K.S. ANTHONY: 2010

31 August 2010

Hands.

His hands always shake when he does this.

He takes a plate out of the dishwasher and sets it down on the table, then grabs a handful of paper towels. He sets everything down on the plate--the needles, the syringe, the ampules, the alcohol pads--and sits down at the table. He pulls his shirt off, throws it on the couch. He tears open one of the alcohol pads and rubs it on his left shoulder: on his left medial deltoid, to be precise. The alcohol feels cool as it evaporates and he puts the pad down.

He's warmed the ampule under hot running water already. The oil inside is thick, but now it's more liquid. He hopes it's what he paid for and so far, he hasn't gotten an infection. He takes hold of the ampule with both hands and with one quick motion, snaps the top off. Dozens of microscopic shards of glass dust have entered the liquid. He knows this. It's part of the risk; part of the game.

He sets the ampule down and carefully opens the syringe, removing it from its sterile packaging. He sets it down on the plate and peels open an inch and a half long 18 gauge needle that he carefully screws to the barrel of the syringe, being careful not to touch the steel. An 18 gauge needle is a firehose: what they use to draw blood. He picks up the ampule and slips the needle into the oil, then slowly pushes the plunger out, drawing the liquid into the oil. A few bubbles form, but he's not worried about. He'll tap them out later. He turns the ampule to make sure he draws the entire cc of oil into the syringe, then sets the empty amp down.

He pushes the plunger down, expelling most of the bubbles, then caps the needle and unscrews it from the barrel. He opens another needle: an inch long 23 gauge needle and screws it onto the barrel. You never shoot with anything bigger than a 23 or shorter than an inch. Some guys will put an inch and half long spike into their shoulders, but it's not necessary unless you're really fat. He's not fat.

He pushes the plunger slightly until the rest of the bubbles disappear and a tiny drop of oil appears at the tip. It drips down the length of the needle.

He relaxes his left arm, lets it hang freely at his side, then reaches over with his right hand holding the syringe and buries needle in the muscle. It's sharp and slides in easily.

His hands always shake when he does this.

He aspirates: draws the plunger back. If he's in a blood vessel, red liquid will jet in and cloud the barrel. Push oil into a blood vessel and it can kill you. He looks down. No red. He pulls back a little more, just to be safe. Still no red.

He is starting to sweat and he has to force himself to relax.

Breathe.

He depresses the plunger, pushes down firmly and slowly. At first the plunger seems stuck, but he realizes that it's moving. It takes a while for the oil to enter the muscle. He feels nothing in his shoulder except a slight pinch inside his shoulder where the needle is moving. He finally finishes pushing the plunger all the way in. He slides the needle out of his shoulder and sets the syringe down on the plate, then tears open another alcohol swab and wipes his shoulder.

He takes a deep breath and then feels something strange.

He feels a sharp pain in his chest and suddenly he can't breathe. He stands up, trying to find air and feels as though his heart is swelling, expanding, pushing his ribs apart with hot knives. He looks down at the plate at the syringe. The inside of it is smeared oily and red. He is tearing at his throat trying to pull out a scream that won't come. The world goes cloudy at the edges.

Then nothing except the smell of hot metal in his nose and darkness.

His hands are still shaking when his head hits the floor.

And then they stop.

22 January 2010

We'll Always Have Paris

On my last night in Paris, I went to one of my favorite little brasseries in Montmartre for a carafe of Bordeaux. I had a pack of Gauloises, a new scarf, and a heavy wistful feeling about leaving for home the next day. I had enjoyed my days and nights in Paris, despite the shadow of loneliness that grayed my hours there and left me feeling lost.

When I think back on Paris, I remember how nice it was to be missed by someone; how good it felt to know that someone was at home in America thinking about me. Having someone to come home to is a wonderful thing, maybe the best of things. 

7 years later, I still don't come home to anyone.

I ordered my carafe and the waitress brought me potato chips in a small bowl. This was customary: a little snack to go with your wine. The wine was cheap, sweet, and robust. As I remember it, it was the best I had ever had. It was the wine of being in Paris. It was the wine of beginning to see possibilities. It was the wine that I'd look back to during the darkest days of 2009 to remember that joy still existed, if only in the past. Proust once said that the only possible paradises are those that are lost and perhaps he was right, but even if that's the case, we need only look back to better days to feel the warmth of the sun again.

I sat there smoking my cigarettes-a habit I abandoned when I returned to America-and drinking my wine and talking to a young British woman named Adele who was seated next to me. We talked about how we were doing what others only talked about: we were in Paris with no direction and no job and nothing but wine and beer and the camaraderie formed by strangers in strange lands. It cemented the dreamy feeling of being there into something more concrete, something more palpable, something more authentic. Shared wine and cigarettes will do that: this is why I always smoke when I am in a new place. It's the fastest way to meet people.

Some Brits-two hippy types named Aaron and Beth-who had been playing music inside came out and joined in our conversation. The four of us sat talking, smoking, drinking. Beth had wanted to be a bus driver when she grew up. Aaron was from Kent: where my English ancestors are from. We promised each other that we'd do as we said we would: that I would write, that Adele would stay in Paris, that Aaron and Beth would go wherever the winds took them, but most importantly, that we would remember the moment and honor it.

A scraggly fellow came up to me as my companions were engaged in conversation and asked me for a smoke. I gave him one. He leaned in and asked me in French if I smoked hashish. I hadn't smoked hash in a number of years--so many that I'm disinclined to say--but it seemed like a brilliant idea and absolutely suitable for that particular moment, so I gave him 10 Euros and he handed me a little piece of paper with a chunk of black hash in it.

I told my companions that I had just copped and we decided to go to Pigalle station to smoke it. The gendarme had better things to do than bother stoned people, so despite the police (and army and Legion E'trangere) presence, we were ignored. We continued talking and laughing until it was time to go home. Adele caught a train back to her part of the city. My hippy companions walked me back to my hostel and I gave them what was left of my codeine tablets (legal to buy over the counter in France) that had kept me walking while my feet bled and my nails fell off in the tombs.

When I got back into the Hostel, I stayed up with some Dutch and Americans drinking Kronenbourg and eating some really awful madeleines that I had bought at the grocery earlier in the day along with some fantastic chocolate. We stayed up talking. I told them about my interest in Crosby and the Lost Generation, they told me about their travels through Europe. At 5am, I finally went climbed the winding stairs back to my room and fell asleep, my heart lost in Montmartre, my flight booked back to the states, going home to a place that would soon no longer seem much like home at all.