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.
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.
posted by tui at 10:24 PM
10 Comments:
i fear
the man
with the blue
blue eyes.
"death has blue eyes"
Once again I feel priveleged and lucky to be where I am... my pharmacist is an urbane west Punjabi who I practice my Urdu on and who discusses publishing his PhD thesis with me...
I walk around in a new-found mania hoping hoping hoping that some fucked up piece of junkie scum will pick a fight with me...
You write a year ago that by May 2007 you wanted to be free from Methadone. I dont know how close you are to finishing all I can say is.. how is awesome is it when you achieve your goals
You are an amazing person Tui.
Mel.
Melissa.. I'm still a couple of weeks away... Still detoxing...
It's funny, I don't remember writing that. Sometimes if you just write it down it happens. Your subconcious gets to work.
Try it.
I've done it for all sorts of things before. Something that seems just out of reach. You can pull it closer easier than you think.
Thanks for commenting..
t
let me know when the book comes out. (ps, you'd better write one. you have such a way to say things...)
Hey I'm glad I found your blog. We have a lot in common. My magic figure is £40 = 1g heroin and a nice lump of crack to snowball it up ... I won't go on ... am going back to your blog now. You're one of very few people who still use (rather than the "junkie" bloggers who are actually clean) and has something to say so congratulations!
Found you via Raymi's btw.
BTW how do you find the methadone? I've been on a script for 5 years (but I still use on top quite a lot). I was talking to someone the other day we both agreed it can hold you very well if the dose is right but don't you feel flat - drab - empty on it compared to heroin days ??
Gledwood- actually, for the past couple of months I haven't used at all. Except for done, which doesn't count because I hate it. 40 pounds for a g is wow. London prices? When I was lucky I could get half a g for $100 (Canadian) but usually it was $130. So I'd always buy quarters for $60. Here in NZ it's even worse. It would cost me 100 bucks for a decent shot.
But that's all in the past now. I hate the methadone, it makes me sleep way too much, sluggish, depressed, trapped. Hate it.
But I was also way overdosed. Because like you, I kept using on top of it, they kept raising my dose. Until I ending up on 95, and falling asleep on my feet. I felt brilliant when I just used heroin. Brilliant but terribly broke.
Thanks for saying hi-
T
I've just been put up another 10mgs I didn't want it but let them do it to shut them up prattling about why don't I try this or that way of doing less ...
Is it true btw the gear you get at home is pure white and you just stir it with the back of a works and it dissolves without even heating?? Ours is brown. It can be v strong sometimes but needs citric acid or vitamin c to break it down (unless you're smoking it which I can't feel anything off). The acid burns your veins up eventually ...
Take it easy & all the best with avoiding the u-no-wot. If you're serious about getting and staying off you could always go for buprenorphine ("Subutex" here but it's called all sorts of things in different places. It's one ingredient in the American "Suboxone".) It makes you feel incredibly clean within 1 day. It's amazing. But you cannot use on top of it. I went on it for a month but it turned out I loved my drugs too much. Oh well..!
In Canada it was always white-ish. I came across the brown once, that needed citric acid added, but didn't find it worked so well. Here in New Zealand it's another story: homebake. They do a crazy extraction process using morphine tablets and illegal chemicals to make their own heroin. Because it is pharmaceutical grade it is very clean, uncut but insanely overpriced and hard to get hold of.
t
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