1974 - A Weekend With A Junkie

I'm usually not one to shy away from an expeience but sometimes being on the outside looking in is a much more comfortabe place to be. This was one of those times.

1974 - A Weekend With A Junkie

“Johnny! Johnny!” she called again and again. We had been standing at this door for three minutes pounding on the door and getting absolutely no response. “Johnny! Johnny!”

“Come on,” I said, “He’s obviously not here.”

“No, just hang on. He’s here.” She began pounding again. “Johnny! Johnny!”

Amazingly enough, after a good 5-minutes of this incessant pounding I heard a noise form the other side of the door. The curtain covering the door-window moved aside and a face appeared. He was blurry-eyed and unshaven with unmanaged hair askew and clothes wrinkled like they had been worn through multiple nights. When he saw Roseanne a glimmer of recognition crossed his face, still swollen from sleep, and his eyes finally appeared…at half-mast. The door rattled and, after a few seconds figuring out the how his dead-bolt worked the door slowly opened about 3-inches and stopped hard, coming to the end of the security chain. I heard a loud “Whoa!” and heard a hard impact with the floor. The chain holding the door from opening fully had evidently surprised the occupant who, upon losing his grip on the doorknob, fell heavily backwards onto the floor. He climbed back to his feet and unlatched the chain. The door opened to a dark, smelly mess that was my second introduction to a junkie lifestyle. It was in sharp contrast to Roseanne’s house. After all, Roseanne’s place was neat and clean. Her windows were open to the outside and curtains were pulled aside to let in the daylight. That was in complete opposition to what I now experienced. Inside this place it appeared to be midnight.

It was 3:30 on a clear spring Sunday afternoon.

Roseanne and I had met at a Blue Oyster Cult charity concert the previous evening. I had gotten my ticket by bringing a can of Spaghetti-O’s as a donation that would be distributed to the homeless. The band was at the top of their game and were cookin’ their collective butts off onstage. “Don’t Fear The Reaper” was followed by what the band called proof that “The Guitar Will Destroy The World” wherein everybody on stage except 1-drummer and the bass-player were playing in either unison and harmony with a driving beat that made me want to get off my seat and dance. I asked the girl next to me if she was interested.

She was petite and quietly pretty. Like me she was a “hippie type” and, consequently, didn’t wear a lot of makeup. This was not unusual in this rock n’ roll crowd at the San Diego Convention Center in December of 1973. We were both about the same age, which for me was 23. She had long straight dish-water-blonde hair and lovely blue eyes. She was thin with small, pert breasts that moved freely under her top. The smell of Herbal Essence shampoo was in her hair and there was just a touch of a baby-oil scent that I recognized as a female body spray. She was around 5’2”, which made her about 3 inches shorter than me. My arm fit naturally around her waist as we headed for the floor. When we were danced out I accompanied her back to the bleachers where we were sitting. My arm wrapped around her waist and she held on to me in kind. As we sat and talked it became obvious there was some attraction between the two of us. When I left for my van she was under my arm hugging her body closely to mine as a shield from the breeze. Although I thought it was a typical pleasant San Diego evening she seemed a bit chilled. She drew closer. There was no objection on my part.

We retired to her place where we sat in comfortable conversation until one moment led to another and around midnight what would pass for romance on this night began its sensual dance. As we prepared to retire to the secret bedroom (really – secret – through a hidden door and carved right out of the hillside that made the second floor apartment, upstairs, a street-level abode) she paused in her preparations to inform me before we started anything she needed a little “taste” to feel better. I was well acquainted with the drug culture having lived on the inside edge of this sub-culture for the last couple of years. I was well associated by now and understood she wanted a second hit of something which I assumed she would be snorting up her nose…I was wrong. As we sat at the kitchen table and talked she prepared her “taste” which, after a few oblivious minutes I noticed was not going to be consumed using a mirror and straw but a bent-teaspoon, an eye-dropper which had a needle attached and a little bit of water. My attention was drawn to the needle as she held a Zippo lighter underneath the spoon and cooked her brew of what I was now pretty sure was heroin…something she casually confirmed as she drew the mixture into the makeshift syringe. At this point I announced I would have to go. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable as this scenario unfolded as my exposure to powered drugs was, evidently, somewhat more limited then hers. Needles had always, and still continue to, make me nervous. She objected with a “Hey, baby. This’ll just take a minute. It’s no big deal.” I informed her that to me it was, indeed, a big deal and not anything I wanted to witness or with which I wanted, in any way, to deal with.

“But I really need this, baby, to get better,” she said. To which I replied, “Are you sick?” “No, baby but I need this to feel just a little more normal. It’d be a lot more fun if you tried it. Come on…just once. You’ll really love it.” This last was what I was so apprehensive about. I didn’t want to love something so captivating. “No, I don’t think so. I’m going to have to leave.” I stood. She suggested, “I guess I could just snort it if that would make you more comfortable.” To which I replied, “That would be better. At least I’m used to that.” “Do you want any?” she asked as she stuck the faux-syringe into her nose and inhaled. I remember thinking ‘Oh no. She not doing what I think she is? I think she’s injecting her nose.’ I pushed the thought back, “No, thank-you. I’m fine.” She nuzzled my neck and drew me towards the bedroom. I told myself, “…she snorted it, she snorted it, she snorted it…” Making the greatest effort to convince myself I did not see what I was fairly certain I had actually seen. We retired to the back room.

We arose the next day, Sunday, at the crack of noon and spent the afternoon lazing around and visiting a couple of her friends. It was that afternoon when I met her friend Johnny. After we entered we sat for a few minutes being sociable until Johnny made some remark to which I didn’t particularly pay any attention. It was evidently some kind of code because after a short obvious comment from Roseanne telling Johnny I was not in on the secret Johnny told her he “had something in the back room he wanted to show her.” They retreated into a back bedroom which from my position appeared to be completely full of clothes, blankets, crusty dinnerware and assorted debris which, I observed, made it somewhat difficult for them to seclude themselves from my sight but with a little effort they high-stepped over the mess, on around the corner and disappeared. I could here them whispering but could not make out any words. In a few minutes they reappeared both with eyes at half-mast & moving slowly. We socialized a few more minutes during which I remarked upon the suit that was hanging from a hook on the bathroom door. Johnny replied his mother had gotten it cleaned and pressed so he could go to court the next morning looking his best. Sometime during this conversation Rosanne agreed we would pick him up early in the morning to take him to breakfast & would drop him downtown at the courthouse. I just kinda went along with this idea anxious to agree to almost anything if it would get me out the door.

Later we went out to a fast-food supper and continued to enjoy each other’s company until early evening when I had to go to practice with my current group: Sweet Rush. We finished practice around 11:00 and headed back to her house. There had not been a repeat of the previous night but I was fairly confident she was sneaking away into the bathroom to satisfy her drug needs. As she was obviously trying to shield me from this I tried very hard to ignore this because – well – I was getting…well…let’s just say I was not thinking with the larger head.

The next morning we arose at a reasonable hour, dressed and headed to Johnny’s house where we went through a repeat of the previous afternoons “Johnny!” Pound – pound - pound. “Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!” Johnny eventually opened the door this time managing to not fall although, like the previous day seemed to have to figure out the security-chain all over again. As the door opened I got a good view of Johnny: still unshaven, hair a rat’s nest of disorder, obviously still un-showered and dressed in his suit. From the appearance of the suit he had slept in it most of the night. It was a mass of wrinkles and there were new stains on his “white” shirt immediately below his chin. I’m pretty sure disgusting does not actually cover his appearance but it’ll do. He told us he wanted to make sure he was ready for us when we picked him up so he dressed last night and slept in his chair. Except perhaps for the greasy couch I was pretty sure this was where he normally slept so this wasn’t really extra effort but simply passed as an excuse for looking like hell. We left for breakfast.

I was directed to a little building in the barrio that stood alone on a lot which appeared to be the only structure still standing on the entire demolished block. Walking to the site from my van I noticed a short line, the end of which we joined. No one around me spoke English except Rosanne who, like me, spoke no Spanish. As I shuffled along I picked up a metal tray similar to the trays we had used in the Navy and placed it on the tray shelf so it could be pushed along with everyone else’s. When we came to the steam table I peered through the glass sneeze guard at the selections preparing to order. I moved forward with the line shuffling until I came to the first selection: rice. At the time I was not a big fan of rice so had intended to turn it down so I was somewhat surprised when I found a big lump of the stuff in the middle of the tray. I opened my mouth in protest but was upstaged by a large spoon full of beans. Splat! Right on top of the rice. I stood staring at my tray. Splat! Gray stuff lay on top of the beans/rice. Except for the color it appeared to have been meat at one time. I was feeling uncertain as to the digestive ability of my body to process the meal but was shuffled along with everyone else. I grabbed a cloudy plastic glass, which I filled with tap water from a faucet hanging over the end of the line simply following the actions of those in front of me.

The end of the line led to a second room, which was filled with rough-hewn wooden picnic tables all pushed together in communal long tables and benches. Johnny took a seat directly across from me and Rosanne sat to my immediate left. Taking a spoonful of food I found it tasted much better than it appeared although somewhat bland and the “meat” was stringy and tough. As we only had big spoons in which to eat I was attempting to cut a big chunk of grey matter when I saw Johnny’s head tip forward. As his head dipped down a few inches, his eyes slowly shut. He stopped, head down and peeked out of half-mast peepers. He slowly looked up at me and his face morphed into a grimace I’m sure he thought was a smile. His eyes dropped shut again. His chin dropped. As his head was attached to his chin it dropped, too. I mention this because it seemed as though the weight of Johnny’s head was simply too much for him and his head seemed to sink into his neck until it hit a tipping point and his head flopped forward, chin coming to rest in his beans. I nudged Rosanne. “Johnny!...Johnny!...Johnny!” Eventually Johnny’s eyes opened half-mast and he picked his head up, beans and rice sticking to his chin and his week-old beard. Raising his spoon to his mouth he took what appeared to be a tentative bite. The weight of the spoon was evidently too heavy to lift as it dropped back down followed by his mouth. He dipped his head to bring his mouth down to the spoon and kept right on going. “I’m ok. I’m ok.” He murmured softly as his chin hit the tray of food. After a couple of repeat performances we let him sleep.

After Roseanne and I finished we began to try to arouse Johnny. No response. After several attempts I alerted Roseanne to the time. That morning she had asked if we could go to the airport and pickup a “friend” and time was getting short. After a couple more attempts I told Roseanne if she wanted to pick her friend up we had to leave now and informed her I was leaving with or without her. This whole scenario was just getting to be too much, regardless of the effect on my sex life. She accompanied me to the door and to my car. We left. Halfway to the airport she revealed her “friend” was actually her boyfriend who was flying in from Northern California where he had been a guest of the federal government on an attempted murder and drug charge.

I informed her I would be dropping her off and going my own way.

All of this I tell only to demonstrate how, a year later, when I was heading into a Grateful Dead concert with a fresh bag of popcorn I was greeted by a young man who was obviously an “out-of-it” junkie sitting in a crouch outside the inside entrance to the auditorium. Upon observing the popcorn, asked if he could have a little. “Sure.” I answered pouring a few kernels of popped corn into his cupped hand. After maybe 10 kernels he said to me, “Whoa, man, too much.” As he murmured this to me he fell forward, the weight of the popcorn dragging him flat to the floor. A year before I would have thought he was just being funny but now I know 10 kernels of popcorn really was way too heavy.

This was my weekend living, as close to being a junkie, as I never wanted to be.

I still think my fear of needles really is a good thing…

…a very good thing.