed, you feel naked.

The city is quiet in this predawn early spring morning save for the weather and distant sirens. And the occasional laugh of a drunken reveler staggering home from the bars. But she's 'cross the street, he's 'round the corner, door slams/quiet, never this block. And it's never him.

Your skin is crawling, eyes red and sore, nose running reddish/clear. More tissues. Shaking. How much do I have? Your mind races, hands paw the crunched up 20s in your jacket pocket. That's it, no more. Day? Saturday. No more 'til Monday, when the ATM 'daily' limit resets. But that's for later, worry about that later.

You wait for the footsteps, the singular silhouette, eyes darting hopefully toward shadows. Is that him? Need and sickness, anticipation and exhaustion. Check the time, always checking the time, blurry rain streaked face, wiped. 2:30. How long? An hour? Two? Seems like ten. Was it two or three hundred I gave him? Three. Maybe, head's pounding. Is he coming back? Is that money gone, down the shitter? Should I go back to the car? Did he? No, here - always here.

There he is! Walking slow, low voice, mumbling. Jeans frayed, green shirt tail hanging, dumb smile. Dilated slits. High on my dime, hopefully he hasn't completely screwed me. Quick exchange, "it's all rock, give me a bit for the effort, hook me up, yada." You hear nothing of his rambling.

As though he was doing this for charity, for friendship. As though he hadn't already taken the lion's share of what three hundred gets you, gets him. Friendship, friend? In some ways perhaps my best friend, mostly my physician, probably my killer.

Wordless, call me later, rush to the car.

Driving paranoia, the sparse traffic all cops/they all know, waiting to hit the lights/siren, end it.

Then suddenly, you're home.


Relief, euphoria, dreams, everything is perfect, wonderful. Hours like minutes. Wonderful. Like seconds. Perfect.

Until it's gone. And the racing, shaking, itching begins.

Then you better have options, better have come down, something. Something to stop the pulse from racing, heart exploding, head from pounding. You always make sure of that first, always plan for that beforehand. Except when you forget, it's not so important then. Until now. Good, it's there, six beers, twelve beers - slug 'em down, slows it down.

Sleep washes over you. It's over.

For a few hours. Until the cycle begins again anew.