Hesighed, turning from the register to say, “Vin, man, it's not reallywhatyou said, even though that in itself was pretty fuckin' ignorant andinsensitive, if I'm bein' honest—”
“Whatever,”I mumbled, rolling my eyes while also knowing how right he was.
“Yousound really jealous,” he said, cutting to the chase. “All this stuff you'resayin' and doin', man, you just sound resentful and it's rubbin' us all thewrong way.”
“Us?”
Heshrugged, then nodded apologetically. “I love you, man, but ... the way you'vebeen ...” He grimaced. “We don't like it, and if I’m bein’ real here, we'reworried.”
“Worriedbecause I made a joke about my sister having my brother's baby?” I snickered asthe smallest part of me—the one unaffected by grief and depression and naggingaddiction—begged to ask him for help.
“Goddammit,man, no! You know exactly what I'm talkin' about!” He stared at me, wide-eyedand bewildered, as he shook his head. “You gotta get your head outta your ass,Vinnie. Before it's too late.”
Ipulled my pack of smokes from my apron pocket and clapped a hand over his shoulder.“Well, I'm gonna go have a cigarette. Good talk.” Then, I hurried from behindthe counter and rushed outside before he could say anything.
Guiltwas a heavy burden to carry and my shoulders were sagging with the load. Icouldn't understand how I could be so desperate for their care and affection,while simultaneously pushing them further away. I hated myself. I hated mystupid mouth and stupider brain. I was losing my control and the more I triedto hold on, the more slippery it became.
Cigarettesweren't cutting it.
Igroaned, pushing my head back against the building and sucking hard on thecigarette in my mouth. It was tasteless, useless, and worthless, but I suckedand sucked anyway. Filling my lungs with so much smoke that my chest burned.
“Hey,my brother.” I opened my eyes to see an older man in tattered clothes, a guy Iremembered seeing Moe with years ago. When he saw he had my attention, hesmiled with Jack-o'-lantern teeth and asked, “You got any change?”
Ishook my head and gruffly replied, “No, I'm sorry.”
Henodded, bobbing the dirty dreadlocks that framed his pale, weathered face. “Noproblem, man, it's all good.”
Hewiped under his nose, sniffling loudly. One might've thought he was sick, and Isuppose in a way he was, but it wasn't with a cold. I’d seen the length of hisdirt-crusted pinkie nail and the wild look in his eyes. I swallowed at thetemptation and itching need, over and over again, but fuck, it was thick andsuffocating.
“CanI bum one of those?” he asked, pointing a finger at the nub of a cigarette inmy mouth and wordlessly I nodded, fishing the pack out and handing him a smoke.“Thank you very much,” he said, grinning and putting it behind his ear.
Don'tlet him walk away, temptation whispered.He's right there,don't let him leave. But I didn't stop him from walking away. I let himwalk down the block until the voice in my head screamed too loud and I couldn'ttake it anymore.
So,I ran.
***
I hadgiven him a hundred bucks for a dime bag full of blow.
Theshame was extreme as I carried out the rest of the day without so much aslooking at my sister or Moe, afraid they'd sense the cocaine in my pocket. Andit was pathetic. The anticipation I felt was like a kid waiting for Christmasmorning and the promise of Santa and presents. Except, there was nothing pureabout the snow awaiting me and there was nothing jolly or good about the devilon my shoulder, telling me to sneak off to the bathroom to do it now.
Still,it felt better just to have it, to have options. Nothing said I ever had to gethigh. I'd just hold onto it, like an old security blanket. It would be fine, Itold myself, and I held tightly to the comfort in those lies.
Butthat comfort was rapidly depleting and by the time I got home to the hauntingemptiness of the apartment, I felt nothing but desperation zipping through mybones.
Oldhabits die hard and my body was on autopilot as I quickly moved into the livingroom and emptied my pockets on the coffee table. Keys, smokes, and lighter.Wallet. And then, the star of the show: my little plastic baggie of pristine,white powder. I laid it down carefully, giving it a place of honor away fromthe pile of everyday stuff. I hurried to the bathroom, found Pops’s old handmirror, and quickly went back to the coffee table, to sit down at the couch andpull a card from my wallet. It all came to me as second nature, in the way younever forget how to swim or ride a bike, and I laid out my tools beside thebaggie.
Fora moment, I sat back and stared.
“Whatthe fuck am I doin'?” I muttered, reeling away from the old rituals and habits.
Ididn't expect tears to spring to my eyes and for my vision to blur the sight ofcoke on the coffee table. Shame and guilt spilled over, wetting my cheeks anddripping off my chin, and I missed my dad. I missed him so much that the cavernin my chest echoed with a silent howl of pain.
“Fuckyou,” I muttered to the walls. “Fuck you for leaving me.”
Iwas deflecting, putting the blame on him for the weakness in my actions. But,really, fuck him. Fuck him for not telling us he was sick. Fuck him forabandoning us, just like she did. Fuck him for all the responsibility hedropped on me without showing me what to do.
“God,I hate this,” I muttered through gritted teeth, wiping a hand over my soddenface.
