Real-life

60 milligrams of methadone

60 dollars used to be the magic denomination. However much was in my bank account, existed only divided into 60s. That was 2 and a half points, 2 shots, one day of moderation, or one evening of freedom. Seems like a long time ago.

The pharmacy that I visit, daily, is small, christian-owned and run, crammed with display cabinets and knick knacks of dragons with glittering eyes and overpriced incense. It exists solely through methadone profits. The only place in town that will let us in the door. Us riff raff.

I'd swallowed my dose and turned heel when the yelling from the car park turned into yelling from the door. There, on the doorstep, the old man was being kicked. He looked up, blood running down one side of his face, from the eye. A lot of blood. I stepped backwards, through the baby blue pharmacy door frame, to the too blue eyes of the man on duty. You better call the police I said. A concerned citizen. I almost convinced myself. I could have had a savings account, with savings in it.
The woman with the large perm, the other worker, took the cordless phone in hand. Dial. I said. She didn't seem to hear. These were their customers brawling on the concrete step outside. The blue, blue eyed man ran out from behind the counter. Out, out. Pulled the fists and boots and blood apart. The permed lady holding the phone like a shield, stepped blinking into the sunlight after him. Alone, I looked around the little store. What a perfect moment to shoplift. An automatic thought, a hangover from loving someone who stole endlessly. But there was nothing I wanted, or wanted to take.
She came back in with the bleeding man, firmly. He wanted to go home, he just needed to go home and sleep it off, he said. She wouldn't let him. Ripping open sanitized wipe pads, I left her.

I secretly wrote down the license plate number of the rusty car full of yelling, on the back of a receipt, with an eye liner pencil. The policeman came then. He was the same age as us. Me, the women in the car and the man with the fists.
All of us so different.

I like that pharmacy, but I don't like the man with the blue blue eyes. I don't like they way they look at me. Just in case.

QUESTION ONE:

If you knew a woman who was pregnant, who had 8 kids already, three who were deaf, two who were blind, one mentally retarded, and she had syphilis, would you recommend that she have an abortion?

Read the next question before looking at the response for this one.


QUESTION TWO:

It is time to elect a new world leader, and only your vote counts. Here are the facts about the three candidates.

Candidate A.
Associates with crooked politicians, and consults with astrologist. He's had two mistresses. He also chain smokes and drinks 8 to 10 martinis a day.

Candidate B.
He was kicked out of office twice, sleeps until noon, used opium in college and drinks a quart of whiskey every evening.

Candidate C
He is a decorated war hero. He's a vegetarian, doesn't smoke, drinks an occasional beer and never cheated on his wife. Which of these candidates would be your choice? Decide first... no peeking, then scroll down for the response.
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Candidate A is Franklin D. Roosevelt.
Candidate B is Winston Churchill.
Candidate C is Adolph Hitler.

And, by the way, on your answer to the abortion question: If you said YES, you just killed Beethoven.


I stole this off Xiaxue. Interesting, but depressing. It only clarifies how impossible life is. Go with your gut, your heart, your pinky toe. Ignore reason at all costs.

Bits

S o s l o w.
Oh blogger.com why must ye take so effing long? 3 coats of nail polish too many. Sparkley yellow smudges on my sheets. Glamour skidmarks.

I was away. In the depths of beach and sand, cut off by the tide. Mosquitoes decorating my ankles. Dimp with every meal. Cold bracing showers, or none at all. I built up my salty layer, plump with sand.
Unfortunately I do love things like deep hot baths and internet. Telly through the night. Powdered milk is shit. I think all these whiny thoughts and a million more. But you'd never know. I just grin bigger, harder, pretending to everyone, self included I'm tough and hardy, carefree, non nitpickish. I draw the line at skiing however. Snow in my boots ugh.
This will be the year of thickening the skin. Until I'm good and outdoorsy.
Keeping it rural. Keeping it rural...

It's the NZ way. I have to fit in somewhere.

In other news, from the 95mgs of then... to the 70mgs of now. Takes a long time doesn't it... This number marks a halfway point. When I hit 45mgs I will be low enough to do a rapid detox at home. A strange thing to be excited about. I'm just so impatient. Hurry up hell.

Conversationally

MONDAY MORNING, A WEEK AGO

The phone rings.

-Hello.

-Hello, is that you Tui?

-Yes.

-Oh hello Tui, it's Jenny, from the methadone clinic in Auckland. I'm so sorry I didn't get your email in time to organise takeaways for you. Did you still manage to get away for the weekend? I just felt awful about it. You see that's why you'll be so much better off with a doctor in your hometown, there won't be these silly hiccups if you need a take away dose or a transfer at the last minute.

-Well, don't worry about it. I mean, I only gave you one day’s notice. Thanks for everything. I mean it.

She talks fast, seems as anxious as I feel. Very sweet. Proper. Well spoken. A lady. I’ll miss her. But rules are rules, and I have to be prescribed the methadone from a local clinic. The only local clinic.

.........................................



WEDNESDAY MORNING LAST WEEK

The phone rings.

-Tui. You rang?

-Mary, is that you? (Mary is from my new methadone clinic)

-Yes.

-Oh, hi! How are you?

Silence.

-Uh... I have the opportunity to meet with a recruitment agent, for work, in Wellington on Tuesday next week.

Silence.

-I was just wondering… If maybe, I mean, I know it's short notice, but I can get a lift with a friend this weekend. I'd just need takeaways for three days, or else a transfer, so I could pick up my methadone from a pharmacy in Wellington.

Mary starts laughing...

-Tui. It's MUCH too late. You have to ask me by TUESDAY each week. That's when we have our meeting to decide takeaways and transfers. TUESDAY.

-Okay, well… thanks anyway.

...........................................




MONDAY AFTERNOON

I call Mary ….and even manage to get hold of her, first call. This is an achievement.

-Mary speaking.

-Hi Mary. It’s Tui.

Silence.

-Tui Cyr.

Silence.

-I’ve been invited to a friend’s bach this weekend, in Awaroa. I was wondering if you could ask at tomorrow’s meeting if I can
get two days of methadone to take with me.

Silence.

-There won’t be any pharmacies, it’s too remote. So I’d need to take it with me.

-Isn’t that Easter? (finally she talks!)

-Well, yes.

-She laughs. Tui, Easter’s been DECIDED. We’ve already DECIDED everything for Easter. The pharmacies have already been FAXED. There’s just no way. Easter’s COMPLICATED.

This time I don’t say thanks. I can’t. I can barely say okay. And press the off button on the phone hard, my thumb trembling. Stupid fucking cunt. Bitch slut. Fucking whore. Laughing in my face. I want to kick her in the head. And this is the person I’m supposed to “open up to”. My drug counsellor. What a fucking CUNT.