Dope

 I had to get the fuck out of New York!

I was bored. I was making more money than I needed,. and everything was readily available. Cocaine was a phone call and a twenty minute wait away. Heroin was easy to get if you can buy your connection and his wife a bag. So I was paying thirty dollars for a ten dollar bag of dope! Bad dope! It made me vomit and the itch was excruciating. I was told that quinine was used to cut the dope and that was what caused the itch, but what a pleasure it was to scratch. I seem to remember that when I 'nodded', I didn't itch. When a person nods on dope, it's living death. If you believe in nothing after death, then nothing is what you get when you nod. When you're bored, scratching gives you somethin to do. People will also understand you better because you elaborate more and you speak more slowly. Of course, the frequent pauses to scratch one's nose and drop the head to your knees guarantees the attention from your listener.

In sixteen years, I've seen a lot of body bags; I've known at least twenty-five people who have died of heroin overdoses. That's when I stopped counting. Bill lived in my hotel. He looked like Captain Kirk and played the saxophone. He knew his books.. To support his habit. he used to steal books from some of the major chains and sell them to the sidewalk booksellers that lined the streets of the east and west village, go buy his dope and return to the tables to nod and scratch. His great ambition in life was to be able to shoot up three bags and see if he survives. He didn't.

Kenny was a celebrated musician in the village. He had charm, looks and talent, was good to everyone and everyone loved him. He was also a heroin addict. Kenny's mother played the piano for their church, and music played a major role in his upbringing.