zipper closing, a brush through her hair. I feel her watching me.
She leaves the room. I leave the body and follow. As I expect, she goes straight for my clothes on the floor and picks up my pants. She pulls out my wallet and looks through it, then throws it aside. She turns my pockets inside out, then checks the pockets of my jacket and throws it on the ground and says, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” She stomps around in a little circle and bangs her fist on the sofa.
I follow as she walks to the kitchen counter. Her cell phone is there, next to her car keys and purse. She picks up the phone and thumbs a number and taps an angry rhythm on the counter while she waits.
“He doesn’t have it.” Her tapping gets spastic in its intensity while she listens to the other end.
“How the fuck should I know? I thought this would be a snap. Look, I’m beat. I haven’t slept in two days. I’m going to take a couple of Ambien and check out.”
The tapping stops and now silence.
“Nah, I put two roofies in his drink. He’ll be out for way longer than me. Don’t worry about it.” She taps the phone off and rummages through her purse. I watch as she takes out two 10mg Ambiens and swallows them dry. She pours herself another drink from the bottle of Chivas, kicks off her shoes, and settles back onto the sofa.
¤ ¤ ¤
There’s nothing to do until she falls asleep. I move around, watching her from different angles as she drinks, scratches her chin, checks her text messages, and finally lets her head fall back against the cushions. She stares at the ceiling, slowly shakes her head and says, “Jesus Fucking Christ,” and then closes her eyes.
There’s something wrong and I don’t know what it is. I feel disoriented. Edgy, and almost dizzy. For a moment I don’t know how to get back to my body. When I get there it doesn’t seem to want to let me in. Maybe I was out too long. Maybe the roofies really did affect me. Or the weed and the booze. I don’t know, but I nearly panic for a second. It’s not something I ever want to feel again.
There’s an iPad on the table, and on an impulse I take Daniel’s card out of my pocket. It has his name on it, along with a logo. The logo is the mandala from the man’s hat in my dream. Below it is the inscription “Recover or Die.” Below that, embossed in silver, it says “Second Chance at Life” and gives a website address. I pull up the site on the iPad.
Second Chance at Life is a treatment program for heroin addicts. It uses a hallucinogen called ibogain, in combination with other psychotropic drugs, along with ritual chanting and drumming, to induce a state that is supposed to release the addict from the desire to use. It’s illegal—because of the ibogain—in the US, so they have facilities all over the place: Brazil, Switzerland, the Caribbean, and Mexico.
Out of curiosity, I tap the image of the mandala. It fills the screen and begins to move, generating new patterns from its center that move outward in concentric circles.
Like a kaleidoscope.
And I remember.
¤ ¤ ¤
They gave me a last fix: a dose of morphine from an ampule just before we crossed the border. It was so strong that I nodded out for most of the drive to the clinic. I had picked the program because it promised to be painless and was supposed to be over in a couple of days. They told me their recovery rate was over eighty percent.
We crossed from El Paso. Even as high as I was, I could feel the tension in the car as we drove through Juarez. In the late afternoon, after driving for miles through Chihuahua desert, we arrived at a farmhouse.
Daniel was my driver. Daniel was the man who brought the cup in my dream.
13
Dead plus two roofies should put me a few notches past comatose, but driving Tanya’s BMW M6 Coupe makes me feel like I’m seventeen and joyriding in my old man’s Vette. I got in a pile of trouble for that, but he’s the one that totaled the car in an alcoholic blackout. Best of
She leaves the room. I leave the body and follow. As I expect, she goes straight for my clothes on the floor and picks up my pants. She pulls out my wallet and looks through it, then throws it aside. She turns my pockets inside out, then checks the pockets of my jacket and throws it on the ground and says, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” She stomps around in a little circle and bangs her fist on the sofa.
I follow as she walks to the kitchen counter. Her cell phone is there, next to her car keys and purse. She picks up the phone and thumbs a number and taps an angry rhythm on the counter while she waits.
“He doesn’t have it.” Her tapping gets spastic in its intensity while she listens to the other end.
“How the fuck should I know? I thought this would be a snap. Look, I’m beat. I haven’t slept in two days. I’m going to take a couple of Ambien and check out.”
The tapping stops and now silence.
“Nah, I put two roofies in his drink. He’ll be out for way longer than me. Don’t worry about it.” She taps the phone off and rummages through her purse. I watch as she takes out two 10mg Ambiens and swallows them dry. She pours herself another drink from the bottle of Chivas, kicks off her shoes, and settles back onto the sofa.
¤ ¤ ¤
There’s nothing to do until she falls asleep. I move around, watching her from different angles as she drinks, scratches her chin, checks her text messages, and finally lets her head fall back against the cushions. She stares at the ceiling, slowly shakes her head and says, “Jesus Fucking Christ,” and then closes her eyes.
There’s something wrong and I don’t know what it is. I feel disoriented. Edgy, and almost dizzy. For a moment I don’t know how to get back to my body. When I get there it doesn’t seem to want to let me in. Maybe I was out too long. Maybe the roofies really did affect me. Or the weed and the booze. I don’t know, but I nearly panic for a second. It’s not something I ever want to feel again.
There’s an iPad on the table, and on an impulse I take Daniel’s card out of my pocket. It has his name on it, along with a logo. The logo is the mandala from the man’s hat in my dream. Below it is the inscription “Recover or Die.” Below that, embossed in silver, it says “Second Chance at Life” and gives a website address. I pull up the site on the iPad.
Second Chance at Life is a treatment program for heroin addicts. It uses a hallucinogen called ibogain, in combination with other psychotropic drugs, along with ritual chanting and drumming, to induce a state that is supposed to release the addict from the desire to use. It’s illegal—because of the ibogain—in the US, so they have facilities all over the place: Brazil, Switzerland, the Caribbean, and Mexico.
Out of curiosity, I tap the image of the mandala. It fills the screen and begins to move, generating new patterns from its center that move outward in concentric circles.
Like a kaleidoscope.
And I remember.
¤ ¤ ¤
They gave me a last fix: a dose of morphine from an ampule just before we crossed the border. It was so strong that I nodded out for most of the drive to the clinic. I had picked the program because it promised to be painless and was supposed to be over in a couple of days. They told me their recovery rate was over eighty percent.
We crossed from El Paso. Even as high as I was, I could feel the tension in the car as we drove through Juarez. In the late afternoon, after driving for miles through Chihuahua desert, we arrived at a farmhouse.
Daniel was my driver. Daniel was the man who brought the cup in my dream.
13
Dead plus two roofies should put me a few notches past comatose, but driving Tanya’s BMW M6 Coupe makes me feel like I’m seventeen and joyriding in my old man’s Vette. I got in a pile of trouble for that, but he’s the one that totaled the car in an alcoholic blackout. Best of
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