Read Online The Beggar's Garden by Michael Christie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Christie
Tags: Contemporary, Adult
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method, but not to the extent Steve takes it.
In his nasal junkie voice, he calls me a tweaker or a coconut because I smoke crack, but it doesnât bother me. He doesnât mean anything bad by it. One time he sold me a kernel of soap, saying it was a rock he found on the street and he would let go for cheap. At first I didnât believe him, but it was the way he held it, with reverence, two hands together, a child holding a cricket. I didnât speak to him for weeks until he almost overdosed, and when he woke up, heâd completely forgotten ripping me off, so I forgave him, plus I stole the money back anyway. And I guess I was lonely.
Steve has been bringing me food. He says he might as well, because the guy on the other side of his room doesnât do shit when he bangs on the wall. Tins of grey meat you open with a key, and day-old hamburger buns from the gospel mission. My left collarbone is broken and my face raw and taut with swelling. Bones float and snarl in my shoulder like an aluminum boat continually running aground, and I have had dizzy spells. Last week, I stumbled to the welfare office, picked up my cheque, saw my worker, Linda #103, told her everything was okay while she made her empathy face and told me I should go to the clinic. âI should,â I said, and staggered to the cheque-cashing place,returning home with a small fortune in Tylenol 3's and a tin of tobacco. The T-3's came from a guy I know who long ago convinced a doctor of his unbearable chronic pain, resulting in a bond I suspect is not dissimilar to love. I gave Steve some 3's for taking care of me and he took them all right away, hand to his open mouth, in a yawn.
Itâs a month later, Iâve been up for days trying to memorize the periodic table, and Iâm so high my stomach is boiling. I sold the T-3's and bought some crack because Iâve found that itâs what best alleviates the pain and the dizziness, but now the crack is all gone and the reckless similarities between magnesium and manganese are beginning to make me want to dig my teeth out of my head like weeds. Iâm watching my light bulb grow brighter and grinding my molars and wishing I had someone to apologize to. I guess itâs ironic that only when Iâm really stoned do I feel optimistic and strong enough to never want to do it again. Iâm telling myself that when I get my next cheque Iâm going to get a big bag of weed and some groceries and just get healthy again.
Itâs morning, my room is a haze, I still havenât slept, and Iâm lying face down in bed listening to the inside-my-head sound of my eyelashes crunching into the pillow that reminds me of distant steps in snow. Iâm fluttering them faster and faster, imagining someone running toward me, their breath steaming into the air, and suddenly I hear my fire escape rattle.
I snap into a sitting position on the bed and there is a man at my window. He wears an old-style porkpie hat and a three-piecetweed suit, and is smoking a tailor-made cigarette that smells American. He grips the bars of my window as if he has been momentarily locked up for a petty misunderstanding and smiles warmly.
âHello, Henry, my name is J. Robert Oppenheimer.â
The manâs speech is soft and melodic. His eyes are soothing and blue, lit by an inquisitive intensity. I recognize him from my science book.
âI recognize you from my science book,â I say, my teeth chalky and soft from grinding.
âOf course, Henry, and dare I say I recognize you as a fellow of the pursuit? Would you agree? And by âpursuitâ I refer to the intrepid and arduous quest for knowledge. Care for a cigarette?â His eyes linger on my science book as I tentatively snatch a smoke through the bars, unsure which of us I would describe as being inside.
I find my hands are shaking as I light the smoke. Iâm not used to tailor-mades and get panicked by the restriction of the
In his nasal junkie voice, he calls me a tweaker or a coconut because I smoke crack, but it doesnât bother me. He doesnât mean anything bad by it. One time he sold me a kernel of soap, saying it was a rock he found on the street and he would let go for cheap. At first I didnât believe him, but it was the way he held it, with reverence, two hands together, a child holding a cricket. I didnât speak to him for weeks until he almost overdosed, and when he woke up, heâd completely forgotten ripping me off, so I forgave him, plus I stole the money back anyway. And I guess I was lonely.
Steve has been bringing me food. He says he might as well, because the guy on the other side of his room doesnât do shit when he bangs on the wall. Tins of grey meat you open with a key, and day-old hamburger buns from the gospel mission. My left collarbone is broken and my face raw and taut with swelling. Bones float and snarl in my shoulder like an aluminum boat continually running aground, and I have had dizzy spells. Last week, I stumbled to the welfare office, picked up my cheque, saw my worker, Linda #103, told her everything was okay while she made her empathy face and told me I should go to the clinic. âI should,â I said, and staggered to the cheque-cashing place,returning home with a small fortune in Tylenol 3's and a tin of tobacco. The T-3's came from a guy I know who long ago convinced a doctor of his unbearable chronic pain, resulting in a bond I suspect is not dissimilar to love. I gave Steve some 3's for taking care of me and he took them all right away, hand to his open mouth, in a yawn.
Itâs a month later, Iâve been up for days trying to memorize the periodic table, and Iâm so high my stomach is boiling. I sold the T-3's and bought some crack because Iâve found that itâs what best alleviates the pain and the dizziness, but now the crack is all gone and the reckless similarities between magnesium and manganese are beginning to make me want to dig my teeth out of my head like weeds. Iâm watching my light bulb grow brighter and grinding my molars and wishing I had someone to apologize to. I guess itâs ironic that only when Iâm really stoned do I feel optimistic and strong enough to never want to do it again. Iâm telling myself that when I get my next cheque Iâm going to get a big bag of weed and some groceries and just get healthy again.
Itâs morning, my room is a haze, I still havenât slept, and Iâm lying face down in bed listening to the inside-my-head sound of my eyelashes crunching into the pillow that reminds me of distant steps in snow. Iâm fluttering them faster and faster, imagining someone running toward me, their breath steaming into the air, and suddenly I hear my fire escape rattle.
I snap into a sitting position on the bed and there is a man at my window. He wears an old-style porkpie hat and a three-piecetweed suit, and is smoking a tailor-made cigarette that smells American. He grips the bars of my window as if he has been momentarily locked up for a petty misunderstanding and smiles warmly.
âHello, Henry, my name is J. Robert Oppenheimer.â
The manâs speech is soft and melodic. His eyes are soothing and blue, lit by an inquisitive intensity. I recognize him from my science book.
âI recognize you from my science book,â I say, my teeth chalky and soft from grinding.
âOf course, Henry, and dare I say I recognize you as a fellow of the pursuit? Would you agree? And by âpursuitâ I refer to the intrepid and arduous quest for knowledge. Care for a cigarette?â His eyes linger on my science book as I tentatively snatch a smoke through the bars, unsure which of us I would describe as being inside.
I find my hands are shaking as I light the smoke. Iâm not used to tailor-mades and get panicked by the restriction of the
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