Once Upon a Needle Chapter 1

Pharmaceutically ever after

The more dope Timmy plunged into his veins, the more romantic he became. It was storybook beautiful and newspaper tragic. The more he wanted to show how much he loved me, the less he could.

So he was pretty much like every other man I'd been with but at least with Timmy, the Dilaudid sometimes led to immortal moments of slow-motion magic. We could swallow the world in a drug-dried kiss of synthetic bliss - taken far beyond love on the wings of a snow white drug.

We usually shot dope in the kitchen and except for the first time, he always went first. It was like this manly rule or something. And he earned it. His tolerance for pain was most impressive, even inspiring. He had to repeatedly jab the needle into his arm to puncture scar tissue and keep his veins from rolling. I couldn't be a punk - couldn't flinch when he aimed the syringe at me.

Oh how easily the needle sank in me. It slid effortlessly through my fresh, pink flesh into unsuspecting veins. The drug squeezed me from the inside out, slowly letting go as Timmy loosened the old leather belt on my arm. Instantly everything was ... easy. The drug brought the world down to size. Made me feel like I was on top of it instead of it being on top of me.

I'd glide into the living room of our tiny Pittsburgh apartment and sit on the first couch I ever owned. Something about sinking into all that softness made me feel so ... mature. Self-satisfied. I crossed my legs, noting how tightly I could pull them to me because I'd lost 15 pounds on the opiate diet. My almost-slimness made the room just that much cleaner.

I wasn't some sloppy non-bathing junky. I ironed my clothes and put make-up on to get high. Everything in our apartment was brand-new and well-kept. We were profitable addicts. The 1979 décor was all cream colors and earth tones. Glass-topped tables. Ferns. Brand-new TV and an excellent stereo. Fireplace at one end of the room and a hardwood bar at the other. It all looked like love to me.

Home.

Meanwhile, Timmy stayed in the kitchen rinsing the syringe and securing the stash for what seemed like too long. "Securing the stash" meant putting a prescription bottle in his sock. And even if he was too high, it still only took a minute to rinse the syringe. I think he snuck another shot of the Dilaudid but I never checked on him. It wasn't like I could do anything about it. And it wasn't like we didn't have enough drugs.

I tried telling him that I didn't care how many Ds he did, but he'd just squint with suspicion, trying to be as menacing as possible while barely able to stand. He thought I was setting him up to confess and denied it. I was just trying to save him from repeatedly sticking himself. But getting over on me was part of his good time.

He came out of the kitchen like he was playing the part of someone who has his shit severly together - every move drenched in urgency and importance but drowned in the drug's ambition to render him useless.

He'd stumble toward me, always mumbling something. He'd crack a shin on the coffee table and start swearing at it. If he was really high, he'd apologize. Or he'd knock the antenna off the TV with a stray elbow. Or walk headfirst into a houseplant like a cartoon loser.

It was hard to watch even when I was opiated, but if I looked away, he'd see my eyes dropped in pity and my forehead cringing with disgust. And not disgust in a judgmental way, but the kind that makes you gag. That makes your stomach want to empty itself to make room for the dose of powerlessness looking at him forced down your throat.

He leaned into me with soft crusty lips that chilled me with a quick junkie kiss. I'd cradle his face in my hands, trying to keep his body steady. Grateful, he'd tell me how beautiful I was while staring at me with eyes safely shut.

Then, in a fit of determination, he'd head to the stereo to play his favorite song. It took several attempts for him to get the needle on the record by hand. All he had to do was push the "cue" button, but he didn't want to hear the first song. I've got to run to keep from hiding. He thought it was a tired cliché.

I cringed when I heard the scratchy blasts of music from when he dropped the needle until it finally found the right groove of Gregg Allman's "Queen of Hearts." It opens with soft horns and a lonely guitar. Allman's beautiful broken voice follows: "Once I was glad, always happy, never sad. And every day seemed like Sunday." I don't think Timmy ever had a Sunday.

After the song started, he'd stand too fast and wobble. He was in a hurry to stagger back and sing to me which meant it took twice as long. But then he'd romance my hands with a compelling grip, caressing and capturing them, needing their support to navigate the difficulties of kneeling in front of me, the whole time faintly repeating "I'm okay" to himself.

He sang to me from bended knee, his face struggling for perfect expression. His voice clinging to every note. His lips slurring every word but not from lack of effort.

When he sang his favorite line, his eyelids came up and he'd stare hard at me: "See the fact is more or less, you're gambling with your own happiness and most of your would-be friends turn out so phony." He was constantly checking to see if I was a would-be friend. Bastard.

Even with his eyes open, I never knew what he was looking at. When he was three years old, he got hit upside the head with a pipe and it permanently jarred his eye. The more drugs he did, the less control he had over the lazy eye.

It rolled to the outside corner, literally looking over his shoulder. I knew it wasn't his fault, but I hated that eye. A part of him was always sneaking away. Always off planning his next scam. Always lost.

But the good eye focused entirely on me throughout his serenade: "Oh but times they change and I'm through the rains. And I'm seein' the Queen of Hearts. Don't know where to start. Or how to stop."

Sometimes there were tears and he'd keep singing after Gregg stopped. The higher he was, the more liberties he took with the lyrics. But I was his Queen of Hearts. All doily white and construction paper pink. It was so brutally beautiful.

After the singing stopped, a sax flickered across the room and the song moved us into a heavy-headed kiss. Time to move him to the bedroom. On the nights we wanted to make love even after the fumbling exaustion of getting undressed, we'd give it our best shot, sometimes going for hours with no hope of orgasm. But we'd get so close so many times that we didn't care.

If we wanted to climax, we'd have to let the Dilaudid leave our blood long enough for our nerve endings to work again. By then we'd feel how raw we'd worn each other the night before and wouldn't want to do it anyway.

There is however, something to be said for having sex while nearly anesthetized. The same word slips from your lips: HARDER. Eyes don't open. Knees don't burn. Mouths don't taste. Noises don't matter. A perfect absence of embarrassment yields a rare, wreckless pleasure.

He'd thrust so hard from behind that he'd fuck me clear across the room until we hit a wall or furniture. I could hear my head bang bang bang against paneling but couldn't feel anything except my back arching deeper, dropping from hands to elbows, anything to get him further inside of me. When you're feeling no pain, anything goes ... and goes and goes ... .

It was superb when our tolerance for the drug was at its lowest, when we were still splitting pills, when we still tingled. I loved his newly-released-from-prison physique despite his damp, hairy skin. I loved his stories even if half of what he said was bullshit. I loved how he was always sneaking his fingers inside of me or pinching my nipples. Okay so sometimes he nodded out while going down on me. It's the thought that counts.

There was one thing he did with spectacular skill: With his bare hands and clever mouth, he made me feel sexy and smart even though I was a slightly overweight, 18 year-old high-school dropout. He told me what I wanted to hear before I even knew what that was. But where his love lacked content, it excelled in drama. How was I supposed to know the difference?

Addicts rarely rest even though narcotics make for a soft bed. We didn't stop making love so much as we just ... stopped ... moving. I'd suck my thumb while Timmy forced his back against my stomach. My mind was so deeply drug-dreaming that it seemed I never slept, just watched. My eyelids were black-velvet movie screens bejeweled with stained-glass dreams that disappeared at dawn. The instant I tried to remember them, they vanished. You don't get to keep those dreams. But you can't help but want to see as much of them as possible.

The stereo played all night while we slept, the damaged needle scraping the record's tender grooves, wearing away the highest notes long after we stopped listening - notes we'd never hear again. I never thought to turn it off. Everything seemed so ... replacable.

Innocence is the first casuality of love.