Nathan’s Nickel

Prologue

The junkie’s go-to vein finally collapsed. Desperation digging would soon lead to a broken needle, and he could no longer see through the smeared blood and dirt covering his arm.

Despair: the complete loss or absence of hope.

Whatever can go wrong—will go wrong. And with a locked and loaded syringe, this really was the worst possible time.

Describing the complete contentment—the euphoria that consumes your very soul when heroin hits the receptors in your brain is like trying to explain what it feels like to ascend into heaven and be wrapped in the loving arms of God. You don’t know unless you’ve been there.

Why else would a human being pursue something so absolute in its destruction? Why would they continue to chase this dragon at any and all cost—risking death with every fix—putting aside all that they know is right and good—sacrificing their family, job, friendships, values—forfeiting their self-respect? Why?

To achieve an untouchable, utopian high. Invincibility against any and all pain. To transcend to a place where a soothing warmth blooms from deep within your body—stroking your very heart—flowing outward through your limbs where it finally rests—gently, tingling the surface of your skin.

And, to avoid a low beyond imagination—your blood turning to acid, slowly boiling through your pores but otherwise indescribable except to those who had tasted such suffering. But, to be sure, it was the antithesis of bliss and the cost of achieving tranquility.

The young man squatting behind the dumpster in the waning light had experienced his share of physical and emotional pain.

Three fractured vertebrae and a shattered femur and tailbone from a 30-foot fall. After popping 160 Milligrams of OxyContin, he had nodded off and dropped from the sill of an open window and was alive only because an old couch on the sidewalk had partially deflected the impact to his skull. He had survived shingles in his face that left him with permanent paralysis, kidney stones, the tragic death of his father, and his mother’s slow, agonizing slide into mental illness. Still, he would gladly accept any of these tragedies, even relive and suffer through their combined total, if he could just avoid being dope sick.

The junkie swallowed back the anticipatory, acidic reflux of bile and bit down on his tongue—an adopted method to steady his trembling hand. Sweat dripped from his forehead, curling around his brow and into his eye, blurring his vision. He blinked, shook his head and instinctively, lifted his arm to wipe at the burning sensation and stuck the needle into his shoulder.

“Fuck—fucking shit—FUCK!!”

The beveled tip seemed unaffected, but the needle was bent where the steel shaft met the hub. It was fixable if done carefully, and he switched the rig to his left hand, taking a few deliberate breaths to calm his nerves before using his right to gently bring it true.

He was a pure righty. Short of tasks requiring two hands, like dressing himself or washing dishes, he did nothing with his left.

For this reason, the veins in his right arm were in far better shape, and he examined the best of them before committing.

The works were new, the needle now straight and the barrel half full with the light brown salvation he’d come to love above all else. But the possibility of blowing another vein because of poor coordination or a dry hit by missing altogether was terrifying. He closed his eyes and lay his head back against the cool brick wall, praying only for steady hands. “Please,” was the word he heard himself say.

Sliding all the way down to the piss-stained, filthy ground and then balancing the rig carefully on a Coke can, he switched the belt to his right arm and cranked it down to tie off. As he flexed and extended his fingers to facilitate the tourniquets effect, a homeless man appeared at his side.

“Yo man, what you got? Hook a brotha up.”

“Beat it! Get away from me!”

“Yo—I ain’t afraid of you!”

He looked up into the eyes of this stranger—feeling none of the mixed emotions of fear or superiority once brought about when confronting a man who lived in the streets. He had become one of them—fallen—indoctrinated—the only prerequisite being an acceptance from within yourself that there was no lower place to go.

The rage came easy.

“Look, mother fucker,” he snarled, flashing a Berretta 380 from his waist, “you don’t take a fucking walk—I’ll kill you where you stand!”

He could see the gun register in the homeless man’s eyes—not fear but recognition of something greater than he was willing to take on. He backed away while talking tough and was gone.

Like using chopsticks for the first time but with far more at stake than dropping your Tofu and Shrimp, the junkie was left to fumble with the rig in his alien hand. Having selected the thickest vein at the crease of his elbow, he braced the back of his hand against his forearm and stuck the needle through his skin.

Easing back the plunger with his thumb, he gazed, longingly, as the blood rushed into the barrel—his stomach turning and spinning in time with the swirling and mixing of red and brown liquids.

There is an axis point—a converging where craving meets relief—when time slows—seems to hover—just before pushing the plunger down and being enveloped in bliss – blanketed in velvet, and floating on a light breeze in the sun, like the flower seeds from a dandelion puffball.

Today’s concoction was unique—a variation with equal parts cocaine and heroin. The intention was to hold the opiate sickness at bay while providing courage and the blinding intensity needed for the job.

It was Friday—just before 9pm, and the neighborhood grocery across the street would soon be shutting down.

The junkie knew the routine and had memorized the closing sequence of events. He watched from the edge of the alley as the fat, old man began breaking down the fruit and vegetable stand and bringing in the remaining newspapers. Next, he would stack the crates neatly, under the awning by the front steps, and begin sweeping off the sidewalk.

When he brought out the broom, he always left the key hanging in the lock on the inside of the door. And when he entered, for the last time, he would turn, lock the door, and head to the register for the daily count. He never deviated—his actions like clockwork.

M&L Market sat on the North West corner of 7th and Tasker and was the go-to store for most of the neighborhood south of Christian Street, between 5th and 9th. They sold groceries, hardware, cleaning supplies, and cigarettes and ran the lottery, including the Daily Three, Pick Four, the Big Five, Power Ball (which was currently over 200 million), and twenty plus varieties of instant scratch-off games.

The Pennsylvania lottery was big business and today was payday for most of Fat Loui’s customers. The place had been jammed all afternoon and evening.

A typical pattern for the gambling degenerates that frequented M&L was to start with 4, five-dollar instant games—step out onto the sidewalk and frantically scratch away at the cards as, one by one, they would drop to the ground—spiraling down much like the dreams of a new and better life.

There was often a stammering hesitation—a lonely gaze skyward—as they considered breaking the promise they’d made to themselves for the umpteenth time before turning back to take another crack at becoming a millionaire. The pattern would repeat itself until they were broke—losing their weeks’ pay and having to return home, yet again, empty-handed instead of with the groceries from the list entrusted to them—this now the final paper, crumpled up and thrown on the ground in disgust.

“Lambs to the slaughter,” the junkie said out loud, having the strength and nerve now to judge other addicts as beneath him.

But despite his dope-fueled sense of superiority and super-power—he was just as broke—his resources and stash now gone—his street credit exhausted, and any items of value had long been hocked or sold. He still had his apartment, but since the eviction notice and battles with his landlord had taken to climbing through a second-story window because the locks had been changed.

There was only Emily. A girl who, for reasons he could never understand—loved him and would do anything if she thought her devotion might make him feel the same way. Today, she’d be his getaway driver—though innocent and unwittingly, and at that very moment, she pulled up to the curb across the street, on time and dutifully, as she had been told.

“Keep the car running?” she had asked the previous night. “Why? What do you mean?”

“Just cause it’s a rough neighborhood,” he’d said.

He could feel the electric surge of adrenaline combined with mounting courage fueled by the speedball injection. The kettle drum thumping of his heart pulsated through his chest and head. Leaning against the alley wall, he forced a few more deep breaths and wiped the sweat from his brow with his left hand while pulling the gun from his waistband with his right.

The Barretta was a 9mm, 380 signature addition. One of the walnut grips was missing, and in several places, the barrel was scratched, and the black oxide finish worn away. It held twelve rounds in the clip and one in the chamber, but the junkie only had three bullets. He drew back the slide, loading the cylinder, and clicked the safety to the fire position. Returning the gun now to the rear of his waistband and dropping his t-shirt over the handle, he then angled off diagonally across the street toward M&L market.

This was armed robbery—but the five-year, mandatory sentence it drew if caught was the furthest thing from his mind. The junkie needed money and didn’t care anymore how he got it.

© Max Calder