My Type of Heroin

Cars pass by me on the street.

Their headlights outline my figure and cast a shadow on the ground. It makes me feel like I’m being followed; bad news in my business. I pull the hood of my jacket up and stuff my hands into my pockets.

Lights make me uncomfortable. Not because they’re bad or I’m afraid of being recognized, because they’re not bad. Lights are the only safe thing that I could always rely on, and there’s no way I can be recognized—I’ve done too good a job at changing myself. No, the reason lights scare me is because they are good and they reminded me of safety…two things that I can’t have.

I signed up for this, I remind myself. I knew the consequences; they went over them in rigorous detail. This is exactly what I had been working for these past years. This is exactly why I quit my job and dropped off the face of the planet. This is why my family thought I was dead; why my mom cried herself to sleep at night; why my dad drank himself happy at a local bar. Everything I’ve done is for my big brother.

Sirens wail in the distance and I turn my head so my hair falls in my face. I wonder what they told my parents. I wonder how I “died.” What did my grave stone look like? Was I buried alongside my family? I turn into a dark alley and nod at a couple I pass. They’re headed for their home, their marriage “saved.” But really, it saddens me to see them. The guy has slept with dozens of other girls, and the girl has become anorexic. They’ve given everything for this life, and what has this life given them in return?

“Ems,” the big black guy at the door of the club greets me.

“Jarvis, my man, is the boss in there?”

“Better question would be is the boss not in there. You know he doesn’t like to leave.” I chuckle.

“He’s addicted to his business.” There is a two sided meaning to that sentence.

“Ah, yes he is. Go on through,” he motions me on and I push through the metal doors of the club. I walk down the concrete steps and into the boss’s “haven.” People are everywhere, moving in a way that only somewhat resembles dancing. Smoke fills the air. Rainbow lights twirl around the room as strobe lights make my vision flash in and out. The people are talking loudly so that they can be heard over the pounding bass of the music. It hardly helps. It’s too hard to hear—too hard to breathe. Too many heated bodies in one small place. It almost makes me feel claustrophobic—almost.

“Lane!” I say while opening my arms and smiling. The big muscled man smirks up at me from his spot on the couch. Across from him is a well-dressed man in a business suit. They sit in a corner of the club; they’re the only ones sitting on the two couches, facing each other.

“Ems,” he says as a welcoming, which means that I can proceed. I sit beside him on the brown leather couch and pull my legs up beside me, pressing my body against his.

“Hey babe,” my voice is fake and bubbly. If I had a piece of bubble gum it would make my act perfect.

“Em, this is Mr. Harris. We’re going to be going into a partnership. Mr. Harris, this is Emery.”

“I’m his whore,” I supply, outstretching my hand to him. He takes it and shakes it firmly. A hand shake can tell you a lot about a person. If his hands are clammy, then you know he’s a puss and you shouldn’t waste your time. If his shake is weak, then you know he’s up to no good, he wants you to feel like you’re in the position of power. If his shake is too firm, then you know he is over-compensating for something. If he gives it one good shake and just the right amount of firmness, then you know you’re going into the right partnership.

The man laughs but I can tell it is faked by the scrunching around his eyes. I look over to Lane who is watching me expectantly. “I like him,” I tell him. He nods, his expressionless face giving way to a smile.

“Mr. Harris, the girl approves, seems like this will be a good partnership.” He stands up to shake his hand. It’s all for show, really. He waited for my opinion because he knows that I’m good at reading people. He knows that I know that what people don’t show on their face, they show in their body language.

I went through lots of...uh, experiences. That’s what has made me so good at reading people—lots of past experiences and life changing events. Good thing to know, how to read people. You never know when it will come in handy. Either when…uh, working at a respectable job or ten feet under the city where cops would die to know the location.

The suited man scuttles out of the club. I watch him leave, still not sure what to think of him. His handshake was right, but the way he carries himself is so wrong. It’s like he can’t decide how he wants to be.

“Ems.” Lane comes up behind me, putting his arms around me and smelling my hair. “You smell good.” He leads me away from all the hot bodies and blaring music, through a back door and down a hall way. He takes me to his room and plops me down on his bed.

He pulls me close and kisses me intently, like I’m oxygen and he’s gone without for the whole day. I think that’s what I am to him; I’m his fresh air. He spends so much time locked up in this smoke-filled club that when I came sauntering in off the streets, he couldn’t help himself. I was his connection to the outside world, the world he’d hidden himself from. Every man wants what he cannot have. Lane is no exception.

His lips leave me mouth to travel down to my neck. His hands find the zipper of my jacket. “Lane,” I groan, pulling away. He lets me go, breathing heavily. No matter what I say, what I do, I’m still myself deep down. Under these trashy clothes and hair cut, I’m a person with authority and respect. Just not down in these clubs, and honestly, not above these clubs because…I’m dead…remember?

Lane leaves the room without a word, closing the door behind him. I sprawl myself out on the bed. The air is easier to breathe back here. I sigh, closing my eyes. I try to tune out the noise and think back to a time when my parents were proud of me. A time when everyday I was at work, I was protecting my country. A time when I was honest to myself, saying what I wanted, saying what I meant.

I slowly drift off to sleep, my long day tugging at my consciousness. Thoughts of my parents, my family, my friends, they all spin around in my head. Thoughts of my ex-fiancé threaten to resurface, but I push them back. Memories of getting up before the sun every morning and putting on a uniform, going off to a job that I believe in with all of my heart. I fell asleep without a care for the world I live in now.

I wake up to the room being just as dark as when I was asleep. I know its morning because I wake up at six o’clock no matter what. It had been hardwired into my brain for years. I drag myself out of bed and to the awaiting shower. I scrub ferociously at my skin with a cloth. I feel like there is a constant layer of grime that will never come off no matter how much I scrub at it.

I exit the shower, my skin pink and raw. I pull a towel through my wet hair, turning and seeing my reflection in a mirror. Sometimes, it’s hard to recognize yourself, even though you know that you’re still there. Sometimes, it’s hard to understand why you’re where you are. I turn away from the mirror, refusing to critique myself. I scrunch the remaining water from my hair and let it fall down my back in soft waves. I dry myself off and dress myself.

I pull on a dark jacket and zip it up. Dark skinny jeans and a pair of converse, clothes I wouldn’t have worn before. I thrust my cell phone into my pocket and make my way out of the club. I walk through the deserted hallway and into the club, which is covered in unconscious bodies. The smell of smoke in the air is only a few hours old.

I push through the double doors of the club and up the concrete steps, into the soft light of morning. I pull the hood over my head and shove my hands into my pockets. I walk and walk; my mind deep in thought. I find myself on the hill overlooking my parents’ house. I watch as they slowly get up and greet the morning, as my mom kisses my father farewell, handing him his coffee. I watch as my father climbs into his black Toyota Camry, already talking on his headset.

My mom goes back into the house. I turn my head to the side as my father drives by, not even glancing out of the right side window. It’s what’s right, I tell myself. Because what would happen if he saw me and recognized me? I pull a wad of cash out of my pocket and set it in the mailbox near the door. I kiss my fingers and bring them to the mailbox.

I leave the house quickly so that no neighbor has the chance to accidently spot me. My phone rings in my pocket and I open it, bringing it hesitantly to my ear. “Yes?” No answer. I pull it away from my ear and stare at the number. Numbers swarm around in my head. It’s them.

“Sorry Jan—now’s not a good time. I’m busy with stuff and probably will be until sometime in the spring. Why don’t you call back soon and we’ll set up a date when we can go shopping?”

The line goes dead and I stare at the number under the “call lost” message. They’re getting impatient, I can tell. I run a hand through my hair, looking up to the cloudy sky. Just another lousy day in San Francisco.

I’d grown up in this city. I know all the best places to get a coffee in the morning. I know what time the bus arrives in the morning. I know what streets to avoid and what people to hangout with. None of that prepared me for the club life. I take a turn, heading in the direction of the inner city.

Club life is kind of what you see in movies. It’s loud and obnoxious, and it takes a certain type of person to live it. The clubs are over-crowded and a lot of shady business goes on in the shadows. Club drugs are as easy to get your hands on as a drink in a bar. The air in the club is full of cigarette smoke, cigar smoke, pipe smoke, and drug smoke. If you’re not used to it, it can knock you out pretty well. It takes a good month to be able to stand it with a straight face.

I’ll have to say that the drinks are one of the hardest parts—all the different names and combinations. I wouldn’t last a minute working behind the counter. I give props to any girl who can strut around in booty shorts, listening to guys talk about her like she’s a slab of meat, and make any drink a person asks for.

There are two different types of people at clubs. There’s the “in” crowd and the crowd that thinks they’re the “in” crowd. There’s the lawyer or the doctor, who comes in to release some stress. Then there’s the shady businessman, who comes in to fill his pockets a bit deeper.

A car honks its horn and I jump out of the way in time to dodge the spray of water shot up from tire hitting puddle. The club life is a lot like the energizer bunny; its widly eccentric and lasts way longer than it should.