bigirl_inwv
Jan 12, 2007, 7:49 PM
Ok. I didn't add too much more. But I took everyone's suggestions and tried to incorporate them into my writing. Hope you all enjoy.
I remember that feeling, the rush that you get with the first inhalation, the first bump, the first taste. It makes you feel like you are invincible. Your eyes roll back in your head and you take it all in. Sounds become clearer, colors are brighter, smells more potent, the slightest touch of your skin can give you goose bumps all over. Your mind starts to spin. You think of things that you never thought of before. You can imagine what it’s like to fly. You are flying. I remember the stinging, the inside of my nostrils feeling like a heifer being branded. I can still feel the burn sliding down my throat after that first beautiful, white, powdery line. I remember the smell of lighter fluid, the smell of burnt aluminum foil, the smell of a rock turning to blue-gray air. I remember the fun, oh the fun. The parties, the people, the high, it was great, for a little while anyway. But more than anything, I remember the downfall. I remember the sick feeling in my stomach from not getting a fix, the paranoia of hiding all the time, the hurt that I caused the people around me. You never know what it’s like until you go through it. And I’m here to tell you, I’ve been through it. And it sucks.
I was born normal enough, my parents barely in high school, living with my grandmother and grandfather in a redneck town in southern West Virginia. We were dirt poor but we ate at night. My grandfather worked in the coal mines alongside every other male in our area. When he got laid off, there was nothing else he could do. He’d been a miner since he was old enough to have a job and at the time, mining was your only option where we lived. So we packed up and shipped off. We moved 5 hours away to another dot on the map that no one cared about. Only this time it was in Virginia and things there were supposed to be great.
I was 4 years old when I realized my grandfather was an alcoholic. The memory is foggy, like most early childhood memories are, but it is definitely still there. It was raining outside, the ditch in front of our house brimming with a steady flood of dirty water. I was sitting in the living room watching old Bugs Bunny cartoons in my Little Mermaid nightgown. I heard the rumble of my grandfathers ’78 chevy truck and then the gravel crunching beneath its balding tires.
“Get in the basement.” my grandmother said, wiping the dishwater from her hands with a stained dishtowel.
“But...” I started.
“No buts. I said go. Now.” She replied harshly.
I stood up, aggravated at not being able to continue watching Bugs outwit Elmer Fudd. I opened the door to the basement and prepared for my descent. I heard the front door turn and I stopped, looking for my grandfather to come in and scold my grandmother for interrupting my cartoons. However, when he opened the door he fell, right at my grandmother’s feet.
“Where in the hell have you been?” My grandmother screamed.
My grandfather’s reply was simply rolling in the floor laughing at her.
“Like I even need to ask,” she scoffed. “You’re drunk. You’re A drunk, a good for nothing, son of a bitch, drunk. Here we are, barely making it, barely putting food on the table, and you are out blowing our money on booze. Think about your family for once.”
She had said it. The magic words. The one thing that was guaranteed to get my grandfather’s blood boiling.
“God damnit woman,” he screamed, drunkenly rising to his feet. “Thinking about my family is what drives me to drink! I have a son living here with his girlfriend who was knocked up at 15, a daughter living here with her asshole of a husband and their 2 year old, another son that I’m pretty sure is a faggot, a couple of other strays that we managed to pick up along the way, and here you stand bitching at me over a couple of god damned drinks!” He paused and seeing me in the doorway said “What in the fuck are you looking at?”
I turned down the steps and ran.
In my neighborhood, you had to fight to survive, or I did anyway. We were the only white family on the block and some people didn’t like that very much. The two little girls across the street, Mary and Cynthia, were the only companions I had and I was lucky I had them.
“Why yo’ skin so light?” Cynthia asked me one day.
“I dunno.” I replied sheepishly. “Why is yours so dark?”
“An’ why you talk like that?” she continued.
“Talk like what? I talk just like you do.” I didn’t know what she meant. I didn’t talk funny. If anything, she was the one who talked differently.
“You sound like dem girls from Little House on the Prairie.” She giggled.
“I do not!”
“Do so!”
“Do not!!”
“Why Poppa, we was just fixin’ to go down yonder and fetch that cow so we could milk her!” she teased.
For some reason, that did it. I was fuming. It was as if she had started a fire and I had fallen head first into it. Then it just happened. I hit her. I hit her right in the mouth. I’m sure it hurt me more than it did her. I split open my middle knuckle on her teeth and she went home crying with nothing more than a bruised ego and a plot for revenge.
I waited and waited, but the revenge never came. By standing up for myself I had, in a way I will never understand, earned her respect. In earning hers, I had her sister’s respect as well. After that, you never saw us without each other. We roamed those streets like we owned them. I guess in a way we did. Everyone on the block knew Mary and Cynthia, always asked them how their father was doing. Seemed to me that they were very popular people, only I didn’t know just why they were so popular.
“It’s really hot out here.” Mary sighed, wiping the sweat beads that were falling down her forehead. “Let’s go inside and play.”
I had never been inside of their house before and I was really nervous about it.
“I dunno.” I stuttered. “It’s not too bad out here. I kind of like it.”
“Well fine then. You sit out here in this heat and I’ll go inside and play alone.” With that she was up and running before I even had a chance to protest.
“Hey! Wait up!” I cried, climbing to my feet.
By the time I caught up, Mary had already opened the door and was walking inside. Quickly, I followed her through the door and closed it behind me. I stood there for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dimness of the room. Slowly, a tattered old couch came into my vision. It was white, or used to be at some point in time. The seams had split on the arms and you could now see the yellow foam on the inside. There was a red and white crotched afghan across the back, I suppose as an attempt to make things feel a bit more like a home. In front of it sat a small, glass top coffee table. The table was covered with junk; mail, soda cans, cigarette packs, ashes from an overturned ash tray, a small mirror, and twist ties. To my left stood an old television, blaring Days of Our Lives to anyone that cared enough to listen. On top of the TV was a fish tank, with one big Oscar swimming in its murky waters. I stood there and watched him, just swimming round and round. A voice at my shoulder pulled me out of my trance.
“We used to have other fish in there too, but he ate them.”
I turned to see who the voice belonged to. There was a man, the biggest man I had ever seen. His skin was the color of rich milk chocolate, his eyes like two chunks of caramel. He had on a white tank top, tight over the bulk of his muscles, and dark jeans.
“Go ahead, put your finger in there and see what happens.” He laughed.
“Dad, leave her alone.” Mary said, coming over to grab my hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Aww…come on. I was just messin with the girl!” He said, still chuckling.
His laugh was warming, a deep, guttural laugh. Against the dark of his skin, his teeth were blindingly white. He was beautiful.
“You girls go on and play. I promise I won’t bother you.” He said, pushing us towards the kitchen. Mary rolled her eyes and pulled me into her room. We played for hours, everything that our little minds could come up with. When we had exhausted all of our options, I decided that it was time for me to return home. Walking towards the living room, I began to smell a strange odor. It was smoke, but unlike any smoke that I had ever smelled before. I entered the living room to a cloud of gray-blue hovering in the air, more of which was pouring out of the mouth of Cynthia and Mary’s father.
“Man.” Mary lamented. “Dad’s smoking again.”
“Smoking what?” I asked
“Weed.” She replied matter-of-factly.
I didn’t reply. I didn’t know what weed was at the time and I wasn’t about to tell her that I didn’t know. I just knew that standing in that room was starting to make my stomach hurt and I needed to get out.
“Well, I’m gonna go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I said, walking towards the front door.
“Alright. Bye.” She replied, turning back towards her room.
I opened the door and walked out. Their father never even noticed I was gone.
The longer I lived on that street, the more I understood why Mary and Cynthia’s father was such a popular man. He had many nicknames from many different people; Snowman, Charlie, Buzz, but I just called him Dante. I watched as people poured into the house at all hours, day and night, it didn’t matter. When people needed a fix, they needed a fix. Dante was a drug dealer. There’s no other way to put it, no way to sugar coat it. There was a demand and he had the supply. You need coke? Go to Dante. You need LSD? Go to Dante. You need meth, weed, acid, ecstasy, heroin, pills? Go to Dante. He had it all. And it was Dante that gave me my first taste.
I was 10 years old and it was a beautiful day outside. Not too hot, not too cold, just right for a trip to the park. No one was home except for my parents and me and I had been told that they were having “mommy and daddy time” and not to interrupt. At 10, I knew they were having sex and I definitely had no intentions of interrupting. So instead I trekked across the street to Mary and Cynthia’s house and knocked on the door. Dante opened it, wearing his normal white tank top and jeans.
“Well, well, well, if it ain’t that little white girl from across the street!” He taunted.
“Well, well, well, if it ain’t Dante, that old black guy who never leaves his house!” I rebutted with a smile.
“Come on in, Laken.” Dante said, ushering me inside. “The girls aren’t here though.”
“Why not?” I asked, flopping down on the couch. “Where are they?”
“They went with their Mom today. She’s buying them some new clothes for school.” He explained.
“Oh,” I said with a hint of jealousy in my voice. “I wish I was getting some new clothes.”
“Aw, you’ll be alright. I’m sure they will share.” He said. But I was barely listening. I had already changed the TV to Nickelodeon and was engrossed in the latest episode of “Rocko’s Modern Life.” We sat like that for awhile, in total silence, just enjoying the feeling of having someone else around. Then I felt Dante shift his weight on the other end of the couch. Followed by the all too familiar sound of the little plastic bag being opened and its contents lined up on a small mirror with a razor blade.
“Come here, Laken. I want you to try something.” Dante practically whispered. His voice was smooth and deep. For some reason, the sound of his voice always reminded me of honey, like the honey in the Cheerio’s commercial. Sometimes, when he was talking, I would close my eyes and imagine a stream of honey the color of amber, the sunlight reflecting from its smooth surface. I unglued my eyes from the television and looked at him.
“Don’t look at me like I’m asking you to jump off a bridge. I just want you to try something.” He said. I stood up and walked to his side. He wet his index finger and then dipped it one of the powdery lines.
“Now, this is our secret. Don’t tell anyone I did this for you, ok?” He said, looking straight into my eyes. I simply nodded my head. He sat me down on his lap, pulled down my lower lip, and rubbed the powder all over my gums.
“It’s called a numby,” Dante said. “It will make your mouth feel awesome.”
Before he had even finished the sentence, my gums began to tingle. That tingle soon spread up into my cheeks and pretty soon, my whole face was numb. Dante and I just sat there, watching TV, me with my entire face numb and, knowing now the amount of cocaine he had just snorted, Dante not feeling a thing. After that day, he might as well have asked me to jump off a bridge. My life would never be the same.
I remember that feeling, the rush that you get with the first inhalation, the first bump, the first taste. It makes you feel like you are invincible. Your eyes roll back in your head and you take it all in. Sounds become clearer, colors are brighter, smells more potent, the slightest touch of your skin can give you goose bumps all over. Your mind starts to spin. You think of things that you never thought of before. You can imagine what it’s like to fly. You are flying. I remember the stinging, the inside of my nostrils feeling like a heifer being branded. I can still feel the burn sliding down my throat after that first beautiful, white, powdery line. I remember the smell of lighter fluid, the smell of burnt aluminum foil, the smell of a rock turning to blue-gray air. I remember the fun, oh the fun. The parties, the people, the high, it was great, for a little while anyway. But more than anything, I remember the downfall. I remember the sick feeling in my stomach from not getting a fix, the paranoia of hiding all the time, the hurt that I caused the people around me. You never know what it’s like until you go through it. And I’m here to tell you, I’ve been through it. And it sucks.
I was born normal enough, my parents barely in high school, living with my grandmother and grandfather in a redneck town in southern West Virginia. We were dirt poor but we ate at night. My grandfather worked in the coal mines alongside every other male in our area. When he got laid off, there was nothing else he could do. He’d been a miner since he was old enough to have a job and at the time, mining was your only option where we lived. So we packed up and shipped off. We moved 5 hours away to another dot on the map that no one cared about. Only this time it was in Virginia and things there were supposed to be great.
I was 4 years old when I realized my grandfather was an alcoholic. The memory is foggy, like most early childhood memories are, but it is definitely still there. It was raining outside, the ditch in front of our house brimming with a steady flood of dirty water. I was sitting in the living room watching old Bugs Bunny cartoons in my Little Mermaid nightgown. I heard the rumble of my grandfathers ’78 chevy truck and then the gravel crunching beneath its balding tires.
“Get in the basement.” my grandmother said, wiping the dishwater from her hands with a stained dishtowel.
“But...” I started.
“No buts. I said go. Now.” She replied harshly.
I stood up, aggravated at not being able to continue watching Bugs outwit Elmer Fudd. I opened the door to the basement and prepared for my descent. I heard the front door turn and I stopped, looking for my grandfather to come in and scold my grandmother for interrupting my cartoons. However, when he opened the door he fell, right at my grandmother’s feet.
“Where in the hell have you been?” My grandmother screamed.
My grandfather’s reply was simply rolling in the floor laughing at her.
“Like I even need to ask,” she scoffed. “You’re drunk. You’re A drunk, a good for nothing, son of a bitch, drunk. Here we are, barely making it, barely putting food on the table, and you are out blowing our money on booze. Think about your family for once.”
She had said it. The magic words. The one thing that was guaranteed to get my grandfather’s blood boiling.
“God damnit woman,” he screamed, drunkenly rising to his feet. “Thinking about my family is what drives me to drink! I have a son living here with his girlfriend who was knocked up at 15, a daughter living here with her asshole of a husband and their 2 year old, another son that I’m pretty sure is a faggot, a couple of other strays that we managed to pick up along the way, and here you stand bitching at me over a couple of god damned drinks!” He paused and seeing me in the doorway said “What in the fuck are you looking at?”
I turned down the steps and ran.
In my neighborhood, you had to fight to survive, or I did anyway. We were the only white family on the block and some people didn’t like that very much. The two little girls across the street, Mary and Cynthia, were the only companions I had and I was lucky I had them.
“Why yo’ skin so light?” Cynthia asked me one day.
“I dunno.” I replied sheepishly. “Why is yours so dark?”
“An’ why you talk like that?” she continued.
“Talk like what? I talk just like you do.” I didn’t know what she meant. I didn’t talk funny. If anything, she was the one who talked differently.
“You sound like dem girls from Little House on the Prairie.” She giggled.
“I do not!”
“Do so!”
“Do not!!”
“Why Poppa, we was just fixin’ to go down yonder and fetch that cow so we could milk her!” she teased.
For some reason, that did it. I was fuming. It was as if she had started a fire and I had fallen head first into it. Then it just happened. I hit her. I hit her right in the mouth. I’m sure it hurt me more than it did her. I split open my middle knuckle on her teeth and she went home crying with nothing more than a bruised ego and a plot for revenge.
I waited and waited, but the revenge never came. By standing up for myself I had, in a way I will never understand, earned her respect. In earning hers, I had her sister’s respect as well. After that, you never saw us without each other. We roamed those streets like we owned them. I guess in a way we did. Everyone on the block knew Mary and Cynthia, always asked them how their father was doing. Seemed to me that they were very popular people, only I didn’t know just why they were so popular.
“It’s really hot out here.” Mary sighed, wiping the sweat beads that were falling down her forehead. “Let’s go inside and play.”
I had never been inside of their house before and I was really nervous about it.
“I dunno.” I stuttered. “It’s not too bad out here. I kind of like it.”
“Well fine then. You sit out here in this heat and I’ll go inside and play alone.” With that she was up and running before I even had a chance to protest.
“Hey! Wait up!” I cried, climbing to my feet.
By the time I caught up, Mary had already opened the door and was walking inside. Quickly, I followed her through the door and closed it behind me. I stood there for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dimness of the room. Slowly, a tattered old couch came into my vision. It was white, or used to be at some point in time. The seams had split on the arms and you could now see the yellow foam on the inside. There was a red and white crotched afghan across the back, I suppose as an attempt to make things feel a bit more like a home. In front of it sat a small, glass top coffee table. The table was covered with junk; mail, soda cans, cigarette packs, ashes from an overturned ash tray, a small mirror, and twist ties. To my left stood an old television, blaring Days of Our Lives to anyone that cared enough to listen. On top of the TV was a fish tank, with one big Oscar swimming in its murky waters. I stood there and watched him, just swimming round and round. A voice at my shoulder pulled me out of my trance.
“We used to have other fish in there too, but he ate them.”
I turned to see who the voice belonged to. There was a man, the biggest man I had ever seen. His skin was the color of rich milk chocolate, his eyes like two chunks of caramel. He had on a white tank top, tight over the bulk of his muscles, and dark jeans.
“Go ahead, put your finger in there and see what happens.” He laughed.
“Dad, leave her alone.” Mary said, coming over to grab my hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Aww…come on. I was just messin with the girl!” He said, still chuckling.
His laugh was warming, a deep, guttural laugh. Against the dark of his skin, his teeth were blindingly white. He was beautiful.
“You girls go on and play. I promise I won’t bother you.” He said, pushing us towards the kitchen. Mary rolled her eyes and pulled me into her room. We played for hours, everything that our little minds could come up with. When we had exhausted all of our options, I decided that it was time for me to return home. Walking towards the living room, I began to smell a strange odor. It was smoke, but unlike any smoke that I had ever smelled before. I entered the living room to a cloud of gray-blue hovering in the air, more of which was pouring out of the mouth of Cynthia and Mary’s father.
“Man.” Mary lamented. “Dad’s smoking again.”
“Smoking what?” I asked
“Weed.” She replied matter-of-factly.
I didn’t reply. I didn’t know what weed was at the time and I wasn’t about to tell her that I didn’t know. I just knew that standing in that room was starting to make my stomach hurt and I needed to get out.
“Well, I’m gonna go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I said, walking towards the front door.
“Alright. Bye.” She replied, turning back towards her room.
I opened the door and walked out. Their father never even noticed I was gone.
The longer I lived on that street, the more I understood why Mary and Cynthia’s father was such a popular man. He had many nicknames from many different people; Snowman, Charlie, Buzz, but I just called him Dante. I watched as people poured into the house at all hours, day and night, it didn’t matter. When people needed a fix, they needed a fix. Dante was a drug dealer. There’s no other way to put it, no way to sugar coat it. There was a demand and he had the supply. You need coke? Go to Dante. You need LSD? Go to Dante. You need meth, weed, acid, ecstasy, heroin, pills? Go to Dante. He had it all. And it was Dante that gave me my first taste.
I was 10 years old and it was a beautiful day outside. Not too hot, not too cold, just right for a trip to the park. No one was home except for my parents and me and I had been told that they were having “mommy and daddy time” and not to interrupt. At 10, I knew they were having sex and I definitely had no intentions of interrupting. So instead I trekked across the street to Mary and Cynthia’s house and knocked on the door. Dante opened it, wearing his normal white tank top and jeans.
“Well, well, well, if it ain’t that little white girl from across the street!” He taunted.
“Well, well, well, if it ain’t Dante, that old black guy who never leaves his house!” I rebutted with a smile.
“Come on in, Laken.” Dante said, ushering me inside. “The girls aren’t here though.”
“Why not?” I asked, flopping down on the couch. “Where are they?”
“They went with their Mom today. She’s buying them some new clothes for school.” He explained.
“Oh,” I said with a hint of jealousy in my voice. “I wish I was getting some new clothes.”
“Aw, you’ll be alright. I’m sure they will share.” He said. But I was barely listening. I had already changed the TV to Nickelodeon and was engrossed in the latest episode of “Rocko’s Modern Life.” We sat like that for awhile, in total silence, just enjoying the feeling of having someone else around. Then I felt Dante shift his weight on the other end of the couch. Followed by the all too familiar sound of the little plastic bag being opened and its contents lined up on a small mirror with a razor blade.
“Come here, Laken. I want you to try something.” Dante practically whispered. His voice was smooth and deep. For some reason, the sound of his voice always reminded me of honey, like the honey in the Cheerio’s commercial. Sometimes, when he was talking, I would close my eyes and imagine a stream of honey the color of amber, the sunlight reflecting from its smooth surface. I unglued my eyes from the television and looked at him.
“Don’t look at me like I’m asking you to jump off a bridge. I just want you to try something.” He said. I stood up and walked to his side. He wet his index finger and then dipped it one of the powdery lines.
“Now, this is our secret. Don’t tell anyone I did this for you, ok?” He said, looking straight into my eyes. I simply nodded my head. He sat me down on his lap, pulled down my lower lip, and rubbed the powder all over my gums.
“It’s called a numby,” Dante said. “It will make your mouth feel awesome.”
Before he had even finished the sentence, my gums began to tingle. That tingle soon spread up into my cheeks and pretty soon, my whole face was numb. Dante and I just sat there, watching TV, me with my entire face numb and, knowing now the amount of cocaine he had just snorted, Dante not feeling a thing. After that day, he might as well have asked me to jump off a bridge. My life would never be the same.