dirty dull rigs & musings about exchange

the rigs we use finally seem to be deteriorating. the numbers are unreadable, the stoppers on the plungers stick & pop off stuck in the barrel, the points dull enough to require a running jab to puncture the skin &/or bent enough to be a miracle everytime it resurfaces not broken off. we've been using the same ones for almost a month. the exchange here runs once a week, on a weekday, for two hours from 10-12p; statistically a retarded time to run it if you want people to actually use clean rigs. because yr fucked if you have a 9-5. but most people dont think of junkies as having 9-5s. the exchange staff makes it as inconvenient as possible. they're 12-steppers. the idea of running a peer exchange was incomprehensible to the staff. junkies taking clean needles to junkies who are too apathetic to make it to the exchange? no matter if those are the kids most at risk for contracting & spreading disease. but this is a conservative/republican county in california and its a miracle the exchange runs. even if the 12-steppers use it as a platform to promote abstinence via a spiritual solution - which ironically makes it appear incredibly unattractive; their sponsors should go over the traditions with them. Id rather be a junky than a self-righteous asshole, hooked desperately on an abstract concept to survive. when i can make it Im always grateful to be on the dirty side of the fence.

that used to never be the case. in SF, mary sunshine who runs SFNE, i go and leave feeling like a piece of shit - in the best way possible. i exit half the time seriously considering kicking; cursing for the motivation to do amazing shit with my life until i fix, fall into the lull of liquid apathy. i almost feel something other than just sick or well or high. not here. not with these assholes. i always try to stumble in there with a disgustingly happy grin, laughing from my stomach. which is fucking hard to do strung-out. laughter only seems to come from the throat once the invisible line from being a chippy to stung-out gets crossed.

years ago my mom found my clean rigs and threw them out. i explained to her that Id more than willingly stick a dull, crusty rig into my arm if a dull, crusty rig appeared the only method of administration. i told her Id get more cleans anyway. she asked where. i told her the exchange. she told me she wanted to bomb the needle exchange. years later the director of the exchange became her only way to contact me, the only way to know if i was still above ground. today she writes letters advocating the importance of access to clean needles. she understands that without the exchange there would be less exposure to important social services to alternatives like getting clean, kids would contract diseases get their shit together and die before being able to help others get their shit together. access to free, clean needles just means that iv drug users are less likely to be taken advantage of by those with access to (not necessarily clean) needles. Ive used dirty needles in moments of sickness and i have a college education for christ sake. 

in miami i lost a point it broke off under my skin while trying to hit a vein. crackheads sell points for $5 and theyre shit, ultrafine points most of the time; the junkies sell them 2 or 3 for $5. the market is run by crackheads and junkies due to exchange being illegal in florida. Id been using & reusing the point, unable to find another better needle, until it broke. anyway. that was in may 2010 & the point hasn't come out yet.

heroin

Ive been shooting heroin for a decade.

age 13. stretched out on a heating vent in front of my bedroom i finish the final pages of junky; as i put the book down i dont know where to begin to find junk but wish i did.

a few years later. hopping a bus to new york to see coldplay on their first US tour. before they became over-produced shit. its valentine's day. the plan is to meet a friend from rochester with a friend with a couch to crash on. rest our eyes. we dont meet. i scalp my ticket to an enthusiastic college girl who later writes to let me know chris martin didnt bring his voice on stage. he lost it to laryngitis. stress. cigarettes. something. left it in a box somewhere on the subway. that i didnt miss anything.
we stumble around new york lost. a girl on church steps rattles her broken voice for spare change. money for a hotel room. cash for a place to stay the night. i offer her twenty to sleep on the floor of wherever she ends up. her friend in the bronx sleeps in a basement apartment. we wait. hop the train to the bronx. stumble into the basement apartment. they scatter: phoenix. josh. and whats his name. one of them mumbles mid-fix: i hope you dont mind: we are heroin addicts.

the first time. i cant even sit up. nausea.
i picture myself in the wild. in a cabin. surrounded by brisk air. a down comforter up to my chin. cozycozy cozy warm. half asleep. waking up to the sound of my own laughter. this is how it feels on the nod. like being half asleep in a cabin. so cozy warm that you'd rather piss yourself than get up.

cops have asked me why i ever thought it might be a good idea to stick a needle in my arm. it just comes down to one thing: curiosity. to know. most people see junkies, see them struggle, see them rot go to jail prison mental institutions and see shooting heroin as a bad  idea that leads to those behaviors and those places. i saw the motivation. that if junkies are willing to do those things and go those places, that whatever motivated their actions and took them to those places must be worth it.

Im 30. i forgot that innocence lost can never be found.